was my father? Why, that has nothing to do with the humour. He was
lively and stout, round and fat; and his outer and inner man were in
direct contradiction to his calling. And pray what was he by
profession and calling in civil society? Yes, if this were to be
written down and printed in the very beginning of a book, it is
probable that many when they read it would lay the book aside, and
say, "It looks so uncomfortable; I don't like anything of that sort."
And yet my father was neither a horse slaughterer nor an executioner;
on the contrary, his office placed him at the head of the most
respectable gentry of the town; and he held his place by right, for it
was his right place. He had to go first before the bishop even, and
before the princes of the blood. He always went first--for he was the
driver of the hearse!
There, now it's out! And I will confess that when people saw my father
sitting perched up on the omnibus of death, dressed in his long, wide,
black cloak, with his black-bordered three-cornered hat on his
head--and then his face, exactly as the sun is drawn, round and
jocund--it was difficult for them to think of the grave and of sorrow.
The face said, "It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter; it will be
better than one thinks."
You see, I have inherited my good humour from him, and also the habit
of going often to the churchyard, which is a good thing to do if it be
done in the right spirit; and then I take in the _Intelligencer_, just
as he used to do.
I am not quite young. I have neither wife, nor children, nor a
library; but, as aforesaid, I take in the _Intelligencer_, and that's
my favourite newspaper, as it was also my father's. It is very useful,
and contains everything that a man needs to know--such as who preaches
in the church and in the new books. And then what a lot of charity,
and what a number of innocent, harmless verses are found in it!
Advertisements for husbands and wives, and requests for
interviews--all quite simple and natural. Certainly, one may live
merrily and be contentedly buried if one takes in the _Intelligencer_.
And, as a concluding advantage, by the end of his life a man will have
such a capital store of paper, that he may use it as a soft bed,
unless he prefers to rest upon wood-shavings.
The newspaper and my walk to the churchyard were always my most
exciting occupations--they were like bathing-places for my good
humour.
The newspaper every one can read for himself. But please come with me
to the churchyard; let us wander there where the sun shines and the
trees grow green. Each of the narrow houses is like a closed book,
with the back placed uppermost, so that one can only read the title
and judge what the book contains, but can tell nothing about it; but I
know something of them. I heard it from my father, or found it out
myself. I have it all down in my record that I wrote out for my own
use and pleasure: all that lie here, and a few more too, are
chronicled in it.
Now we are in the churchyard.
Here, behind this white railing, where once a rose tree grew--it is
gone now, but a little evergreen from the next grave stretches out its
green fingers to make a show--there rests a very unhappy man; and yet,
when he lived, he was in what they call a good position. He had enough
to live upon, and something over; but worldly cares, or to speak more
correctly, his artistic taste, weighed heavily upon him. If in the
evening he sat in the theatre to enjoy himself thoroughly, he would be
quite put out if the machinist had put too strong a light into one
side of the moon, or if the sky-pieces hung down over the scenes when
they ought to have hung behind them, or when a palm tree was
introduced into a scene representing the Berlin Zoological Gardens, or
a cactus in a view of the Tyrol, or a beech tree in the far north of
Norway. As if that was of any consequence. Is it not quite immaterial?
Who would fidget about such a trifle? It's only make-believe, after
all, and every one is expected to be amused. Then sometimes the public
applauded too much to suit his taste, and sometimes too little.
"They're like wet wood this evening," he would say; "they won't kindle
at all!" And then he would look round to see what kind of people they
were; and sometimes he would find them laughing at the wrong time,
when they ought not to have laughed, and that vexed him; and he
fretted, and was an unhappy man, and at last fretted himself into his
grave.
Here rests a very happy man. That is to say, a very grand man. He was
of high birth, and that was lucky for him, for otherwise he would
never have been anything worth speaking of; and nature orders all that
very wisely, so that it's quite charming when we think of it. He used
to go about in a coat embroidered back and front, and appeared in the
saloons of society just like one of those costly, pearl-embroidered
bell-pulls, which have always a good, thick, serviceable cord behind
them to do the work. He likewise had a good stout cord behind him, in
the shape of a substitute, who did his duty, and who still continues
to do it behind another embroidered bell-pull. Everything is so nicely
managed, it's enough to put one into a good humour.
[Illustration: THE CHURCHYARD NARRATION.]
Here rests--well, it's a very mournful reflection--here rests a man
who spent sixty-seven years considering how he should get a good idea.
The object of his life was to say a good thing, and at last he felt
convinced in his own mind that he had got one, and was so glad of it
that he died of pure joy at having caught an idea at last. Nobody
derived any benefit from it, and no one even heard what the good thing
was. Now, I can fancy that this same good thing won't let him live
quiet in his grave; for let us suppose that it is a good thing which
can only be brought out at breakfast if it is to make an effect, and
that he, according to the received opinion concerning ghosts, can only
rise and walk at midnight. Why, then the good thing would not suit the
time, and the man must carry his good idea down with him again. What
an unhappy man he must be!
Here rests a remarkably stingy woman. During her lifetime she used to
get up at night and mew, so that the neighbours might think she kept a
cat--she was so remarkably stingy.
Here is a maiden of another kind. When the canary bird of the heart
begins to chirp, reason puts her fingers in her ears. The maiden was
going to be married, but--well, it's an every-day story, and we will
let the dead rest.
Here sleeps a widow who carried melody in her mouth and gall in her
heart. She used to go out for prey in the families round about; and
the prey she hunted was her neighbours' faults, and she was an
indefatigable hunter.
Here's a family sepulchre. Every member of this family held so firmly
to the opinions of the rest, that if all the world, and the newspapers
into the bargain, said of a certain thing it is so and so, and the
little boy came home from school and said, "I've learned it thus and
thus," they declared his opinion to be the only true one, because he
belonged to the family. And it is an acknowledged fact, that if the
yard-cock of the family crowed at midnight, they would declare it was
morning, though the watchmen and all the clocks in the city were
crying out that it was twelve o'clock at night.
The great poet Goethe concludes his "Faust" with the words "may be
continued;" and our wanderings in the churchyard may be continued too.
If any of my friends, or my non-friends, go on too fast for me, I go
out to my favourite spot and select a mound, and bury him or her
there--bury that person who is yet alive; and there those I bury must
stay till they come back as new and improved characters. I inscribe
their life and their deeds, looked at in my fashion, in my record; and
that's what all people ought to do. They ought not to be vexed when
any one goes on ridiculously, but bury him directly, and maintain
their good humour, and keep to the _Intelligencer_, which is often a
book written by the people with its hand guided.
When the time comes for me to be bound with my history in the boards
of the grave, I hope they will put up as my epitaph, "A good-humoured
one." And that's my story.
A LEAF FROM THE SKY.
High up yonder, in the thin clear air, flew an angel with a flower
from the heavenly garden. As he was kissing the flower, a very little
leaf fell down into the soft soil in the midst of the wood, and
immediately took root, and sprouted, and sent forth shoots among the
other plants.
"A funny kind of slip that," said the plants.
And neither thistle nor stinging-nettle would recognize the stranger.
"That must be a kind of garden plant," said they.
And they sneered; and the plant was despised by them as being a thing
out of the garden.
"Where are you coming?" cried the lofty thistles, whose leaves are all
armed with thorns.
"You give yourself a good deal of space. That's all nonsense--we are
not here to support you!" they grumbled.
And winter came, and snow covered the plant; but the plant imparted to
the snowy covering a lustre as if the sun was shining upon it from
below as from above. When spring came, the plant appeared as a
blooming object, more beautiful than any production of the forest.
And now appeared on the scene the botanical professor, who could show
what he was in black and white. He inspected the plant and tested it,
but found it was not included in his botanical system; and he could
not possibly find out to what class it belonged.
"That must be some subordinate species," he said. "I don't know it.
It's not included in any system."
"Not included in any system!" repeated the thistles and the nettles.
The great trees that stood round about saw and heard it; but they
said not a word, good or bad, which is the wisest thing to do for
people who are stupid.
There came through the forest a poor innocent girl. Her heart was
pure, and her understanding was enlarged by faith. Her whole
inheritance was an old Bible; but out of its pages a voice said to
her, "If people wish to do us evil, remember how it was said of
Joseph. They imagined evil in their hearts, but God turned it to good.
If we suffer wrong--if we are misunderstood and despised--then we may
recall the words of Him who was purity and goodness itself, and who
forgave and prayed for those who buffeted Him and nailed Him to the
cross." The girl stood still in front of the wonderful plant, whose
great leaves exhaled a sweet and refreshing fragrance, and whose
flowers glittered like a coloured flame in the sun; and from each
flower there came a sound as though it concealed within itself a deep
fount of melody that thousands of years could not exhaust. With pious
gratitude the girl looked on this beautiful work of the Creator, and
bent down one of the branches towards herself to breathe in its
sweetness; and a light arose in her soul. It seemed to do her heart
good; and gladly would she have plucked a flower, but she could not
make up her mind to break one off, for it would soon fade if she did
so. Therefore the girl only took a single leaf, and laid it in her
Bible at home; and it lay there quite fresh, always green, and never
fading.
Among the pages of the Bible it was kept; and, with the Bible, it was
laid under the young girl's head when, a few weeks afterwards, she lay
in her coffin, with the solemn calm of death on her gentle face, as if
the earthly remains bore the impress of the truth that she now stood
before her Creator.
But the wonderful plant still bloomed without in the forest. It was
almost like a tree to look upon; and all the birds of passage bowed
before it.
"That's giving itself foreign airs now," said the thistles and the
burdocks; "we never behave like that here."
And the black snails actually spat at the flower.
Then came the swineherd. He was collecting thistles and shrubs, to
burn them for the ashes. The wonderful plant was placed bodily in his
bundle.
"It shall be made useful," he said; and so said, so done.
[Illustration: THE POOR GIRL'S TREASURE.]
But soon afterwards, the king of the country was troubled with a
terrible depression of spirits. He was busy and industrious, but that
did him no good. They read him deep and learned books, and then they
read from the lightest and most superficial that they could find; but
it was of no use. Then one of the wise men of the world, to whom they
had applied, sent a messenger to tell the king that there was one
remedy to give him relief and to cure him. He said:
"In the king's own country there grows in a forest a plant of heavenly
origin. Its appearance is thus and thus. It cannot be mistaken."
"I fancy it was taken up in my bundle, and burnt to ashes long ago,"
said the swineherd; "but I did not know any better."
"You didn't know any better! Ignorance of ignorances!"
And those words the swineherd might well take to himself, for they
were meant for him, and for no one else.
Not another leaf was to be found; the only one lay in the coffin of
the dead girl, and no one knew anything about that.
And the king himself, in his melancholy, wandered out to the spot in
the wood.
"Here is where the plant stood," he said; "it is a sacred place."
And the place was surrounded with a golden railing, and a sentry was
posted there.
The botanical professor wrote a long treatise upon the heavenly plant.
For this he was gilded all over, and this gilding suited him and his
family very well. And indeed that was the most agreeable part of the
whole story. But the king remained as low-spirited as before; but that
he had always been, at least so the sentry said.
THE DUMB BOOK.
By the high-road in the forest lay a lonely peasant's hut; the road
went right through the farmyard. The sun shone down, and all the
windows were open. In the house was bustle and movement; but in the
garden, in an arbour of blossoming elder, stood an open coffin. A dead
man had been carried out here, and he was to be buried this morning.
Nobody stood by the coffin and looked sorrowfully at the dead man; no
one shed a tear for him: his face was covered with a white cloth, and
under his head lay a great thick book, whose leaves consisted of whole
sheets of blotting paper, and on each leaf lay a faded flower. It was
a complete herbanum, gathered by him in various places; it was to be
buried with him, for so he had wished it. With each flower a chapter
in his life was associated.
[Illustration: THE POWER OF THE BOOK.]
"Who is the dead man?" we asked; and the answer was:
"The Old Student. They say he was once a brisk lad, and studied the
old languages, and sang, and even wrote poems. Then something happened
to him that made him turn his thoughts to brandy, and take to it; and
when at last he had ruined his health, he came out here into the
country, where somebody paid for his board and lodging. He was as
gentle as a child, except when the dark mood came upon him; but when
it came he became like a giant, and then ran about in the woods like a
hunted stag; but when we once got him home again, and prevailed with
him so far that he opened the book with the dried plants, he often sat
whole days, and looked sometimes at one plant and sometimes at
another, and at times the tears rolled over his cheeks: Heaven knows
what he was thinking of. But he begged us to put the book into the
coffin, and now he lies there, and in a little while the lid will be
nailed down, and he will have his quiet rest in the grave."
The face-cloth was raised, and there was peace upon the features of
the dead man, and a sunbeam played upon it; a swallow shot with arrowy
flight into the arbour, and turned rapidly, and twittered over the
dead man's head.
What a strange feeling it is--and we have doubtless all experienced
it--that of turning over old letters of the days of our youth! a new
life seems to come up with them, with all its hopes and sorrows. How
many persons with whom we were intimate in those days, are as it were
dead to us! and yet they are alive, but for a long time we have not
thought of them--of them whom we then thought to hold fast for ages,
and with whom we were to share sorrow and joy.
Here the withered oak-leaf in the book reminded the owner of the
friend, the school-fellow, who was to be a friend for life: he
fastened the green leaf in the student's cap in the green wood, when
the bond was made "for life:" where does he live now? The leaf is
preserved, but the friendship has perished! And here is a foreign
hothouse plant, too delicate for the gardens of the North; the leaves
almost seem to keep their fragrance still. She gave it to him, the
young lady in the nobleman's garden. Here is the water rose, which he
plucked himself, and moistened with salt tears--the roses of the sweet
waters. And here is a nettle--what tale may its leaves have to tell?
What were his thoughts when he plucked it and kept it? Here is a lily
of the valley, from the solitudes of the forest. Here's an evergreen
from the flower-pot of the tavern; and here's a naked sharp blade of
grass.
The blooming elder waves its fresh fragrant blossoms over the dead
man's head, and the swallow flies past again. "Pee-wit! pee-wit!" And
now the men come with nails and hammers, and the lid is laid over the
dead man, that his head may rest upon the dumb book--vanished and
scattered!
THE JEWISH GIRL.
Among the children in a charity school sat a little Jewish girl. She
was a good, intelligent child, the quickest in all the school; but she
had to be excluded from one lesson, for she was not allowed to take
part in the scripture-lesson, for it was a Christian school.
In that hour the girl was allowed to open the geography book, or to do
her sum for the next day; but that was soon done; and when she had
mastered her lesson in geography, the book indeed remained open before
her, but the little one read no more in it; she listened silently to
the words of the Christian teacher, who soon became aware that she was
listening more intently than almost any of the other children.
"Read your book, Sara," the teacher said, in mild reproof; but her
dark beaming eye remained fixed upon him; and once when he addressed a
question to her, she knew how to answer better than any of the others
could have done. She had heard and understood, and had kept his words
in her heart.
When her father, a poor honest man, first brought the girl to the
school, he had stipulated that she should be excluded from the lessons
on the Christian faith. But it would have caused disturbance, and
perhaps might have awakened discontent in the minds of the others, if
she had been sent from the room during the hours in question, and
consequently she stayed; but this could not go on any longer.
The teacher betook himself to the father, and exhorted him either to
remove his daughter from the school, or to consent that Sara should
become a Christian.
"I can no longer be a silent spectator of the gleaming eyes of the
child, and of her deep and earnest longing for the words of the
Gospel," said the teacher.
Then the father burst into tears.
"I know but little of the commandment given to my fathers," he said;
"but Sara's mother was steadfast in the faith, a true daughter of
Israel, and I vowed to her as she lay dying that our child should
never be baptized. I must keep my vow, for it is even as a covenant
with God Himself."
And accordingly the little Jewish maiden quitted the Christian
school.
Years have rolled on.
In one of the smallest provincial towns there dwelt, as a servant in a
humble household, a maiden who held the Mosaic faith. Her hair was
black as ebony, her eye dark as night, and yet full of splendour and
light, as is usual with the daughters of Israel. It was Sara. The
expression in the countenance of the now grown-up maiden was still
that of the child sitting upon the school-room bench and listening
with thoughtful eyes to the words of the Christian teacher.
Every Sunday there pealed from the church the sounds of the organ and
the song of the congregation. The strains penetrated into the house
where the Jewish girl, industrious and faithful in all things, stood
at her work.
"Thou shalt keep holy the Sabbath-day," said a voice within her, the
voice of the Law; but her Sabbath-day was a working day among the
Christians, and that seemed unfortunate to her. But then the thought
arose in her soul: "Doth God reckon by days and hours?" And when this
thought grew strong within her, it seemed a comfort that on the Sunday
of the Christians the hour of prayer remained undisturbed; and when
the sound of the organ and the songs of the congregation sounded
across to her as she stood in the kitchen at her work, then even that
place seemed to become a sacred one to her. Then she would read in the
Old Testament, the treasure and comfort of her people, and it was only
in this one she could read; for she kept faithfully in the depths of
her heart the words the teacher had spoken when she left the school,
and the promise her father had given to her dying mother, that she
should never receive Christian baptism, or deny the faith of her
ancestors. The New Testament was to be a sealed book to her; and yet
she knew much of it, and the Gospel echoed faintly among the
recollections of her youth.
[Illustration: SARA LISTENING TO THE SINGING IN THE CHURCH.]
One evening she was sitting in a corner of the living-room. Her master
was reading aloud; and she might listen to him, for it was not the
Gospel that he read, but an old story-book, therefore she might stay.
The book told of a Hungarian knight who was taken prisoner by a
Turkish pasha, who caused him to be yoked with his oxen to the plough,
and driven with blows of the whip till the blood came, and he almost
sank under the pain and ignominy he endured. The faithful wife of the
knight at home parted with all her jewels, and pledged castle and
land. The knight's friends amassed large sums, for the ransom demanded
was almost unattainably high: but it was collected at last, and the
knight was freed from servitude and misery. Sick and exhausted, he
reached his home. But soon another summons came to war against the
foes of Christianity: the knight heard the cry, and he could stay no
longer, for he had neither peace nor rest. He caused himself to be
lifted on his war-horse; and the blood came back to his cheek, his
strength appeared to return, and he went forth to battle and to
victory. The very same pasha who had yoked him to the plough became
his prisoner, and was dragged to his castle. But not an hour had
passed when the knight stood before the captive pasha, and said to
him:
"What dost thou suppose awaiteth thee?"
"I know it," replied the Turk. "Retribution."
"Yes, the retribution of the Christian!" resumed the knight. "The
doctrine of Christ commands us to forgive our enemies, and to love our
fellow-man, for it teaches us that God is love. Depart in peace,
depart to thy home: I will restore thee to thy dear ones; but in
future be mild and merciful to all who are unfortunate."
Then the prisoner broke out into tears, and exclaimed:
"How could I believe in the possibility of such mercy! Misery and
torment seemed to await me, they seemed inevitable; therefore I took
poison, which I secretly carried about me, and in a few hours its
effects will slay me. I must die--there is no remedy! But before I
die, do thou expound to me the teaching which includes so great a
measure of love and mercy, for it is great and godlike! Grant me to
hear this teaching, and to die a Christian!" And his prayer was
fulfilled.
That was the legend which the master read out of the old story-book.
All the audience listened with sympathy and pleasure; but Sara, the
Jewish girl, sitting alone in her corner, listened with a burning
heart; great tears came into her gleaming black eyes, and she sat
there with a gentle and lowly spirit as she had once sat on the school
bench, and felt the grandeur of the Gospel; and the tears rolled down
over her cheeks.
But again the dying words of her mother rose up within her:
"Let not my daughter become a Christian," the voice cried; and
together with it arose the word of the Law: "Thou shalt honour thy
father and thy mother."
"I am not admitted into the community of the Christians," she said;
"they abuse me for being a Jew girl--our neighbour's boys hooted me
last Sunday, when I stood at the open church-door, and looked in at
the flaming candles on the altar, and listened to the song of the
congregation. Ever since I sat upon the school bench I have felt the
force of Christianity, a force like that of a sunbeam, which streams
into my soul, however firmly I may shut my eyes against it. But I will
not pain thee in thy grave, O my mother, I will not be unfaithful to
the oath of my father, I will not read the Bible of the Christians. I
have the religion of my people, and to that will I hold!"
And years rolled on again.