Here was the paradise of the feathered creatures, here they were all

fostered and protected; and Mr. Edwin had attained the mysterious art of

taming the wild denizens of the woods as surely and wonderfully, if not

quite as rapidly, as did that celebrated Arab horse-leech exert his skill

on quadrupeds, whispering in the ear of vicious and hitherto untamable

steeds, who immediately became docile and subdued. Even shy and stately

swans knew this lonely clearing on the river banks, and frequently came to

be fed by Mr. Edwin’s gentle hand; the swans had a nest here among the

reeds, and broods of cygnets were reared in this haven of peace. Mr. Edwin

had made many beautiful copies of rare birds, which he could not otherwise

preserve, the colors being brilliant and true to nature, as well as the

size of each specimen; and I felt not a little delighted when he accepted

my timid offer of assistance in this branch of his study, for I was afraid

that my poor efforts would fall far short of his masterly productions. But

Mrs. Priestly re-assured me, and she told Mr. Edwin that he had found a

valuable coadjutor, for bird-painting had always been quite a passion with

me—a strange taste, perhaps, for a young lady, though I know not why it

should be considered more out of the way than copying flowers from nature.

However, I exerted myself to the utmost, and succeeded well, for he gave

my drawings unqualified approbation, and was eloquent in thanking me. I am

sure the amiable recluse read my heart at once, and saw how eagerly and

gratefully I availed myself of this opportunity, trifling as it was, of

gratifying Mrs. Priestly, to whom I owed so much; for her affection toward

Mr. Edwin rendered attentions bestowed on him personally felt and

acknowledged by her. This similarity of taste, together with our mutual

love and veneration for Mrs. Priestly, induced that kindly communion

between Mr. Edwin and myself which afterward ripened into a lasting

friendship, cemented by time. He was, indeed, wise unto salvation. Learned

not only in this world’s lore, but in that wisdom which maketh not

ashamed, he bore his daily cross most meekly, and yet most manfully.

Deeply alive to the beautiful, keenly sensitive on all points,

tender-hearted and affectionate, he lived alone in the woodland solitude,

not, I was convinced, from any morbid disinclination to encounter his kind

on account of his personal affliction (he was too humble and good for

that), but from some unknown and mysterious cause, some hidden sorrow,

which rendered solitude in a retreat like this desirable. At Lodimer, I

never gazed on the gay and sparkling river, without remembering that it

flowed onward toward the swan’s nest among the reeds. I never gazed on the

thick, rich woods, or heard the wood-pigeon’s cooing across the waters at

the hushed evening hour, without a sensation of tranquillity and peace

stealing over my spirit, as fancy pictured the lonely lodge, the soft

twittering around it, and the dense shadows beyond.

I obeyed Mrs. Priestly, and never asked a question concerning Mr. Edwin,

but I pondered much on this interesting subject; and whenever my thoughts

turned away from the vanities of this world, they always rested with

satisfaction on the ornithologist.

As the time drew nigh for our departure to Lovell Castle, I observed a

degree of restlessness on Mr. Edwin which I had not hitherto noticed, and

frequent gloomy abstraction, which he vainly endeavored to shake off in

our presence. Mrs. Priestly often conversed alone with him, when traces of

agitation were visible on her countenance, and tears on his; and when she

bade him farewell, these words lingered on his lips—“Tell dear Mildred how

happy I am.”

Lovell Castle was a dark, frowning pile, bearing an ancient date, while

some portions were more antiquated still, and had fallen into disuse. It

was a real castle of the olden time; I had often read of such with

interest and delight, but now I could explore for myself. Here were

dungeons and vaulted chambers, trap-doors and loop-holes, intricate

passages, secret hiding-places, and curious old oaken chests, battlements

and turrets, carved work and tapestry, banqueting hall and chapel—in

short, all the appendages necessary for romance in feudal days.

The family consisted of Mr. Lovell, Mildred, his eldest daughter by a

first wife, and Harold and Rose, the children of the second Mrs. Lovell,

who had died when Rose was an infant. Mildred was tenderly beloved by Mrs.

Priestly; and, as she never quitted her hypochondriacal father, it was

principally to see this dear niece that the widow left her quiet home on

the margin of Lodimer’s blue waters. I was absolutely startled by the

extraordinary and striking likeness between the ornithologist and Mildred

Lovell—the same placid, sweet expression of countenance, the same gentle,

winning manners, too. While in unobtrusive performance of her duties

toward God and man, this good daughter and sister journeyed onward through

life, ministering to the comfort and well-being of all, but without

exacting a meed of praise or a single glance of admiration. Mildred was

nobody at Lovell Castle; but, had she been absent, her absence would have

been universally bewailed, and her value known: they were perhaps too used

to the blessing to appreciate it, even as the sun shines day after day,

and we do not remark it as any thing unusual.

Rose was a volatile, thoughtless girl, yet affectionate and kind-hearted

withal, and dearly loved her elder sister, who had indeed filled the place

of a mother to her. Rose had elastic, unvarying spirits, which were not

unwelcome in that dull old place, and kept the inmates from stagnation.

She and Harold were the father’s darlings, though all Mr. Lovell’s hope

and pride centred in his son. Pre-eminently beautiful in person, active

and graceful, Harold Lovell was born the same year as his deceased cousin,

Jocelyn Priestly, and the youths had strongly resembled each other, not

only in person but in disposition. The partial parents had not, perhaps,

read those dispositions truthfully, or in both their children they might

have traced evil propensities, which went far to counterbalance the

good—revengeful passions, and a proneness to selfish indulgence, which not

all their brilliant acquirements and feats of gallant prowess could

conceal from a close observer of character. They were at the same school

together, and at Lovell Castle for the vacation, when that sad catastrophe

took place which plunged the family in irremediable affliction. Mr.

Lovell, who had always been a nervous, ailing man, never recovered the

shock, and latterly he had sunk into complete indolence, and left the care

and management of his affairs entirely to Harold, who, however,

ill-fulfilled his duties. The aversion which Mrs. Priestly entertained

toward her nephew, and which she vainly strove to conceal, had once been

the source of painful contention between Mr. Lovell and his sister, though

now it had settled down into a silent grief never alluded to by either of

them. All these particulars I had heard from Rose; and much I was amazed

at Mrs. Priestly’s conduct, coupled with the avowal she had made to me

respecting the disposal of her property in favor of her nephew; but I knew

her to be a just and strong-minded woman, and felt sure there was some

mystery connected with these family details, which Rose was bursting to

disclose, the first convenient opportunity. But I gave her no

encouragement to do so, for I thought that, had Mrs. Priestly wished me to

know the secret motives by which she was actuated, her confidence would

have been already bestowed; and it seemed a breach of trust, or

dishonorable, to gain the knowledge by other means. The sweet benignity of

Mildred Lovell, her untiring patience and unaffected cheerfulness, as well

as the strong resemblance of feature, continually reminded me of Mr.

Edwin, and I pondered often on the parting words which I had heard him

address to Mrs. Priestly—“Tell dear Mildred how happy I am.”

And what was Mildred to Mr. Edwin? Wherefore was he exiled and alone? What

had he done that his name was forbidden to be spoken at Lovell? These

ideas constantly haunted me, despite my determination to exclude such idle

questionings concerning the mysterious affair. Rose sometimes communicated

some portion of her own gay spirit to me: we were thrown much together,

for Mildred was constantly occupied with her invalid parent, and Mrs.

Priestly shared the duties of her beloved niece. But I often desired the

solitude which was more congenial to my turn of mind, though it was not

always easy to obtain it, as Rose, from a mistaken kindness, continually

watched my movements, and accompanied me wheresoever I desired to go. It

was impossible to check the affectionate girl in a direct manner; but I

discovered that there was one locality particularly avoided by all the

inmates of the castle, which had fallen into decay, and was seldom

approached by Rose. This was the western wing or turret; and thither,

accordingly, I often bent my steps, in search of quietude, and also of a

magnificent prospect to be viewed from the summit. In this sumptuous home

at Lovell Castle, my thoughts often wandered to Ivy Lodge on Lodimer’s

banks, and its lonely occupant, apart from the vanities of life, contented

and cheerful under afflictions which were, I felt sure, of no common

nature. I compared the pious recluse with the heir of Lovell, toward whom

an inexpressible feeling of repugnance reigned in my breast. Harold was

devoted to field sports and the pleasures of the table; he was, in fact,

the real master, consulting only his own time and inclinations on all

occasions. His bloated, though still handsome countenance, evidenced

excess; while a dictatorial manner, as of one unused to reproof or

contradiction, was habitual. A constant restlessness and irritability, a

quick turn of the eye, a wild glance, betokened a mind ill at ease. He was

a scoffer at religion, too, an unkind brother, and an undutiful son to the

doating father, who yet believed and saw no faults in his offspring.

Despite her brother’s harshness, Rose, with devoted sisterly affection,

extenuated Harold’s conduct, and it was very beautiful to witness her

womanly tenderness and forbearance. It might be that Mildred was the child

of another mother, and that circumstances had somewhat weakened the ties

of blood; but notwithstanding her general kindness of demeanor toward all,

including Harold, there was a perceptible shade of coldness when

addressing him. She never volunteered an embrace, to be cast off, like the

persevering, warm-hearted Rose; she never clung to her brother, praying

him to remain at home, when he was about to engage in any hazardous or

foolish exploit. No; there was some sin or sorrow which had weaned and

divided this brother and sister, until the erring one should turn and

repent. And who could doubt that Mildred Lovell would open wide her arms

to receive the penitent?

I had sought my favorite deserted turret, to contemplate a glorious sunset

behind the distant mountains, when Rose joined me on the summit, from

whence we gazed on the dizzy depth below. She was unusually serious and

pale; her laugh was hushed, and she spoke in whispers.

“Why do you choose this spot, Evelin, to indulge your reveries?” she said,

“for I can not bear to remain here; and Harold would not ascend this

western tower for all the universe.”

“And why is it so distasteful to you, Rose?” I inquired, with some

curiosity, “for the view is the most superb I ever witnessed. Is this wing

of the castle _haunted_?” I added, with a smile, taking her arm, and

making a step nearer to the edge, guarded only by a very low, broad

parapet.

She convulsively drew me back, exclaiming—“Oh! Evelin, if you knew the

dreadful recollections attached to this turret, you would not marvel at my

being so nervous. _I_ do not believe it is haunted, but there are folks

who do. They report that white fleecy shadows hover around it by night,

though perhaps the owls and birds building in the crevices may account for

the supposed supernatural appearances.”

“And wherefore, Rose, is this turret in such bad repute? What are the

dreadful recollections attached to it? A legend of olden times, perhaps?”

“Alas, Evelin,” responded my companion, “’tis a reality of our own. My

poor cousin, Jocelin Priestly, met with his fearful end here. He fell from

this dizzy height on the shaven turf beneath, and lived but a few moments

afterward.”

“But how did this fatal accident occur, Rose?” I inquired. “Why have you

never mentioned it before?”

Paler than ever, Rose replied, with a faltering voice, “Because it was

_not_ an _accident_, Evelin” (she shivered, and put her lips close to my

ear). “He was cast down intentionally.”

“By whom, Rose?” My heart throbbed violently; strange thoughts were

rushing through my brain.

“I dare not tell you; I am forbidden to reveal more. I was very young at

the time, and things were hushed up; but poor Milly has been a changed

being ever since.”

“Mildred!” I exclaimed, in surprise; “what effect could this tragedy have

on her, more than on other members of your family?”

“It had, it had, Evelin, because she desired to screen the guilty; but ask

me no more, and let us quit this hateful place.”

My mind was bewildered and uneasy. Who could the guilty person alluded to

be, and wherefore such a mystery preserved? The wildest conjectures

disturbed my imagination, while redoubled love and sympathy were given to

the bereaved mother. But this tangled web was soon to be

unraveled—unraveled in an awful and sudden manner, for that avenging arm

was outstretched which no mortal can withstand.

We were preparing to return home, and I was happy in the near prospect of

seeing dear Lodimer so soon. Harold Lovell left the castle at early morn

in high health and spirits, to attend a race meeting, some few miles off,

with several boon companions. A quarrel arose, and Harold, deeming himself

insulted, and more than half inebriated, struck a desperate gambler, who

demanded satisfaction on the spot. Harold fell, mortally wounded, and was

borne back to Lovell on a litter, late in the evening. The father’s

despair, blessedly merged in insensibility, the sister’s agony, we draw a

vail over.

Mrs. Priestly, Mildred, and myself, with the medical attendants, alone

were calm and of use, so far, indeed, as human aid extended. The domestics

were wildly running hither and thither, but to no purpose: Harold Lovell

was rapidly dying. Mrs. Priestly supported the expiring sufferer; she

bathed his temples, and spoke words of peace. You would have deemed him

the son of her fondest love, all dislike merged in pity and the tenderest

solicitude. Suddenly Harold opened his glazing eyes to their widest

extent; he recognized her, while a shudder convulsively shook his whole

frame. He essayed to articulate, and at length these broken sentences were

heard, “Forgive me, Aunt Priestly—_now_ forgive. ’Twas I did it! Edwin is

innocent; I am the murderer. Oh! mercy! mercy!”

Mrs. Priestly had sank down beside the couch, as with clasped hands she

raised her streaming eyes to heaven; then burying her face, she

murmured—“I do forgive you, poor boy, and so does Edwin, freely.” The

spirit passed into eternity as she spoke these words. I saw Mildred fling

herself into Mrs. Priestly’s arms, and I remember no more, for, unused to

such scenes, my strength succumbed.

Mr. Lovell and his son were laid side by side in the family vault on the

same day; the broken-hearted father surviving his beloved child but a few

hours. That son’s dying confession was repeated to him, although he took

no notice at the time, and lived not to make restitution to the innocent;

but to his daughters, as co-heiresses, the whole of his immense wealth

descended; and yet Mr. Lovell left a son—a good, noble-hearted son, whom

he had unjustly disinherited. When the disinherited was told that the only

words his departed parent had spoken after receiving his death-blow, the

only token of consciousness he had evinced was in faintly murmuring,

“Bless Edwin, my son,” that son valued the world’s wealth but as dross in

comparison; nor would he have exchanged those precious words for all the

uncounted riches of the globe! His father then had believed him innocent,

and had blessed him; and Edwin, the ornithologist of Ivy Lodge, came to

Lovell Castle, justly lord of all, but owning nothing save a thankful

heart and a peaceful mind, to be clasped in the arms of his faithful

sister Mildred, for they were twins, and linked together in heart. Then,

and not till then, were the following particulars narrated to Rose and

myself by Mrs. Priestly. Rose mourned deeply for her brother, but justice

to the living demanded full disclosure of the truth.

Edwin had never been a favorite with his father, a fall in infancy having

rendered him unsightly, and probably occasioned the delicate health which

induced that love of studious repose so opposite to those qualities which

Mr. Lovell admired in his younger son. A tutor was provided for Edwin at

home, while Harold, with his cousin, Jocelin Priestly, was sent to a

public school. With unfeeling thoughtlessness, Jocelin used often to amuse

himself by joking at the expense of Edwin’s personal deformity, calling

him “hunchback,” and many other nick-names, all of which the amiable youth

bore with unflinching patience and fortitude, ever returning good for

evil. The quarrels and rivalry between Harold and Jocelin were violent and

unceasing; and, previous to the last vacation, they had risen to a fiercer

pitch than formerly, Jocelin Priestly having carried off a prize from

Harold, which the latter declared was unfair. Jocelin’s spirits were

outrageous, and in reckless levity he made so unceasing a butt of the

unfortunate elder brother, that Edwin determined to keep himself as much

aloof as possible from the boisterous pair, whose bickerings and

headstrong passion disturbed his equanimity. Mildred, whose love and

veneration for her beloved brother was returned by him with a depth of

affection which only the isolated can feel, vainly tried to make peace and

preserve concord. Mrs. Priestly, with a mother’s doating partiality for an

only child, never _allowed_ Jocelin to be in fault, though she would chide

his exuberant spirits, and liked not that he should wound the gentle

Edwin, whom she dearly loved. Mr. Lovell, on the other hand, laughed at

the lads’ faults; and, when he could not laugh, winked at them: “Edwin was

a milk-sop, and Harold and Jocelin fine, high-spirited, handsome fellows,

who would grow wiser as they grew older.” Mrs. Priestly “hoped so”—she

“prayed so; and Jocelin was so clever and handsome, that a little

steadiness was all he needed; there was nothing else amiss.” So argued the

blind mother; and, next to Harold, his uncle Lovell’s affections were

lavished on this nephew.

When these two youths made their appearance at the castle, Edwin

frequently retired to the western turret, where he could read and meditate

alone, and enjoy the lovely landscape. Here he was resting on a projecting

stone, which served as a bench, part of the edifice screening him from

view, when Jocelin Priestly appeared on the summit with a telescope in

hand, and, with boyish recklessness, jumped on the low parapet, balancing

himself on the extreme verge, as he applied the glass to his eye. In

another moment Harold came leaping up the turret-stairs, boiling with

furious passion; and, darting forward, he clutched at the glass,

screaming, as he did so, “How dare you take my telescope, sir, when you

know I forbade you?” There was a struggle, a violent thrust, succeeded by

a scream of horror and despair, and Edwin beheld his brother Harold alone

on that dizzy height.

All this had passed in a moment a of time apparently. Harold looked round

with a wild, terrified glance, and fled, Edwin’s limbs refusing to sustain

him in his efforts to reach the parapet, as he lost consciousness, and

swooned. Jocelin Priestly’s fall had been noticed by a gardener, who gave

an instant alarm; but the ill-fated lad expired in his distracted mother’s

arms, after articulating, “I am murdered.”

Edwin was found on the summit of the western turret, his incoherent

exclamations and agitation being considered proofs of guilt by his father

and tutor. He solemnly asseverated his innocence, but refused to enter

into particulars until his brother Harold returned, for Harold was absent,

it was supposed, in the adjacent woodlands, where he ofttimes resorted to

practice with his gun. When he did return, Harold with well-acted surprise

heard the dreadful tidings, and demanded, in a careless manner, where

Edwin had been at the time? When informed that he was found on the summit

of the tower, and of the deceased’s fearful avowal in his dying moments,

Harold exclaimed, “Edwin has indeed avenged himself on poor Jocelin.” And

Edwin was branded as the dastardly wretch who had taken his cousin’s life

thus!

Edwin denied the foul deed with indignation and horror; but, when Harold’s

words were repeated to him, he hung his head, and blushed scarlet. He

spoke no more, save to affirm his innocence; and, when questioned as to

Jocelin Priestly having been near him on the tower just before he met with

his death, Edwin admitted the fact; but, when further pressed, he became

confused, and painful internal struggles were evident.

Mr. Lovell discarded his son forever. He would not harbor, he said, one

who had vengefully taken the life of his beloved nephew; the law, indeed,

could not reach the criminal, but a father’s malediction could! So the

hapless Edwin was disowned and disinherited by his indignant parent, who

granted him a stipend barely sufficient for subsistence, and thrust him

forth as an alien. Harold had not encountered his brother’s placid gaze;

he shrank from being alone with him, and when Edwin begged for an

audience, it was refused. Mildred protested her brother’s innocence. Edwin

had never swerved from truth in his life; and, strange to say, there was

another who sided with Mildred, and that other, the miserable mother of

the victim. She had scrutinized and watched Harold Lovell closely; and

when Edwin knelt beside her, and said, with quiet, but impressive

calmness, “I am innocent, aunt; I never injured a hair of my cousin’s

head,” he was believed by that jealous, breaking heart.

“But you were _there_, Edwin,” cried the poor lady; “you witnessed it: he

came not to his end by fair means. Speak—your brother—was it _he_ did this

foul deed, for he envied and hated my son—the base, cowardly traitor!”

Passion choked Mrs. Priestly’s utterance, and Edwin was mute. Neither

prayers nor entreaties induced him to explain past circumstances connected

with the direful catastrophe. He bore the burden of another’s guilt; he

bore in silence the contumely that should have been heaped on another, and

was banished from the parental roof. But conviction found its way to Mrs.

Priestly’s heart; and, though Mr. Lovell was implacable, nor would listen

to a suspicion implied that he _might_ be deceived, _the mother_

intuitively shrank from contact with the false-hearted Harold Lovell. As

years progressed, the truth became more and more firmly impressed on her

mind; and to him, accused by his own father of being her only child’s

destroyer, she left the bulk of her fortune, and established the outcast

in her near vicinity, firmly trusting that the Almighty, in his own good

time, would bring the real culprit to light. _Her_ heart fixed on this

culprit, but Mr. Lovell continued in error and darkness. Those precious

words spoken in his last hour proved, however, that darkness was

dissipated, and error abandoned, when the dying man murmured a blessing on

his exiled son, who had sacrificed himself to shield an ungrateful brother

from shame and opprobrium.

Within two years after her father and brother’s decease, Rose rewarded the

long and sincere attachment of a neighboring squire by becoming his wife.

Lovell Castle was sold, and Mildred repaired to Lodimer; while, on the

original site of Ivy Lodge, a more commodious dwelling was in course of

preparation. There she resided with her beloved brother for the remainder

of their joint lives, and Mr. Edwin found in his sweet companion not only

a valuable coadjutor in his favorite pursuits, but an absolute rival in

the affections of his feathered pets; while the swan’s nest among the

reeds on Lodimer’s fair waters continued to be as carefully preserved and

guarded as it had been during the solitary years of the now happy

ornithologist.

A CHILD’S TOY.

The afternoon was drawing in toward evening; the air was crisp and cool,

and the wind near the earth, steady but gentle; while above all was as

calm as sleep, and the pale clouds—just beginning in the west to be softly

gilded by the declining sun—hung light and motionless. The city, although

not distant, was no longer visible, being hidden by one of the many hills

which give such enchantment to the aspect of _our_ city. There was

altogether something singularly soothing in the scene—something that

disposed not to gravity, but to elevated thought. As we looked upward,

there was some object that appeared to mingle with the clouds, to form a

part of their company, to linger, mute and motionless like them, in that

breathless blue, as if feeling the influence of the hour. It was not a

white-winged bird that had stolen away to muse in the solitudes of air: it

was nothing more than a paper kite.

On that paper kite we looked long and intently. It was the moral of the

picture; it appeared to gather in to itself the sympathies of the whole

beautiful world; and as it hung there, herding with the things of heaven,

our spirit seemed to ascend and perch upon its pale bosom like a wearied

dove. Presently we knew the nature of the influence it exercised upon our

imagination; for a cord, not visible at first to the external organs,

though doubtless felt by the inner sense, connected it with the earth of

which we were a denizen. We knew not by what hand the cord was held so

steadily. Perhaps by some silent boy, lying prone on the sward behind

yonder plantation, gazing up along the delicate ladder, and seeing

unconsciously angels ascending and descending. When we had looked our

fill, we went slowly and thoughtfully home along the deserted road, and

nestled, as usual, like a moth, among our books. A dictionary was lying

near; and with a languid curiosity to know what was said of the object

that had interested us so much, we turned to the word, and read the

following definition: Kite—_a child’s toy_.

What wonderful children there are in this world, to be sure! Look at that

American boy, with his kite on his shoulder, walking in a field near

Philadelphia. He is going to have a fly; and it is famous weather for the

sport, for it is in June—June, 1752. The kite is but a rough one, for Ben

has made it himself, out of a silk handkerchief stretched over two

cross-sticks. Up it goes, however, bound direct for a thunder-cloud

passing overhead; and when it has arrived at the object of its visit, the

flier ties a key to the end of his string, and then fastens it with some

silk to a post. By and by he sees some loose threads of the hempen-string

bristle out and stand up, as if they had been charged with electricity. He

instantly applies his knuckles to the key, and as he draws from it the

electrical spark, this strange little boy is struck through the very heart

with an agony of joy. His laboring chest relieves itself with a deep sigh,

and he feels that he could be contented to die that moment. And indeed he

was nearer death than he supposed; for as the string was sprinkled with

rain, it became a better conductor, and gave out its electricity more

copiously; and if it had been wholly wet, the experimenter might have been

killed upon the spot. So much for _this_ child’s toy. The splendid

discovery it made—of the identity of lightning and electricity—was not

allowed to rest by Ben Franklin. By means of an insulated iron rod the new

Prometheus drew down fire from heaven, and experimented with it at leisure

in his own house. He then turned the miracle to a practical account,

constructing a pointed metallic rod to protect houses from lightning. One

end of this true magic wand is higher than the building, and the other end

buried in the ground; and the submissive lightning, instead of destroying

life and property in its gambols, darts direct along the conductor into

the earth. We may add that Ben was a humorous boy, and played at various

things as well as kite-flying. Hear this description of his pranks at an

intended pleasure-party on the banks of the Schuylkill: “Spirits at the

same time are to be fired by a spark sent from side to side through the

river, without any other conductor than water—an experiment which we have

some time since performed to the amazement of many. A turkey is to be

killed for dinner by the electrical shock; and roasted by the electrical

jack, before a fire kindled by the electrical bottle; when the healths of

all the famous electricians in England, Holland, France, and Germany, are

to be drunk in electrified bumpers, under the discharge of guns from the

electrical battery.”

We now turn to a group of capital little fellows who did something more

than fly their kite. These were English skippers, promoted somehow to the

command of vessels before they had arrived at years of discretion; and

chancing to meet at the port of Alexandria in Egypt, they took it into

their heads—these naughty boys—that they would drink a bowl of punch on

the top of Pompey’s Pillar. This pillar had often served them for a signal

at sea. It was composed of red granite, beautifully polished, and standing

114 feet high, overtopped the town. But how to get up? They sent for a

kite, to be sure; and the men, women, and children of Alexandria,

wondering what they were going to do with it, followed the toy in crowds.

The kite was flown over the Pillar, and with such nicety, that when it

fell on the other side the string lodged upon the beautiful Corinthian

capital. By this means they were able to draw over the Pillar a two-inch

rope, by which one of the youngsters “swarmed” to the top. The rope was

now in a very little while converted into a sort of rude shroud, and the

rest of the party followed, and actually drank their punch on a spot

which, seen from the surface of the earth, did not appear to be capable of

holding more than one man.

By means of this exploit it was ascertained that a statue had once stood

upon the column—and a statue of colossal dimensions it must have been to

be properly seen at such a height. But for the rest—if we except the

carvings of sundry initials on the top—the result was only the knocking

down of one of the volutes of the capital, for boys are always doing

mischief; and this was carried to England by one of the skippers, in order

to execute the commission of a lady, who, with the true iconoclasm of her

country, had asked him to be so kind as to bring her a piece of Pompey’s

Pillar.

Little fellows, especially of the class of brick-layers, are no great

readers, otherwise we might suspect that the feat of the skipper-boys had

conveyed some inspiration to Steeple Jack. Who is Steeple Jack? asks some

innocent reader at the Antipodes. He is a little, spare creature who flies

his kite over steeples when there is any thing to do to them, and lodging

a cord on the apex, contrives by its means to reach the top without the

trouble of scaffolding. No fragility, no displacement of stones, no

leaning from the perpendicular, frightens Steeple Jack. He is as bold as

his namesake, Jack-the-Giant-Killer, and does as wonderful things. At

Dunfermline, not long ago, when the top of the spire was in so crazy a

state that the people in the street gave it a wide berth as they passed,

he swung himself up without hesitation, and set every thing to rights. At

the moment we write, his cord is seen stretched from the tall, slim, and

elegant spire of the Assembly Hall in Edinburgh, which is to receive,

through his agency, a lightning-conductor; and Jack only waits the

subsidence of a gale of wind to glide up that filmy rope like a spider. He

is altogether a strange boy, Steeple Jack. Nobody knows where he roosts

upon the earth, if he roosts any where at all. The last time there was

occasion for his services, this advertisement appeared in the _Scotsman_:

“Steeple Jack is wanted at such a place immediately”—and immediately

Steeple Jack became visible.

In 1827 the child’s toy was put to a very remarkable use by one Master

George Pocock. This clever little fellow observed that his kite sometimes

gave him a very strong pull, and it occurred to him that if made large

enough it might be able to pull something else. In fact, he at length

yoked a pair of large kites to a carriage, and traveled in it from Bristol

to London, distancing in grand style every other conveyance on the road. A

twelve-foot kite, it appears, in a moderate breeze, has a one-man power of

draught, and when the wind is brisker, a force equal to 200 lbs. The force

in a rather high wind is as the squares of the lengths; and two kites of

fifteen and twelve feet respectively, fastened one above the other will

draw a carriage and four or five passengers at the rate of twenty miles an

hour. But George’s invention went beyond the simple idea. He had an extra

line which enabled him to vary the angle of the surface of his kites with

the horizon, so as to make his aerial horses go fast or slow as he chose;

and side lines to vary the direction of the force, till it came almost to

right angles with the direction of the wind. His kites were made of

varnished linen, and might be folded up into small compass. The same

principle was successfully applied by a nautical lad of the name of Dansey

to the purpose of saving vessels in a gale of wind on “the dread lee

shore.” His kite was of light canvas.

In India, China, and the intermediate countries, the aggregate population

of which includes one-half of mankind, kites are the favorite toy of both

old and young boys, from three years to threescore and ten. Sometimes they

really resemble the conventional dragon, from which, among Scotch

children, they derive their name, sometimes they are of a diamond shape,

and sometimes they are like a great spider with a narrow waist. Our Old

Indian is eloquent on kites, and the glory of their colors, which, in the

days of other years, made her girlish heart leap, and her girlish eyes

dazzle. The kite-shop is like a tulip-bed, full of all sorts of gay and

gorgeous hues. The kites are made of Chinese paper, thin and tough, and

the ribs of finely-split bamboo. A wild species of silkworm is pressed

into the service, and set to spin _nuck_ for the strings—a kind of thread

which, although fine, is surprisingly strong. Its strength, however, is

wanted for aggression as well as endurance; and a mixture composed of

pounded glass and rice gluten is rubbed over it. Having been dried in the

sun, the prepared string is now wound upon a handsome reel of split bamboo

inserted in a long handle. One of these reels, if of first-rate

manufacture, costs a shilling, although coarser ones are very cheap; and

of the nuck, about four annas, or sixpence worth, suffices for a kite.

In a Hindoo town the kite-flying usually takes place on some common ground

in the vicinity, and there may be seen the young and old boys in eager

groups, and all as much interested in the sport as if their lives depended

upon their success. And sometimes, indeed, their fortunes do. Many a poor

little fellow bets sweetmeats upon his kite to the extent of his only anna

in the world; and many a rich baboo has more rupees at stake than he can

conveniently spare. But the exhilarating sport makes every body

courageous; and the glowing colors of the kites enable each to identify

his own when in the air, and give him in it, as it were, a more absolute

property. Matches are soon made. Up go the aerial combatants, and, with

straining eyes and beating hearts, their fate is watched from below. But

their masters are far from passive, for this is no game of chance,

depending upon the wind. Kite-flying is in these countries an art and

mystery; and some there be who would not disclose their recipe for the

nuck-ointment, if their own grandfathers should go upon their knees to ask

it.

Sometimes an event occurs on the common. It is the ascent of a pair of

kites of a _distingué_ air, and whose grand and determined manner shows

that the combat is to be _à l’outrance_, and that a large stake of money

depends upon the result. The fliers are invisible. They are probably on

the flat roof of some neighboring house; but the kites are not the less

interesting on account of their origin being unknown. What a host of

anxious faces are turned up to the sky! Some take a liking to the red at

first sight, while others feel attracted by a mysterious sympathy to the

green. Bets are freely offered and accepted, either in sweetmeats or

money; and the crowd, condensing, move to and fro in a huge wave, from

which their eager voices arise like the continuous roaring of the sea.

Higher and higher go the kites. Well done, Red! he has shot above his

antagonist, and seems meditating a swoop; but the Green, serenely

scornful, continues to soar, and is soon uppermost. And thus they go—now

up, now down, relatively to each other, but always ascending higher and

higher, till the spectators almost fear that they will vanish out of

sight. But at length the Green, taking advantage of a loftier position he

has gained, makes a sudden circuit, and by an adroit manœuvre gets his

silken string over the silken string of the other. Here a shout of triumph

and a yell of terror break simultaneously from the crowd; for this is the

crisis of the fight. The victor gives a fierce cut upon his adversary’s

line. The backers of the latter fancy they hear it grate, and in an

instant their forebodings are realized; for the unfortunate Red is seen to

waver like a bird struck by a shot, and then, released from the severed

string, he descends in forlorn gyrations to the earth.

Now rush in the smaller boys to play their part. Their object is that of

the plunderers who traverse the field after a battle, to rob the dying and

the slain. Off run the little Hindoos, like a company of imps from the

nether regions, tearing and fighting as they fly; and on reaching the

fallen kite, the object of their contention is torn to pieces in the

scuffle. Presently the victorious Green is seen descending, and the gross

excitement of the common pauses to watch his majestic flight. He is of the

largest size of Indian kites called _ching_, and of the spider shape.

Before being drawn in, he hangs for an instant high up over the crowd. It

is not, however, to sing _Io Pæans_ for his victory, but apparently rather

to mourn over the ruin he has made; for a wailing music breathes from his

wings as he passes. This is caused by the action of the wind upon some

finely-split bamboo twigs arched over the kite without touching the paper,

and which thus become a true Æolian harp. Sometimes a kite of this kind is

sent up at night, bearing a small lighted lantern of talc; and the

sleepers awakened, called to their balconies by the unearthly music, gaze

after the familiar apparition not without a poetical thrill.

Upon the whole, it must be admitted, we think, that this is a somewhat

interesting child’s toy. But has the kite a future? Will its powers

exhibit new developments, or has it already reached its pride of place? If

a twelve-feet kite has the force of a man, would it take many more feet to

lift a man into the air? And supposing the man to be in a strong cage of

network, with bamboo ribs, and a seat of the same material, would he have

greater difficulty in governing his aerial coursers by means of the Pocock

cords, than if he were flashing along the road from Bristol to London?

Mind, we do not say that this is possible: we merely ask for the sake of

information; and if any little boy will favor us with his opinion, we

shall take it very kind. Come, and let us fancy that it _is_ possible. The

traveler feels much more comfortable than in the car of a balloon, for he

knows he can go pretty nearly in what direction he chooses, and that he

can hasten or check the pace of his horses, and bring them to a

stand-still at pleasure. See him, therefore, boldly careering through the

air at the rate of any number of miles the wind pleases. At a single bound

he spans yonder broad river, and then goes bowling over the plantation

beyond, just stirring the leaves as he passes; trees, water, houses, men,

and animals gliding away beneath his feet like a dream. Now he stoops

toward the earth, just to make the people send up their voices that there

may be some sound in the desert air. Now he swings up again; now he leaps

over that little green hill; now he—Hold! hold, little boy! that will do:

enough, for a time, of a Child’s Toy.

“RISING GENERATION”-ISM.

“Grave and reverend seniors” aver, that among the innumerable _isms_ and

_pathies_ which inundate this strange nineteenth century, not the least

curious, dangerous, and comical, are those phases of character, opinion,

and aspiration embodied in the title of our sketch. Each day, week, or

month, we receive an accession to the list of those speculations and

practices, which, embracing every department of philosophy and art, seek

to overturn hitherto accepted axioms, and erect in their stead—what? Some

“baseless fabric of a vision,” which came we know not whence, and tends we

know not very well whither? Or has the microscopic eye and telescopic mind

of modern European civilization discovered other distorting flaws in the

mirror in which we view truth—other idols in the den of treasured

belief—faults which it is urgently necessary to remedy—vices which it were

well speedily to extirpate? The answer of most men will be sometimes the

latter, oftener the former.

What, then, is that fraternity whose members are now denominated in a

peculiar sense “the rising generation,” albeit no existing dictionary

conveys it? How came they to assume or receive that cognomen? “What are

their doings—what their ends?” And, finally (for this is _par excellence_

the practical, if not the golden English era), how much are all these

worth? In one shape or another, we suspect that the class embraces a great

mass of our youth, we will almost say, of _both_ sexes.

Various definitions may be given of a member of the “rising generation.”

The lowest, commonest, and most readily apprehensible to the general

reader, is that of a “fast young man,” such as “Punch” has for some time

spitted weekly as a laughing-stock for half of the population. A little,

lean, lathy, sickly-looking youth, delighting in rough short coats, monkey

jackets, regatta shirts, big cigars, funny walking-canes, the smallest of

boots, the most angular of hats, the most Brobdignagian of ties—rejoicing

in a thinly-sown mustache or imperial, addicted to brandy-and-water and

casinos, going out with the “afternoon delivery,” and coming in with the

milk. This is true so far as it goes. Ascend a step, and there is the

representative of the class which has run to seed in the mediæval

direction—fond of, and learned in, all the symbols of ancient priestly

power and rank—steeped in black-letter and illuminated missal philosophy

and theology—erudite in all the variations which spiritual dominance has

assumed—in short, the resuscitator of the “good old times” ecclesiastical.

Again, we come to the type of the chief, and perhaps the finest

class—many-hued and many-sided, difficult to define, more difficult to

estimate. He is a chaos of misty beliefs and dubious doubtings—a striver

after theories which would exercise a spell over mind and matter of almost

alchemic potency—an open receiver for every new and quackish nostrum—a

shallow scholar, with the pedantry and conceit of a ripe one—a denier of

other men’s attainments, without stopping to inquire whether he will ever

be able to equal them—apt to give dogmatic advice, and slow to take

any—lastly, and worst, he is sometimes a rash and unphilosophic would-be

analyzer of the grounds of our most sacred belief. He may be—indeed,

frequently is—of a genuine and earnest spirit, which he knows neither how

to direct nor bound.

In judging of the frame of mind which generates and elaborates, or

receives such impressions, it is necessary to remember and make due

allowance for the rapid and _real_ advances which we have made in the

sifting of old and the ascertainment of new truth, within an almost

infinitesimal portion of time. Men now think and act vehemently—with

appliances at their elbow which, to those who know their power, are a true

Aladdin’s lamp, giving the key to thoughts and deeds, and the clew to

facts, which erst had been deemed miraculous. When we now speak of the

“rising generation,” it is seriously. We discard the class whose dress is

apish, whose life is an inanity, whose thoughts are vapid, if not

something fouler and worse. We would think of, and give credit for

earnestness, to that large class whose ready reception and striving after

the establishment of all things new, for novelty’s sake, and the

demolition of many things old and revered, has fixed upon them, half in

jest, half in earnest, the sobriquet. Not only on matters of faith—on

innovations on all established practice, do they take their stand.

Education they understand in no limited sense. The acquisition of the

_circle_ of sciences, and _nothing_ less, is the average of their

contentment. We are to live in an age when every man, or, at least, every

second, is to be an Admirable Crichton. Formerly, it was thought that the

mind of man was, even in its strength, so feeble, that strict adherence to

some single and well-defined line of study or path of action was

necessary, if a moderate skill in its command were desired. He who loved

and pursued his knowledge of ancient people, languages, customs, and laws,

was not expected to be erudite except in classical lore. The philosopher

and mathematician, if well acquainted in their respective spheres with the

laws and processes of mind, matter, and number, were thought to have

learned their part. The laborer in the field of active industry, who was

skillful in the taste and knowledge of his craft and the use of its tools,

was esteemed no cumberer of the ground. If, after this, he cultivated his

mind by a scrutiny of the labors of others, so much the better. Under this

_régime_, each man learned his own department, every one knew something,

better than his neighbors—could follow or elucidate his special study or

calling through ramifications the other could not trace, and thus

knowledge progressed, and became the great power that it has grown.

But now the “rising generation” will have matters altered. Education is

all wrong, and too limited. The spirit of unity, as the Germans call

it—that hidden elf which haunts all knowledge, and is the same, however

disguised—is not to be caught except by a search which involves the

acquisition of every science, art, and philosophy. This, in addition to an

insane and, we shrink not from saying, a blasphemous dallying with things

sacred, is the grand error of the “rising generation”—the rock on which

their bark will founder, if it has not already done so. Man can not be a

“universal genius.” Let us by all means shake off the trammels under which

education has groveled—under which she still groans. Let us seek by all

means to make education so free, that, like the winds of heaven, and the

light of the sun, no man shall want a reasonable—a full share of her

benefits. Let us seek accurate and varied knowledge and scholarship,

endeavoring (although it is a difficult and subtle process) to find out

for what our youth are best fitted, by evoking the latent special talents

with which their Maker has gifted them, and thus train them in the expert

use of that weapon which will enable them to do yeoman service in the wide

arena of the world. But, while we do all this, let us beware. We have

before now been taunted as a nation of shopkeepers. This was no evil, if

true; but who can calculate the direness of that calamity which shall turn

us into a nation of smatterers. This is a looming evil of unparalleled

magnitude. There can be no doubt that at the present moment there is a

tendency to rest content with very superficial acquirements, if they be

only heterogeneous enough. A man who can gabble the alphabet of any

science or subject may, if he has sufficient presumption, gain credit for

possessing a knowledge of its arcana—for the ability necessary to plumb

its profounder depths and unravel its intricacies. The successful practice

of this imposture, for it is nothing less, has led, and is still leading,

many to sacrifice accuracy for variety, both in those departments which

their circumstances, rightly considered, demand that they should

thoroughly understand, and in those branches which tend only to add grace

and finish to a liberal education.

In “those days,” the chance was that genius often passed away unnoticed or

neglected. In “the good time come,” we fear that a similar injustice will

be done, and in a larger measure. The modest, the sound-thinking, and

really learned, will withdraw from a field where they find as companions

or competitors only strutting jackdaws and noisy shallow smatterers, who

have decided that they were born for other purposes than to tread in the

work-a-day paths of life. A portion of the old as well as the “rising

generation” would do well to look to the present state of things. There is

too often a desire on the part of parents to push their children into

positions for which they are totally unfitted. There is a sphere for all,

which, when chosen with a due regard to ability, and not adopted through

caprice or vanity, will lead to usefulness in society and comfort to the

individual.

We have little fear of that audacious phase in the character of the

“rising generation,” which devotes itself to a probing of those things

which have to do with our eternal destiny. A well-conducted inquiry of

this kind is a healthy symptom, and tends to fix good impressions: and, as

for those whose temerity exceeds their judgment, the Christian knows that

his bulwarks are too many and strong ever to be shaken by any blast of

human breath or stroke of human hand. Still, let every stumbling-block be

removed, and no safeguard neglected, which may be of service to those of

feeble knees or weak and timorous mind.

The “rising generation” are those upon whom the hopes of the world will

ere long rest, who are soon to have the reins of government in their own

hands, and must play their part in the great drama of life, at a time when

its stage affords more ample room for the development of true nobility,

richer opportunities for distinguishing a life by action, and of

signalizing it by discoveries almost magical—a time, in short, open to

greater achievements than any that have been won since this globe was

first spun into space. The greater the talent and the wealth of

opportunity, so much more are the dangers increased, and the more wily the

machinations of the Spirit of Evil. While the “rising generation” adopt as

their motto “Excelsior,” and cultivate an inquiring spirit, let it always

be an earnest and definite one, not “blown about by every wind of

doctrine,” not falling into every quagmire of vain conceit, until the

mental eye is so besmeared that it can no longer discern the true zenith.

Yet, withal, it is not necessary to tread exclusively in the old paths, as

they are somewhat contemptuously styled; there is need and verge enough

for pioneering new ones. “Beat the bushes; there is still plenty of game

to be raised.” But do not disdainfully discard the experience of those who

have gone before. We do not insinuate by this that age and priority

combined make an oracle. Yet there are comparatively few men who can not

tell something that is worth hearing—communicate some bit of knowledge

which may save you the disbursement of some of those high school fees

which, as Thomas Carlyle keenly observes, must be paid for experience.

It has been iterated and reiterated, that there is no royal road to

knowledge. This is true of knowledge, as it is true of any thing that is

worth having. And this brings to our recollection a manifestation of

spirit displayed by some portions of the “rising generation” to which we

have not yet adverted. This is called the non-mercantile idea—a growing

dislike to all manual and merely commercial pursuits, and an over-fondness

for what are known as the learned, and more especially the literary

professions. This desire, we fear, proceeds often from a wish to avoid

labor; and, where this is the case, we can assure all such that literature

is not the sphere for indolence.

We neither impugn the honesty nor ignore the talents of the “rising

generation.” We would only tender them a parting advice: Think, learn, and

act, reverently and cautiously, and in the spirit of that philosophy which

has won for England her most enduring laurels—which taught her Newton to

discard for years, until fact supported theory, what was perhaps the

broadest glimpse of truth ever vouchsafed to the human mind. Do so, as

they dread the realization of the outline drawn by the master-hand of Jean

Paul Richter—“The new-year’s night of an unhappy man.” His graphic picture

we hold up to the gaze of the “rising generation.” The season is

appropriate. We are all fond at this time of retrospection, and are full

of resolves for the future. Perhaps we may strike some chord now in

jarring dissonance, that may yet vibrate to divinest harmony.

“An old man stood on the new-year’s midnight at the window, and gazed with

a look of long despair, upward to the immovable, ever-blooming heaven, and

down upon the still, pure, white earth, on which no one was then so

joyless and sleepless as he. For his grave stood near him; it was covered

over only with the snow of age, not with the green of youth; and he

brought nothing with him out of the whole rich life, no thing with him,

but errors, sins, and disease, a wasted body, a desolated soul, the breast

full of poison, an old age full of remorse. The beautiful days of his

youth turned round to-day, as spectres, and drew him back again to that

bright morning on which his father first placed him at the cross-road of

life, which, on the right hand, leads by the sun-path of virtue into a

wide peaceful land full of light and of harvests, and full of angels, and

which, on the left hand, descends into the mole-ways of vice, into a black

cavern, full of down-dropping poison, full of aiming serpents, and of

gloomy, sultry vapors.

“Ah! the serpents hung about his breast, and the drops of poison on his

tongue. And he knew now where he was!

“Frantic, and with unspeakable grief, he called upward to Heaven, ‘Oh!

give me back my youth again! O, father! place me once more at the

cross-path of life, that I may choose otherwise than I did.’ But his

father and his youth had long since passed away.

“He saw fiery exhalations dancing on the marshes, and extinguishing

themselves in the church-yard, and he said, ‘These are the days of my

folly!’ He saw a star fly from heaven, and, in falling, glimmer and

dissolve upon the earth. ‘That am I!’ said his bleeding heart, and the

serpent-teeth of remorse dug therein further in its wounds.

“His flaming fancy showed him sleepwalkers, slinking away on the

house-tops; and a windmill raised up its arms threateningly to destroy

him; and a mask that remained behind in the empty charnel-house assumed by

degrees his own features.

“In the midst of this paroxysm, suddenly the music for the new year flowed

down from the steeple, like distant church anthems. He became more gently

moved. He looked round on the horizon and upon the wide world, and thought

on the friends of his youth, who, better and more happy than he, were now

instructors of the earth, fathers of happy children, and blest men, and he

exclaimed, ‘Oh! I also might have slumbered like you, this new year’s

night with dry eyes, had I chosen it. Ah, I might have been happy, beloved

parents! had I fulfilled your new year’s wishes and instructions.’

In feverish recollection of the period of his youth, it appeared to him as

if the mask with his features raised itself up in the charnel-house—at

length, through the superstition which, on the new year’s night, beholds

spirits and futurity, it grew to a living youth in the position of the

beautiful boy of the capitol, pulling out a thorn; and his former blooming

figure was bitterly placed as a phantasma before him.

“He could behold it no longer, he covered his eyes. A thousand hot,

draining tears streamed into the snow. He now only softly sighed,

inconsolably and unconsciously, ‘Only come again, youth! come again!’

“And it came again, for he had only dreamed so fearfully on the new year’s

night. He was still a youth. His errors alone had been no dream; but he

thanked God that, still young, he could turn round in the foul ways of

vice, and fall back on the sun-path which conducts into the pure land of

harvests.

“Turn with him, youthful reader, if thou standest on his path of error!

This frightful dream will, in future, become thy judge; but shouldst thou

one day call out, full of anguish, ‘Come again, beautiful youth!’ it would

not come again.”

A TASTE OF AUSTRIAN JAILS.

At the “Fête de Dieu,” in Vienna religious rites are not confined to the

places of worship—the whole city becomes a church. Altars rise in every

street, and high mass is performed in the open air, amid clouds of incense

and showers of holy water. The Emperor himself and his family swell the

procession.

I am an English workman; and, having taken a cheering glass of Kronewetter

with the worthy landlord of my lodgings, I sauntered forth to observe the

day’s proceedings. I crossed the Platz of St. Ulrick, and thence proceeded

to the high street of Mariahilf—an important suburb of Vienna. I passed

two stately altars on my way, and duly raised my hat, in obedience to the

custom of the country. A little crowd was collected round the parish

church of Mariahilf; and, anticipating that a procession would pass, I

took my stand among the rest of the expectant populace. A few assistant

police, in light blue-gray uniforms with green facings, kept the road.

A bustle about the church-door, and a band of priests, attendants,

and—what pleased me most—a troop of pretty little girls came, two and two,

down the steps, and into the road. I remember nothing of the procession

but those beautiful and innocent children, adorned with wreaths and

ribbons for the occasion. I was thinking of the rosy faces I had left at

home, when my reflections were interrupted by a peremptory voice,

exclaiming, “Take off your hat!” I should have obeyed with alacrity at any

other moment; but there was something in the manner and tone of the

“Polizerdiener’s” address which touched my pride, and made me obstinate. I

drew back a little. The order was repeated; the crowd murmured. I half

turned to go; but, the next moment, my hat was struck off my head by the

police-assistant.

What followed was mere confusion. I struck the “Polizerdiener;” and, in

return, received several blows on the head from behind with a heavy stick.

In less than ten minutes I was lodged in the police-office of the

district; my hat broken and my clothes bespattered with the blood which

had dropped, and was still dropping, from the wounds in my head.

I had full time to reflect upon the obstinate folly which had produced

this result; nor were my reflections enlivened by the manners of the

police-agents attached to the office. They threatened me with heavy pains

and punishments; and the Polizerdiener whom I had struck assured me, while

stanching his still-bleeding nose, that I should have at least “three

months for this.”

After several hours’ waiting in the dreary office, I was abruptly called

into the commissioner’s room. The commissioner was seated at a table with

writing materials before him, and commenced immediately, in a sharp,

offensive tone, a species of examination. After my name and country had

been demanded, he asked:

“Of what religion are you?”

“I am a Protestant.”

“So! Leave the room.”

I had made no complaint of my bruises, because I did not think this the

proper place to do so; although the man who dealt them was present. He had

assisted, stick in hand, in taking me to the police-office. He was in

earnest conversation with the Polizerdiener, but soon left the office.

From that instant I never saw him again; nor, in spite of repeated

demands, could I ever obtain redress for, or even recognition of the

violence I had suffered.

Another weary hour, and I was consigned to the care of a police-soldier;

who, armed with sabre and stick, conducted me through the crowded city to

prison. It was then two o’clock.

The prison, situated in the Spenzler Gasse, is called the

“Polizer-Hampt-Direction.” We descended a narrow gut, which had no outlet,

except through the prison gates. They were slowly opened at the summons of

my conductor. I was beckoned into a long gloomy apartment, lighted from

one side only; and having a long counter running down its centre; chains

and handcuffs hung upon the walls.

An official was standing behind the counter. He asked me abruptly:

“Whence come you?”

“From England,” I answered.

“Where’s that?”

“In Great Britain; close to France.”

The questioner behind the counter cast an inquiring look at my escort.

“Is it?” he asked.

The subordinate answered him, in a pleasant way, that I had spoken the

truth. Happily an Englishman, it seems, is a rarity within those prison

walls.

I was passed into an adjoining room, which reminded me of the back parlor

of a Holywell-street clothes-shop, only that it was rather lighter. Its

sides consisted entirely of sets of great pigeon-holes, each occupied by

the habiliments or effects of some prisoner.

“Have you any valuables?”

“Few enough.” My purse, watch, and pin were rendered up, ticketed, and

deposited in one of the compartments. I was then beckoned into a long

paved passage or corridor down some twenty stone steps, into the densest

gloom. Presently I discerned before me a massive door studded with bosses,

and crossed with bars and bolts. A police-soldier, armed with a drawn

sabre, guarded the entrance to Punishment-Room, No. 1. The bolts gave way;

and, in a few moments, I was a prisoner within.

Punishment Room, No. 1, is a chamber some fifteen paces long by six broad,

with a tolerably high ceiling and whitened walls. It has but two windows,

and they are placed at each end of one side of the chamber. They are of

good height, and look out upon an inclosed graveled space, variegated with

a few patches of verdure. The room is tolerably light. On each side are

shelves, as in barracks, for sleeping. In one corner, by the window, is a

stone sink; in another, a good supply of water.

Such is the prison; but the prisoners! There were forty-eight—gray-haired

men and puny boys—all ragged, and stalking with slippered feet from end to

end with listless eyes. Some, all eagerness; some, crushed and motionless;

some, scared and stupid; now singing, now swearing, now rushing about

playing at some mad game; now hushed or whispering, as the loud voice of

the Vater (or father of the ward) is heard above the uproar, calling out

“Ruke!” (“Order!”)

On my entrance, I was instantly surrounded by a dozen of the younger

jail-birds, amid a shout of “Ein Zuwachs! Ein Zuwachs!” which I was not

long in understanding to be the name given to the last comer. “Was haben

sie?” (“What has he done?”) was the next eager cry. “Struck a

Polizerdiener!” “Ei! das ist gut!” was the hearty exclamation; and I was a

favorite immediately. One dirty, villainous-looking fellow, with but one

eye, and very little light in that, took to handling my clothes; then

inquired if I had any money “up above?” Upon my answering in the

affirmative my popularity immediately increased. They soon made me

understand that I could “draw” upon the pigeon-hole bank to indulge in any

such luxuries as beer or tobacco.

People breakfast early in Vienna; and, as I had tasted nothing since that

meal, I was very hungry; but I was not to starve; for soon we heard the

groaning of bolts and locks, and the police-soldier who guarded the door,

appeared, bearing in his hand a red earthen pot, surmounted by a round

flat loaf of bread “for the Englishman.” I took my portion with thanks,

and found that the pipkin contained a thick porridge made of lentils,

prepared with meal and fat; in the midst of which was a piece of fresh

boiled beef. The cake was of a darkish color, but good wholesome bread.

Altogether, the meal was not unsavory. Many a greedy eye watched me as I

sat on the end of the hard couch, eating my dinner. One wretched man

seeing that I did not eat all, whispered a proposal to barter his dirty

neckerchief—which he took off in my presence—for half of my loaf. I

satisfied his desires, but declined the recompense. My half-emptied pipkin

was thankfully taken by another man, under the pretense of “cleaning it!”

One of my fellow-prisoners approached me.

“It is getting late,” said he; “do you know what you have got to do?”

“No.”

“You are the ‘Zuwachs’ ” (latest accession), “and it is your business to

empty and clean out the ‘Kiefel!’ ” (the sink, &c.)

“The devil!”

“But I dare say,” he added, carelessly, “if you pay the Vater a

‘mass-bier,’ ” (something less than a quart of beer), “he will make some

of the boys do it for you.”

“With all my heart.”

“Have you a rug?”

“No.”

“You must ask the corporal, at seven o’clock; but I dare say the Vater

will find you one—for a ‘mass-bier’—if you ask him.”

I saw that a mass-bier would do a great deal in an Austrian prison.

The Vater, who was a prisoner like the rest, was appealed to. He was a

tall, burly-looking young man, with a frank countenance. He had quitted

his honest calling of butcher, and had taken to smuggling tobacco into the

city. This was a heavy crime; for the growth, manufacture, and sale of

tobacco, is a strict Imperial monopoly. Accordingly, his punishment had

been proportionately severe—two years’ imprisonment. The sentence was now

approaching completion; and, on account of good conduct, he had received

the appointment of Vater to Punishment Room, No. 1. The benefits were

enumerated to me with open eyes by one of the prisoners—“Double rations,

two rugs, and a mass-bier a day!”

The result of my application to the Vater was the instant calling out of

several young lads, who crouched all day in the darkest end of the room—a

condemned corner, abounding in vermin; and I heard no more of the sink,

and so forth. The next day a new-comer occupied my position.

At about seven o’clock the bolts were again withdrawn, the ponderous door

opened, and the corporal—who seemed to fill the office of

ward-inspector—marched into the chamber. He was provided with a small

note-book and a pencil, and made a general inquiry into the wants and

complaints of the prisoners. Several of them asked for little

indulgencies. All these were duly noted down to be complied with the next

day—always supposing that the prisoner possessed a small capital “up

above.” I stepped forward, and humbly made my request for a rug.

“You?” exclaimed the corporal, eying me sharply. “Oh! you are the

Englishman?—No!”

I heard some one near me mutter: “So; struck a policeman! No mercy for him

from the other policemen—any of them.”

The Vater dared not help me; but two of his most intimate friends made me

lie down between them; and swaddled in their rugs, I passed the night

miserably. The hard boards, and the vermin, effectually broke my slumbers.

The morning came. The rules of the prison required that we should all rise

at six, roll up the rugs, lay them at the heads of our beds, and sweep out

the room. Weary and sore, I paced the prison while these things were done.

Even the morning ablution was comfortless and distressing; a

pocket-handkerchief serving but indifferently for a towel.

Restless activity now took full possession of the prisoners. There was not

the combined shouting or singing of the previous day; but there was

independent action, which broke out in various ways. Hunger had roused

them; the prison allowance is one meal a day; and although, by husbanding

the supply, some few might eke it out into several repasts, the majority

had no such control over their appetite. Tall, gaunt lads, just starting

into men, went roaming about with wild eyes, purposeless, pipkin in hand,

although hours must elapse before the meal would come. Caged beasts pace

their narrow prisons with the same uniform and unvarying motion.

At last eleven o’clock came. The barred door opened, and swiftly, yet with

a terrible restraint—knowing that the least disorder would cost them a

day’s dinner—the prisoners mounted the stone steps, and passed slowly, in

single file, before two enormous caldrons. A cook, provided with a long

ladle, stood by the side of each; and, with a dextrous plunge and a twist,

a portion of porridge and a small block of beef were fished up and dashed

into the pipkin extended by each prisoner. Another official stood ready

with the flat loaves. In a very short time the whole of the prisoners were

served.

Hunger seasoned the mess; and I was sitting on the bedstead-end enjoying

it, when the police-soldier appeared on the threshold, calling me by name.

“You must leave—instantly.”

“I am ready,” I said, starting up.

“Have you a rug?”

“No.”

I hurried out into the dark passage. I was conducted to the left; another

heavy door was loosened, and I was thrust into a gloomy cell, bewildered,

and almost speechless with alarm. I was not alone. Some half-dozen

melancholy wretches crouching in one corner, were disturbed by my

entrance, but half an hour had scarcely elapsed, when the police-soldier

again appeared, and I was hurried out. We proceeded through the passage by

which I had first entered. In my way past the nest of pigeon-holes “up

above,” some—only a few—of my valuables were restored to me. Presently a

single police-soldier led me into the open street.

The beautiful air and sunshine! how I enjoyed them as we passed through

the heart of the city. Bei’m Magistrat, at the corner of the Kohlmarket,

was our destination. We entered its porticoed door, ascended the stone

stairs, and went into a small office, where the most repulsive-looking

official I have any where seen, noted my arrival in a book. Thence we

passed into another pigeon-holed chamber, where I delivered up my little

property, as before, “for its security.” A few minutes more, and I was

safely locked in a small chamber, having one window darkened by a wooden

blind. My companions were a few boys, a courier—who, to my surprise,

addressed me in English—and a man with blazing red hair.

In this place, I passed four days, occupied by what I suppose I may

designate “my trial.” The first day was enlivened by a violent attack

which the jailer made upon the red-headed man for looking out of the

window. He seized the fiery locks, and beat their owner’s head against the

wall. I had to submit that day to a degrading medical examination.

On the second day I was called to appear before the “_Rath_” or council.

The process of examination is curious. It is considered necessary to the

complete elucidation of a case, that the whole life and parentage of the

accused should be made known; and I was thus exposed to a series of

questions which I had never anticipated.—The names and countries of both

my parents; their station; the ages, names, and birthplaces of my brothers

and sisters; my own babyhood, education, subsequent behavior, and

adventures; my own account, with the minutest details, of the offense I

had committed. It was more like a private conference than an examination.

The Rath was alone—with the exception of his secretary, who diligently

recorded my answers. While being thus perseveringly catechised, the Rath

sauntered up and down; putting his interminable questions in a friendly

chatty way, as though he were taking a friendly interest in my history,

rather than pursuing a judicial investigation. When the examination was

concluded, the secretary read over every word to me, and I confirmed the

report with my signature.

The Rath promised to do what he could for me; and I was then surprised and

pleased by the entrance of my employer. The Rath recommended him to write

to the British Embassy in my behalf, and allowed him to send me outer

clothing better suited to the interior of a prison than the best clothes I

had donned to spend the holiday in.

I went back to my cell with a lightened heart. I was, however, a little

disconcerted on my return by the courier, who related an anecdote of a

groom of his acquaintance, who had persisted in smoking a cigar while

passing a sentinel; and who, in punishment therefor, had been beaten by a

number of soldiers, with willow rods; and whose yells of pain had been

heard far beyond the prison walls. What an anticipation! Was I to be

similarly served? I thought it rather a suspicious circumstance that my

new friend appeared to be thoroughly conversant with all the details (I

suspect from personal experience) of the police and prison system of

Vienna. He told me (but I had no means of testing the correctness of his

information) that there were twenty Ratherrn, or Councillors; that each

had his private chamber, and was assisted by a confidential secretary;

that every offender underwent a private examination by the Rath appointed

to investigate his case—the Rath having the power to call all witnesses,

and to examine them, singly, or otherwise, as he thought proper; that on

every Thursday the “Rathsherrn” met in conclave; that each Rath brought

forward the particular cases which he had investigated, explained all its

bearings, attested his report by documentary evidence prepared by his

secretary, and pronounced his opinion as to the amount of punishment to be

inflicted. The question was then decided by a majority.

On the third day, I was suddenly summoned before the Rath, and found

myself side by side with my accuser. He was in private clothes.

“Herr Tuci,” exclaimed the Rath, trying to pronounce my name, but utterly

disguising it, “you have misinformed me. The constable says he did not

_knock_ your hat off—he only _pulled_ it off.”

I adhered to my statement. The Polizerdiener nudged my elbow, and

whispered, “Don’t be alarmed—it will not go hard with you.”

“Now, constable,” said the Rath; “what harm have you suffered in this

affair?”

“My uniform is stained with blood.”

“From _my_ head!” I exclaimed.

“From my nose,” interposed the Polizerdiener.

“In any case it will wash out,” said the Rath.

“And you,” he added, turning to me—“are you willing to indemnify this man

for damage done?”

I assented; and was then removed.

On the following morning I was again summoned to the Rath’s chamber. His

secretary—who was alone—met me with smiles and congratulations: he

announced to me the sentence—four days’ imprisonment. I am afraid I did

not evince that degree of pleasure which was expected from me; but I

thanked him; was removed; and, in another hour, was reconducted to

Punishment Room, No. 1.

The four days of sentence formed the lightest part of the adventure. My

mind was at ease: I knew the worst. Additions to my old companions had

arrived in the interval. We had an artist among us, who was allowed, in

consideration of his talents, to retain a sharp cutting implement

fashioned by himself from a flat piece of steel—knives and books being, as

the most dangerous objects in prison, rigidly abstracted from us. He

manufactured landscapes in straw, gummed upon pieces of blackened wood.

Straw was obtained, in a natural state, of green, yellow, and brown; and

these, when required, were converted into differently-tinted reds, by a

few hours immersion in the Kiefel. He also kneaded bread in the hand,

until it became as hard and as plastic as clay. This he modeled into snuff

boxes (with strips of rag for hinges, and a piece of whalebone for a

spring), draughts, chess-men, pipe-bowls, and other articles. When dry,

they became hard and serviceable; and he sold them among the prisoners and

the prison officials. He obtained thus a number of comforts not afforded

by the prison regulations.

On Sunday, I attended the Catholic chapel attached to the prison—a damp,

unwholesome cell. I stood among a knot of prisoners, enveloped in a

nauseous vapor; whence arose musty, mouldy, rotten effluvia which

gradually overpowered my senses. I felt them leaving me, and tottered

toward the door. I was promptly met by a man who seemed provided for

emergencies of the kind; for, he held a vessel of cold water; poured some

of it into my hands, and directed me to bathe my temples. I partly

recovered; and, faint and dispirited, staggered back to the prison. I had

not, however, lain long upon my bed (polished and slippery from constant

use), when the prison guard came to my side, holding in his hand a smoking

basin of egg soup “for the Englishman.” It was sent by the mistress of the

kitchen. I received the offering of a kind heart to a foreigner in

trouble, with a blessing on the donor.

On the following Tuesday, after an imprisonment of, in all, nine days,

during which I had never slept without my clothes, I was discharged from

the prison. In remembrance of the place, I brought away with me a straw

landscape and a bread snuff-box, the works of the prison artist.

On reaching my lodging I looked into my box. It was empty.

“Where are my books and papers?” I asked my landlord.

The police had taken them on the day after my arrest.

“And my bank-notes?”

“Here they are!” exclaimed my landlord, triumphantly. “I expected the

police; I knew you had money somewhere, so I took the liberty of searching

until I found it. The police made particular inquiries about your cash,

and went away disappointed, taking the other things with them.”

“Would they have appropriated it?”

“Hem! Very likely—under pretense of paying your expenses.”

On application to the police of the district, I received the whole of my

effects back. One of my books was detained for about a week; a member of

the police having taken it home to read, and being as I apprehend, a slow

reader.

It was a matter of great astonishment, both to my friends and to the

police, that I escaped with so slight a punishment.

WHO KNEW BEST?

On the outskirts of the little town of Bernau, with a garden between it

and the road, stands the house of Master Baptist Heinzelmann, a

respectable citizen and cabinet-maker, or _Tischlermeister_, as the

Germans call it, so surrounded and overshadowed by tall trees and shrubs,

that it reminds you of true contentment, which is always quiet and

retiring where it reigns in the heart. Nimble vine-branches climb up the

walls and over the roof, so thick and shady, that birds build their nests

among them, and rest every night under the sheltering leaves. Besides this

there is no other garnishment or decoration to be seen about the dwelling,

although Master Heinzelmann is in very comfortable circumstances. As it

had come down from his father and grandfather, so stood the house at the

time of our tale; one story, compact and solid. From the garden you

entered the spacious outer room, the ordinary play-place of the children,

and from that into the living-room, and from that into the large workshop,

where Master Heinzelmann kept his ten or a dozen journeymen at work from

one year’s end to another, without reckoning the apprentices. His business

flourished greatly, for the townsfolk preferred to go to him whenever they

had orders to give or purchases to make. His workmanship was tasteful and

durable, and what was more than all, he overcharged no one, which pleased

people, and on that account they did not mind the walk to his house,

although it was, as before said, a little off the road, and out of the

way.

What the house wanted in grandeur and ornament, was made up by the

contentment and the gentle and full-hearted happiness which had taken up

their abode within it. Free from cares of whatever sort, Master

Heinzelmann passed his days in the circle of his family. Providence had

bestowed on him a good-looking, intelligent wife and three healthy and

lively children, on whom his whole affections hung, and when they

assembled each evening, after the labors of the day, none looked comelier

and happier than they. At seven o’clock, Master Heinzelmann left off work,

and dismissed his men; the noise of saws, hammers, and planes ceased, and

a peaceful stillness reigned in the house; and he, having put on his

comfortable in-doors jacket, filled a pipe, and looked about for his

family. In summer, he found them nearly always in the garden, or in the

outer room, near the open door, from whence there was a pleasant view over

the sweet-scented flower-beds. His wife welcomed his coming with a

friendly nod and a cheerful smile, and the children ran to meet him, clung

to his hands, and strove to climb up for a kiss. Such was Baptist

Heinzelmann’s daily pleasure, abounding in all that makes life happy.

After lifting up and embracing his children, he would sit and listen to

their lively prattle, or watch their simple sports, in which he himself

often took a part, while their mother made ready the evening meal. When

this was over, they went and sat in the pretty summer-house, and talked

about the little occurrences of the day. There was always something to

relate, concerning the children, or the housekeeping, or the garden, or of

other matters, nor was there any lack of simple gossip, which, however

insignificant it might seem, yet had a meaning and an interest for a

family bound together by the strongest ties of love. Father, mother,

children, enjoyed the quiet gladness of a household into which the noise

of the great world without seldom penetrated. And in what else does

happiness consist, than in gladness and contentment? He who possesses them

needs to ask for nothing further. Had Master Heinzelmann always remembered

that, he would have saved himself from much toil and vexation.

One fine summer evening the Tischlermeister left his workshop as usual,

put on his lounging-jacket, lit his pipe, and turned his steps toward the

front room, from whence came the noise of merry laughter and shouts of

fun. Softly he approached behind the open door which concealed him from

his wife and children, leant himself at his ease on the lower half, and

looked smilingly down on the frolics of his little ones. The mother, with

the youngest girl on her lap, sat on the doorstep, while Fritz and Hans

crawled about the floor. They were playing a hundred tricks with the

kitten, which had come into the world only a few weeks before. Fritz had

got a piece of colored cloth for a plaything, and flung it across the

room, but with a thread cunningly fastened to it, so that he might pull it

back again. The kitten, according to the manner of young cats, leaped and

seized the lure with comical antics, but just as she fancied it was fast

between her paws, came a sudden pull, and away flew the prize, while she

looked after it with ludicrous astonishment. Then rose bursts of merriment

and shouts of delight, and the mother, glad in her children’s pleasure,

laughed with them, and took care that the old cat should not disturb their

sport by any sudden outbreak of ill-temper.

Master Heinzelmann looked on for a little while, and amused himself,

without being seen, with his children’s diversions. All at once, however,

he made a grave face, and said, “Enough, little ones; let the kitten go,

and come to supper. Come, dear wife, it is all ready.”

As soon as the children heard their father’s voice, they thought no more

about the kitten, but sprang up and ran toward him with merry faces. But

he did not hug and kiss them as he was accustomed to do; he gave them only

a short salute, and the same to his wife, who came toward him with her

hand held out, and the youngest child on her arm.

“Baptist,” she said, “dear husband, we have had rare fun this afternoon;

you should see how cleverly Fritz can spring about with the kitten! But

what is the matter? You look angry. Has any thing happened to vex you?”

“Not exactly vexatious,” replied Heinzelmann, “and yet as I saw you

sitting there so pleasantly, I was a little fretted to think that I had

promised Master Vollbracht to go into town this evening. I would much

rather stay at home with you.”

“Go to town, Baptist, to-day?” asked Frau Margaret in astonishment. “And

what have you to do there?”

“Oh, it is about some town affairs,” answered Baptist; “I don’t myself

know rightly what they are; when Master Vollbracht told me, I did not

altogether understand, but, at all events, I promised to go for a short

hour, so as to be quit of him. You know well, Margaret, that to speak

truly, the locksmith is no special friend of mine—he is too fond of the

public-house. Still a promise is a promise, and I must keep my word; so

let us have supper quickly, for the sooner there, the sooner shall I be

back again.”

Frau Margaret said nothing, although it could be seen in her face, that

her husband’s going out in the evening was not at all agreeable to her.

She went and got the supper ready, Master Heinzelmann ate a few mouthfuls

hastily, and then rose up and put on his coat.

“Good-by, Margaret,” he said, “good-night, children! I expect to be at

home again soon, wife.”

“Go, then,” she answered with a cheerful look, “and I will wait for you;

but do not stay too long.”

Baptist promised, and went. Frau Margaret felt uneasy as she looked after

him. It was the first evening since their marriage that she had been left

alone in the house. When she heard the garden gate shut behind her

husband, she became fearful, and pressed her hand over her eyes, out of

which a few tears had forced their way. Presently, however, she said to

herself—“Timid heart! what matters it if you are left alone for once? It

will not happen often, for he loves me; yes, and the children too. How can

I be so silly!”

So she thought, and then put on a cheerful face, and played and talked to

the children, as though nothing had happened. But that pure gladness,

which leaps from the care-free heart as a clear spring, was wanting. She

sent the youngsters to bed earlier than usual, and placed herself at the

window, and looked silently forth into the garden, which the moon, with

its pale light, seemed to have covered with a vail of silver. Thus she

waited for her husband’s return. At ten o’clock she hoped he would come;

by-and-by eleven struck, he was still absent; an other anxious half-hour

passed—at last he came. She heard his footsteps still far off, heard the

garden-gate creak, and flew to meet him.

“So late! you bad man,” she cried merrily, but with a slight reproach in

the tone of her voice.

“I could not do otherwise, dear wife,” replied Baptist, who was visibly a

little excited “You should only have been there! They paid me great honor,

and when I was coming away at ten o’clock, they all cried out for me to

stay, that my opinion had great weight with them, and so, really I could

not leave. But you should have gone to bed, Margaret.”

“No; I was not at all tired,” answered the wife. “But, now, make haste in;

you are heated, and the cool night air may do you harm.”

Lovingly she drew him into the house, and listened patiently to all that

he had to tell about the matters that had been talked over in the town,

and how he had settled and determined nearly every question, because of

his consequence and station.

“There’s only one thing vexes me,” he said lastly, “I was obliged to

promise to go again. Two evenings in the week are fixed on for the

meetings, and as every body was in favor, I could not well say no.

However, it is but two evenings; the whole history won’t last longer.”

If Frau Margaret was alarmed at the beginning of the evening, she was now

doubly fearful Her quiet in-door happiness seemed to be all at once

threatened by some great danger. She trembled to think that her husband

could find pleasure away from home—away from his children, and she had the

sense to foresee the consequences. But she remained silent, for she was

too bewildered to find words to express her apprehensions, and then, she

knew that when her husband had once made a promise, nothing would lead him

to break it. This made her sorrow the greater, and for the first time

since her marriage, her pillow was wet with tears. She, however, concealed

her sadness from her husband; she hoped that the good old habits would

rule again, and make him dislike passing his evenings away from home.

Although Frau Margaret was prudent and sensible, she deceived herself in

this matter. Truly enough, Baptist at first went out for the evening

unwillingly, and not without a struggle, but gradually this resistance

disappeared, and at last he longed for the hour which led him among his

companions. He was a man of clear judgment, knew how to deliver his words

neatly, and his comfortable circumstances gave him a certain importance,

so that, quite naturally, in course of time he gave the tone to the

company, and his sayings were received as oracles. That flattered his

vanity, which therein got full satisfaction, and before long, he wondered

in secret how he could have lived so many years in the background, and had

so little to do with the world. The political and religious questions of

the day, about which he had never before troubled himself, began to excite

his eager attention. He read newspapers, journals, pamphlets, and became a

great politician—at least in the eyes of himself and his companions. The

magic circle of his calm and peaceful happiness was broken. Baptist

himself had done it, but without a foreboding of what he had destroyed. He

fancied himself happier than ever, and could not see that all his

household joys were blighted.

But Margaret saw and felt it. She mourned in secret; the evenings when she

sat at home alone were sad and sorrowful for her, and at last, as Baptist

left off observing any rule in his outgoing, but longed more and more to

be away from home, she plucked up a heart, and begged of him to leave her

no more.

“But why not!” rejoined Heinzelmann; “we do nothing wrong. We debate about

matters for the good of the town and of the state. There must be great

changes, Margaret, before things can be better with us. But, presto, it

will come.”

“Oh, Baptist, what concern have you with the town and the state?” answered

Frau Margaret. “Look at your family, that is your town and state. When you

are with it, and fulfill your duty rightfully, then are you one of the

best of citizens. Consider well: the skin is nearer than the fleece.”

“Yes, wife, but what do you mean by that?” said Baptist, a little angrily.

“Perhaps I am not fulfilling my duty?”

“No longer the same as formerly, dear husband. Don’t take it ill, Baptist,

but my heart and conscience compel me—I must tell you. You neglect your

business a little. Yesterday, you know, the town-clerk wanted his coffer;

but you—you went out at five, and the coffer was not finished.”

“Eh, what!” cried Baptist, snappishly. “I had business in town—we were to

lay a memorial before the magistrates about the pavement, and that could

not be done without me; and the town-clerk can have his coffer to-day.”

“No, dear husband,” replied the wife, “he sent a little while ago to say

that he had got one; and now, you see, the coffer must be kept on hand

unsold.”

“The town-clerk is an old fool,” continued Baptist, fretfully. “These

aristocrats!—they always want to ride on the necks of us honest traders.

But patience! Our turn will come someday.”

“But, dearest husband,” said Margaret, soothingly, “the town-clerk has

always been very agreeable and friendly with you, and it is certainly not

his fault, that the coffer was not ready at the right time. Many go out

for wool and come home shorn. Had you thought more of the skin than of the

fleece, you would have saved yourself all this trouble. You understand:

your business—that’s the skin; the street paving—that’s the fleece.”

“Yes, I understand well enough what you mean,” rejoined the

Tischlermeister, “but I understand it quite otherwise! You, however, do

not understand me: men were meant for general affairs, for great matters.

Their mind stretches far beyond the narrow circle of housewifery. Only let

me alone, and don’t mix yourself up in things which don’t concern you, and

which you don’t understand.”

Frau Margaret saw plainly that her remonstrance made no impression, and

she remained silent. But her sad and downcast looks spoke more loudly to

the heart of her husband than her words. Heinzelmann found that her view

was not far wrong, after all, and made an attempt to withdraw from his

companions, and again live a domestic life. But his attempt failed.

Vanity, and the desire to appear somebody, led him back again to his

crooked ways, and soon they became worse.

The insurrection at Paris broke out—the Republic was proclaimed—and the

news of these events fell on the minds of the German people like a spark

in a barrel of gunpowder. Blow followed blow, feelings grew hot, and

almost every town had its own revolution. That was something for Master

Baptist Heinzelmann. He was called to the head of the Democratic party,

and made the leader of a revolutionary club, and spouted speeches full of

fire and flame; the mob cried hurrah! held up their hands for him—he

became drunk with triumph—was chosen town-councilor—a great man, as he

thought, and leader of the people. He was near being elected Deputy to the

Diet, and sent as representative to the Parliament at Berlin. Master

Baptist swam in pleasures—Frau Margaret swam in tears. Her husband

triumphed—she sat at home and wept. Her husband walked proudly about, and

looked radiant with joy—she was full of mournfulness, and the feeling of

happiness seemed to have disappeared from her heart forever.

Master Heinzelmann appeared to be totally changed. He troubled himself no

longer about his business, but left every thing to his work men. Every

morning early, he left home to fulfill his new vocation as leader of the

people, and to labor for their happiness. He saw not that his own

happiness was going to ruin in the meantime. He used to return home late,

worn-out, weary, and hoarse with much speechifying and shouting, and

ill-tempered into the bargain. Scarcely had he exchanged a few sulky words

with his poor wife, than he betook himself to bed. He rarely saw his

children: the pleasant evenings in the front-room had all vanished as a

dream, and could not be recalled. Instead of merry laughter, and joyful

cries, and glad shoutings, there was nothing to be heard but the low, sad

sobs of Frau Margaret. Peace and contentment seemed to have fled from the

house, as well as from the hearts of all its inmates. Yes—all! for to

confess the truth, Master Baptist Heinzelmann found, little by little,

that although his new life in the busy current of politics brought plenty

of excitement, it by no means brought contentment; and instead of making

him happy, it laid upon him rather a burden of cares, vexations,

hardships, and losses of many kinds. At first it went well enough—but how

went it afterward? His party, which in truth was not a small one, listened

to him right willingly when he held forth and displayed his political

knowledge, but they also had no objection to a cool drink now and then

between the fiery speeches. So Master Baptist, from time to time, in order

to keep up his popularity, was obliged to let a cask of ale go the rounds,

and that was not quite so pleasant to him as to be listened to with

attention, and to hear the hurrahs when he said something a little more

violent than usual. Besides, there were other leaders of the people as

well as he, who stood in high favor with the mob, but who had very little

money, while Master Heinzelmann was well-to-do, and could afford to offer

a sacrifice on the altar of his country, and—he offered it. Only, somehow

or other, the sacrifice was wanted so often, and that was not much to the

liking of the Tischlermeister. In the end—and that worried him the

most—his journeymen became refractory all of a sudden. They wished also to

have property of their own, and demanded higher wages. Baptist Heinzelmann

liked revolutions very well, but not against himself, and so he told all

his hands to go to Jericho, and for a time his business went to sleep.

From this it happened that orders did not come in quite so numerously as

before, which puzzled Baptist not a little. He began to turn it over in

his mind, and all at once he bethought himself of what his good-hearted

wife had said to him one day: “Remember! the skin is nearer than the

fleece.” Never had the truth of this proverb come before him so strikingly

and forcibly, as now that his delusions were losing their strength. A

singular and irresistible longing to return once more to his former

tranquil and retired, and yet happy life, overcame him. What was the

selfish love of the mob, against the pure and true love of wife and

children? a painted bubble in comparison with a bright and costly jewel.

Baptist Heinzelmann plucked up a heart; toward evening he left the

council-house and went home. No one was in the garden; it lay there in

deep stillness. He stole down a by-path to his workshop, where now but

three hands were employed out of the dozen that formerly worked therein,

and threw off his Sunday clothes, put on his dear old comfortable jacket,

his cap on his head, reached down the clay pipe which had had such a long

rest, lit it, and then went softly through the inner to the outer room.

Wife and children sat, as often before, on the threshold, not lively as

they used to be, but particularly quiet and downcast—even merry Fritz had

scarcely a word to say for himself. The sun was dropping down to his

setting, and cast golden streams of light through the thick foliage of the

vine which enwreathed the door and window, down upon the clean boards of

the floor. Sweet odors were borne in on the air from the garden, the birds

chirped and twittered their last evening notes, and peace and tranquillity

reigned around, except in the hearts which once knew nothing else than joy

and contentment.

Heinzelmann leant over the door, and for a time looked at his family in

silence. The past came before his mind as pleasant pictures. “What a fool

was I!” he said inwardly to himself; “what more blessed happiness can

there be, than the happiness in the circle of one’s own family! What a

fool was I, not to see this long ago: that I could so long be blinded by

stupid vanity and foolish pride! But there is yet time, and I will not let

it escape.”

“Margaret,” he said aloud, and with friendly voice.

“Baptist—is that you? and so early!” she cried, and sprang up; “and what

do I see? in the old cap and jacket! Are you not going out again?”

“Not to-day, nor to-morrow, nor afterward,” answered he, smiling. “With

the old dress, I have found again my old heart. The skin is nearer than

the fleece, my Margaret, my good, dear wife!”

“Oh, goodness!” she exclaimed, “what do you say? what do I hear? am I not

in a dream?”

“If you are dreaming that the old contentment has come back again,”

replied Baptist, “then is your dream a true one. I have grown wise at

last, Margaret.”

“Thank God!” stammered the Frau; “and instead of handling the pen, you

will now work with the plane—will you?”

“Yes, Margaret, stick to that which I know, and leave it to others to

bungle at politics. In short, I have given up my post—I am no longer

town-councilor. I am now only what I was before—Tischlermeister Baptist

Heinzelmann! Am I welcome to you as such?”

With a shriek of delight, Frau Margaret fell into her husband’s open arms.

Long and close was their embrace, and the sense of newly-quickened joy

brought sweet tears from the wife’s heart. The children understood not

what was going on; but they saw that their father was glad and contented,

and they were glad and contented too. Until late at night, they sat

together in the garden, rejoicing in their new-found happiness.

Baptist became truly the Tischlermeister of former days, and suffered

himself to be no more drawn into temptation. A burnt child shuns the fire;

and he knew now the difference between family joys and worldly joys. His

late friends and companions came entreating him to take part once more in

their proceedings, but Baptist put them off with a laugh, and answered,

“Not so, dear friends—the skin is nearer than the fleece! In-doors there,

at the work-bench, is my post. Other people understand politics and

government better than I—I leave the task to them.”

The friends and companions tried again two or three times—Heinzelmann,

however, remained firm; they gave up and came no more. But the old

customers returned, and the old journeymen also, who had thought better of

their strike—and above all, the old joy of tranquil, domestic life.

Baptist would not change with any one. And Frau Margaret?—only go by the

house some day toward evening, when she is playing with the children, or

sitting with them and her husband in the garden; then, when you hear her

clear, silvery laugh, then, I can believe, you will no more ask if she is

happy. Such a laugh can come only from a truly happy heart.

MY FIRST PLACE.

My father died before I can remember any thing. My mother had a hard life;

and it was all that she could do to keep herself and me. We lived in

Birmingham, in a house where there were many other lodgers. We had only

one room of our own; and, when my mother went out to work, she locked the

door and left me there by myself. Those were dreary days. When it was

summer, and the bright sun shone in at the window, I thought of the green

fields that I used to see sometimes on Sundays, and I longed to be sitting

under a shady tree, watching the little lambs, and all young things that

could play about. When it was winter, I used to sit looking at the empty

grate, and wishing to see the bright blaze which never came. When mother

went away in the winter mornings, she told me to run about to warm myself;

and, when I was tired and began to feel cold, to get into the blankets on

the bed. Many long and wearisome hours I passed in those blankets;

listening and listening to every step upon the stairs, expecting to hear

mother’s step. At times I felt very lonely; and fancied, as it began to

grow darker and darker, that I could see large, strange shapes rising

before me; and, though I might know that it was only my bonnet that I

looked at, or a gown of mother’s hanging up behind the door, or something

at the top of the old cupboard, the things seemed to grow larger and

larger, and I looked and looked till I became so frightened, that I

covered my head with the blanket, and went on listening for mother’s

return. What a joyful sound to me was the sound of the key put into the

door-lock! It gave me courage in an instant: then I would throw away the

blanket; and, raising my head with a feeling of defiance, would look round

for the things that had frightened me, as if to say, “I don’t care for you

now.” Mother would light the fire, bring something from the basket, and

cook our supper. She would then sit and talk to me, and I felt so happy

that I soon forgot all that had gone before.

Mother could not always get work. I was glad then; for those days were the

Sundays of my life; she was at home all day; and although we often had

nothing to eat but bread and potatoes, she had her tea; and the potatoes

always tasted to me at these times better than they did on other days.

Mother was not a scholar, so she could not teach me much in that way; but

she taught me how to keep our room clean and free from dust. I did not

know much of other children; but I had a little cousin about my own age,

who came sometimes on Sundays with my aunt, and sometimes we went to see

them.

At last mother was taken ill—so very ill that she could not go out to

work, and as I could not do for her all that was wanted to be done, my

aunt came to be with us. Mother became worse and worse, and the doctor

said he did not think she would ever get better. I heard him say this to

aunt, and he said it in such a way as if he thought I could not feel; and

I do think there are some people who think that children can not feel; but

I _did_ feel it very much. Aunt used to sit up at nights. I had a little

bed made in a corner of the room on the floor. One night after I had cried

myself to sleep, I started up from a bad dream about dear mother. At first

I could not remember where I was, not being used to my strange bed; but,

when I did remember, I saw that the rush-light was just burning out. All

was very quiet. The quietness frightened me. The light flared for an

instant, and then it was gone; but it showed me my aunt lying on the floor

with her head leaning on the bed; she was fast asleep. I thought mother

was asleep, too, and I did not dare to speak. Softly creeping out of bed,

I groped my way as well as I could to mother’s side. I listened, but I

heard no sound; I got nearer to her; I could not hear her breathe; I put

out my hand to feel her face; the face was clammy and almost cold.

“Mother! dear mother!” I cried. The cry awoke my aunt; she got a light.

Mother was dead.

I can not remember what happened for a long time afterward; for I was very

ill, and was taken to my aunt’s house. I was very miserable when I got

better again. I felt quite alone in the world; for though aunt was kind,

her kindness was not like mother’s kindness. Whenever I could get to be by

myself, I used to think of poor mother; and often in the long, long

nights, I would lie awake thinking about her, fancying that she was near,

saying things to comfort me. Poor mother!

Time passed on, and by degrees I began to feel happier; for through the

interest of a kind lady—a Mrs. Jones—I was got into a school, where I was

kept entirely, and taught not only reading, writing, arithmetic, and to do

needlework; but was also taught how to do every branch of household work,

so as to qualify me to be a servant. At the age of sixteen, suitable

places were provided for the girls.

I pass over my school-days. They were very happy ones; but, when I was

selected to be the servant of a lady in London, I was very miserable at

parting from every body that I knew in the world, and at going among

strangers who would not love me one bit.

It rained heavily on the day I left; and every thing to be seen out of the

window of the railway train looked dismal and dripping. When I got to the

station, in London, I went into the waiting-room. I waited a long time:

one after another went away, till at last I was left alone to watch the

pouring rain as it fell faster and faster. I was beginning to feel very

dismal indeed, when a smartly dressed young woman came into the

waiting-room. At first I thought she was a lady; she came toward me, “Are

you the young person from Birmingham?” she said. I was up in a moment,

saying, “Yes, ma’am,” courtesying as I spoke. But the minute afterward I

was sorry that I had courtesied; for I was sure _she_ was not my mistress.

We were soon in the cab. “Well,” said my companion, whom I soon knew to be

Maria Wild, the housemaid, “and so you took me to be your mistress, did

you?” and she laughed in a disagreeable way; “I shan’t forget your humble

courtesy, and I’ll try to keep you up to it.” The house at which we

stopped was a pretty stone house, standing at a little distance from the

road, surrounded by a nice garden. I was glad it was in the country, for

the sight of trees and green fields always called to mind those happy

Sundays when dear mother was alive. But the country looked very gloomy

just then; every thing seemed as dull as I was.

I was chilly and shivering, and glad to creep to the fire; no one was in

the kitchen. The kettle was boiling: it sounded cheerily, like the voice

of friends I had often heard. The tea-things were set ready, and every

thing around looked comfortable. By-and-by in came Maria and another

servant—the cook. She was so smart! I looked at her timidly. “Well!” she

said, “now for your courtesy.” I knew at once that Maria had been telling

her about my mistake. I looked grave, and felt very uncomfortable; but I

did not courtesy. “Come, come,” said she, “I’ll excuse you to-night; you

shall have some tea to cheer you up a bit. But don’t look so down-hearted,

girl; this’ll never do; you must pluck up.”

Then we sat down. She asked me a great many questions, all about the place

I had come from; the relations that I had; every thing about the school;

what I had done there; till at last I was quite tired of answering. Then I

asked some questions in my turn.