rest," said the fourth brother. He had just as good a wit as the
third, but he was no poet, though he could be witty. Those two had
filled the castle with cheerfulness, and now the last cheerfulness
was going away. Sight and hearing has always been looked upon as the
two chief senses of men, and as the two that it is most desirable to
sharpen; the other senses are looked upon as of less consequence. But
that was not the opinion of this son, as he had especially cultivated
his _taste_ in every respect, and taste is very powerful. It holds
sway over what goes into the mouth, and also over what penetrates into
the mind; and consequently this brother tasted everything that was
stored up in bottles and pots, saying that this was the rough work of
his office. Every man was to him a vessel in which something was
seething, every country an enormous kitchen, a kitchen of the mind.
"That was no delicacy," he said, and he wanted to go out and try what
was delicate. "Perhaps fortune may be more favourable to me than it
was to my brothers," he said. "I shall start on my travels. But what
conveyance shall I choose? Are air balloons invented yet?" he asked
his father, who knew of all inventions that had been made, or that
were to be made. But air balloons had not yet been invented, nor steam
ships, nor railways. "Good: then I shall choose an air balloon," he
said; "my father knows how they are made and guided. Nobody has
invented them yet, and consequently the people will believe that it is
an aerial phantom. When I have used the balloon I will burn it, and
for this purpose you must give me a few pieces of the invention that
will be made next--I mean chemical matches."
And he obtained what he wanted, and flew away. The birds accompanied
him farther than they had flown with the other brothers. They were
curious to know what would be the result of the flight, and more of
them came sweeping up: they thought he was some new bird; and he soon
had a goodly following. The air became black with birds, they came on
like a cloud--like the cloud of locusts over the land of Egypt.
Now he was out in the wide world.
The balloon descended over one of the greatest cities, and the
aeronaut took up his station on the highest point, on the church
steeple. The balloon rose again, which it ought not to have done:
where it went to is not known, but that was not a matter of
consequence, for it was not yet invented. Then he sat on the church
steeple. The birds no longer hovered around him, they had got tired of
him, and he was tired of them.
All the chimneys in the town were smoking merrily. "Those are altars
erected to thy honour!" said the Wind, who wished to say something
agreeable to him. He sat boldly up there, and looked down upon the
people in the street. There was one stepping along, proud of his
purse, another of the key he carried at his girdle, though he had
nothing to unlock; one proud of his moth-eaten coat, another of his
wasted body. "Vanity! I must hasten downward, dip my finger in the
pot, and taste!" he said. "But for awhile I will still sit here, for
the wind blows so pleasantly against my back. I'll sit here so long as
the wind blows. I'll enjoy a slight rest. 'It is good to sleep long in
the morning, when one has much to do,' says the lazy man. I'll stop
here so long as this wind blows, for it pleases me."
And there he sat, but he was sitting upon the weathercock of the
steeple, which kept turning round and round with him, so that he was
under the false impression that the same wind still blew; so he might
stay up there a goodly while.
But in India, in the castle in the Tree of the Sun, it was solitary
and still, since the brothers had gone away one after the other.
"It goes not well with them," said the father; "they will never bring
the gleaming jewel home; it is not made for me; they are gone, they
are dead!" And he bent down over the Book of Truth, and gazed at the
page on which he should read of life after death; but for him nothing
was to be seen or learned upon it.
The blind daughter was his consolation and joy: she attached herself
with sincere affection to him; for the sake of his peace and joy she
wished the costly jewel might be found and brought home. With kindly
longing she thought of her brothers. Where were they? Where did they
live? She wished sincerely that she might dream of them, but it was
strange, not even in dreams could she approach them. But at length,
one night, she dreamt that the voices of her brothers sounded across
to her, calling to her from the wide world, and she could not refrain,
but went far far out, and yet it seemed in her dream that she was
still in her father's house. She did not meet her brothers, but she
felt, as it were, a fire burning in her hand, but it did not hurt her,
for it was the jewel she was bringing to her father. When she awoke,
she thought for a moment that she still held the stone, but it was the
knob of her distaff that she was grasping. During the long nights she
had spun incessantly, and round the distaff was turned a thread, finer
than the finest web of the spider; human eyes were unable to
distinguish the separate threads. She had wetted them with her tears,
and the twist was strong as a cable. She rose, and her resolution was
taken: the dream must be made a reality. It was night, and her father
slept. She pressed a kiss on his hand, and then took her distaff, and
fastened the end of the thread to her father's house. But for this,
blind as she was, she would never have found her way home; to the
thread she must hold fast, and trust not to herself or to others. From
the Tree of the Sun she broke four leaves; these she would confide to
wind and weather, that they might fly to her brothers as a letter and
a greeting, in case she did not meet them in the wide world. How would
she fare out yonder, she, the poor blind child? But she had the
invisible thread to which she could hold fast. She possessed a gift
which all the others lacked. This was _thoroughness_; and in virtue of
this it seemed as if she could see to the tips of her fingers, and
hear down into her very heart.
And quietly she went forth into the noisy, whirling, wonderful world,
and wherever she went the sky grew bright--she felt the warm ray--the
rainbow spread itself out from the dark world through the blue air.
She heard the song of the birds, and smelt the scent of orange groves
and apple orchards so strongly that she seemed to taste it. Soft tones
and charming songs reached her ear, but also howling and roaring, and
thoughts and opinions, sounded in strange contradiction to each other.
Into the innermost depths of her heart penetrated the echoes of human
thoughts and feelings. One chorus sounded darkly--
"The life of earth is a shadow vain
A night created for sorrow!"
but then came another strain--
"The life of earth is the scent of the rose,
With its sunshine and its pleasure."
And if one strophe sounded painfully--
"Each mortal thinks of himself alone,
This truth has been manifested"--
on the other side the answer pealed forth--
"A mighty stream of warmest love,
All through the world shall guide us."
She heard, indeed, the words--
"In the little petty whirl here below,
Each thing shows mean and paltry;"
but then came also the comfort--
"Many things great and good are achieved,
That the ear of man heareth never."
and if sometimes the mocking strain sounded around her--
"Join in the common cry: with a jest
Destroy the good gifts of the Giver."
in the blind girl's heart a stronger voice repeated--
"To trust in thyself and in God is best;
His good will be done for ever."
And whenever she entered the circle of human kind, and appeared among
young or old, the knowledge of the true, the good, and the beautiful
beamed into their hearts. Whether she entered the study of the artist,
or the festive, decorated hall, or the crowded factory, with its
whirring wheels, it seemed as though a sunbeam were stealing in--as if
the sweet string sounded, the flower exhaled its perfume, and a living
dew-drop fell upon the exhausted blood.
[Illustration: THE BLIND GIRL'S MESSENGERS.]
But the evil spirit could not see this and be content. He has more
cunning than ten thousand men, and he found out a way to compass his
end. He betook himself to the marsh, collected little bubbles of the
stagnant water, and passed over them a sevenfold echo of lying words
to give them strength. Then he pounded up paid-for heroic poems and
lying epitaphs, as many as he could get, boiled them in tears that
envy had shed, put upon them rouge he had scraped from faded cheeks,
and of these he composed a maiden, with the aspect and gait of the
blessed blind girl, the angel of thoroughness; and then the Evil One's
plot was in full progress. The world knew not which of the two was the
true one; and, indeed, how should the world know?
"To trust in thyself and in God is best;
His good will be done for ever,"
sung the blind girl, in full faith. She intrusted the four green
leaves from the Tree of the Sun to the winds, as a letter and a
greeting to her brothers, and had full confidence that they would
reach their destination, and that the jewel would be found which
outshines all the glories of the world. From the forehead of humanity
it would gleam even to the castle of her father.
"Even to my father's house," she repeated. "Yes, the place of the
jewel is on earth, and I shall bring more than the promise of it with
me. I feel its glow, it swells more and more in my closed hand. Every
grain of truth, were it ever so fine, which the sharp wind carried up
and whirled towards me, I took up and treasured; I let it be
penetrated by the fragrance of the beautiful, of which there is so
much in the world, even for the blind. I took the sound of the beating
heart engaged in what is good, and added it to the first. All that I
bring is but dust, but still it is the dust of the jewel we seek, and
in plenty. I have my whole hand full of it." And she stretched forth
her hand towards her father. She was soon at home--she had travelled
thither in the flight of thoughts, never having quitted her hold of
the invisible thread from the paternal home.
The evil powers rushed with hurricane fury over the Tree of the Sun,
pressed with a wind-blast against the open doors, and into the
sanctuary where lay the Book of Truth.
"It will be blown away by the wind!" said the father, and he seized
the hand she had opened.
"No," she replied, with quiet confidence, "it cannot be blown away; I
feel the beam warming my very soul."
And the father became aware of a glancing flame, there where the
shining dust poured out of her hand over the Book of Truth, that was
to tell of the certainty of an everlasting life, and on it stood one
shining word--one only word--"BELIEVE."
And with the father and daughter were again the four brothers. When
the green leaf fell upon the bosom of each, a longing for home had
seized them, and led them back. They had arrived. The birds of
passage, and the stag, the antelope, and all the creatures of the
forest followed them, for all wished to have a part in their joy.
We have often seen, where a sunbeam bursts through a crack in the door
into the dusty room, how a whirling column of dust seems circling
round; but this was not poor and insignificant like common dust, for
even the rainbow is dead in colour compared with the beauty which
showed itself. Thus, from the leaf of the book with the beaming word
"_Believe_," arose every grain of truth, decked with the charms of
_the beautiful_ and _the good_, burning brighter than the mighty
pillar of flame that led Moses and the children of Israel through the
desert; and from the word "_Believe_" the bridge of _Hope_ arose,
spanning the distance, even to the immeasurable love in the realms of
the Infinite.
THE BUTTERFLY.
The Butterfly wished for a bride; and, as may be imagined, he wanted
to select a very pretty one from among the flowers; therefore he threw
a critical glance at all the flower-beds, and found that every flower
sat quietly and demurely on her stalk, just as a maiden ought to sit,
before she is engaged; but there were a great many of them, and the
choice threatened to become wearisome. The Butterfly did not care to
take much trouble, and consequently he flew off on a visit to the
daisies. The French call this floweret "Marguerite," and they know
that Marguerite can prophecy, when lovers pluck off its leaves, and
ask of every leaf they pluck some question concerning their lovers.
"Heartily? Painfully? Loves me much? A little? Not at all?" and so on.
Every one asks in his own language. The Butterfly came to Marguerite
too, to inquire; but he did not pluck off her leaves: he kissed each
of them, for he considered that most is to be done with kindness.
"Darling Marguerite daisy!" he said to her, "you are the wisest woman
among the flowers. Pray, pray tell me, shall I get this one or that?
Which will be my bride? When I know that, I will directly fly to her,
and propose for her."
But Marguerite did not answer him. She was angry that he had called
her a "woman," when she was yet a girl; and there is a great
difference. He asked for the second and for the third time, and when
she remained dumb, and answered him not a word, he would wait no
longer, but flew away to begin his wooing at once.
It was in the beginning of spring; the crocus and the snowdrop were
blooming around.
"They are very pretty," thought the Butterfly. "Charming little
lasses, but a little too much of the schoolgirl about them." Like all
young lads, he looked out for the elder girls.
Then he flew of to the anemones. These were a little too bitter for
his taste; the violet somewhat too sentimental; the lime blossoms were
too small, and, moreover, they had too many relations; the apple
blossoms--they looked like roses, but they bloomed to-day, to fall off
to-morrow, to fall beneath the first wind that blew; and he thought
that a marriage with them would last too short a time. The pease
blossom pleased him best of all: she was white and red, and graceful
and delicate, and belonged to the domestic maidens who look well, and
at the same time are useful in the kitchen. He was just about to make
his offer, when close by the maiden he saw a pod at whose end hung a
withered flower.
"Who is that?" he asked.
"That is my sister," replied the Pease Blossom.
"Oh, indeed; and you will get to look like her!" he said. And away he
flew, for he felt quite shocked.
The honeysuckle hung forth blooming from the hedge, but there was a
number of girls like that, with long faces and sallow complexions. No,
he did not like her.
But which one did he like?
The spring went by, and the summer drew towards its close; it was
autumn, but he was still undecided.
And now the flowers appeared in their most gorgeous robes, but in
vain; they had not the fresh fragrant air of youth. But the heart
demands fragrance, even when it is no longer young, and there is very
little of that to be found among the dahlias and dry chrysanthemums,
therefore the Butterfly turned to the mint on the ground.
You see this plant has no blossom; but indeed it is blossom all over,
full of fragrance from head to foot, with flower scent in every leaf.
"I shall take her," said the Butterfly.
And he made an offer for her.
But the mint stood silent and stiff, listening to him. At last she
said,
"Friendship, if you please; but nothing more. I am old, and you are
old, but we may very well live for one another; but as to
marrying--no--don't let us appear ridiculous at our age."
And thus it happened that the Butterfly had no wife at all. He had
been too long choosing, and that is a bad plan. So the Butterfly
became what we call an old bachelor.
It was late in autumn, with rain and cloudy weather. The wind blew
cold over the backs of the old willow trees, so that they creaked
again. It was no weather to be flying about in summer clothes, nor,
indeed, was the Butterfly in the open air. He had got under shelter by
chance, where there was fire in the stove and the heat of summer. He
could live well enough, but he said,
"It's not enough merely to live. One must have freedom, sunshine, and
a little flower."
And he flew against the window-frame, and was seen and admired, and
then stuck upon a pin and placed in the box of curiosities; they could
not do more for him.
"Now I am perched on a stalk, like the flowers," said the Butterfly.
"It certainly is not very pleasant. It must be something like being
married, for one is stuck fast."
And he consoled himself in some measure with the thought.
"That's very poor comfort," said the potted Plants in the room.
"But," thought the Butterfly, "one cannot well trust these potted
Plants. They've had too much to do with mankind."
IN THE UTTERMOST PARTS OF THE SEA.
Great ships had been sent up towards the North Pole, to explore the
most distant coasts, and to try how far men might penetrate up yonder.
For more than a year they had already been pushing their way among
ice, and snow, and mist, and their crews had endured many hardships;
and now the winter was come, and the sun had entirely disappeared from
those regions. For many many weeks there would now be a long night.
All around, as far as the eye could reach, was a single field of ice;
the ships had been made fast to it, and the snow had piled itself up
in great masses, and of these huts had been built in the form of
beehives, some of them spacious as the old "Hun's Graves"--others only
containing room enough to hold two or four men. But it was not dark,
for the northern lights flamed red and blue, like a great continual
firework; and the snow glistened and gleamed, so that the night here
was one long, flaming, twilight hour. When the gleam was brightest,
the natives came in crowds, wonderful to behold in their rough, hairy,
fur dresses; and they rode in sledges formed of blocks of ice, and
brought with them furs and peltry in great bundles, so that the snow
houses were furnished with warm carpets; and, in turn, the furs also
served for coverlets when the sailors went to bed under their roofs of
snow, while outside it froze in far different fashion than here with
us in the winter. In our regions it was still the late autumn-time;
and they thought of that up yonder, and often pictured to themselves
the yellow leaves on the trees of home. The clock showed that it was
evening, and time to go to sleep; and in the huts two men already had
stretched themselves out, seeking rest. The younger of these had his
best, dearest treasure, that he had brought from home--the Bible,
which his grandmother had given him on his departure. Every night the
sacred volume rested beneath his head, and he knew from his childish
years what was written in it. Every day he read in the book, and often
the holy words came into his mind where it is written, "If I take the
wings of the morning, and flee into the uttermost parts of the sea,
even there Thou art with me, and Thy right hand shall uphold me;" and,
under the influence of the eternal word and of the true faith, he
closed his eyes, and sleep came upon him, and dreams--the
manifestation of Providence to the spirit. The soul lived and was
working while the body was enjoying its rest: he felt this life, and
it seemed to him as if dear old well-known melodies were sounding; as
if the mild breezes of summer were playing around him; and over his
bed he beheld a brightness, as if something were shining in through
the crust of snow. He lifted up his head, and behold, the bright gleam
was no ripple down from the snowy roof, but came from the mighty
pinions of an angel, into whose beaming face he was gazing. As if from
the cup of a lily the angel arose from among the leaves of the Bible,
and stretching out his arm, the walls of the snow hut sunk down
around, as though they had been a light airy veil of mist; the green
meadows and hills of home, and its ruddy woods, lay spread around him
in the quiet sunshine of a beauteous autumn day; the nest of the stork
was empty, but ripe fruit still clung to the wild apple tree, although
the leaves, had fallen; the red hips gleamed, and the magpie whistled
in the green cage over the window of the peasant's cottage that was
his home; the magpie whistled the tune that had been taught him, and
the grandmother hung green food around the cage, as he, the grandson,
had been accustomed to do; and the daughter of the blacksmith, very
young and fair, stood by the well drawing water, and nodded to the
granddame, and the old woman nodded to her, and showed her a letter
that had come from a long way off. That very morning the letter had
arrived from the cold regions of the North--there where the grandson
was resting in the hand of God. And they smiled and they wept; and he,
far away among the ice and snow, under the pinions of the angel, he,
too, smiled and wept with them in spirit, for he saw them and heard
them. And from the letter they read aloud the words of Holy Writ, that
in the uttermost parts of the sea HIS right hand would be a stay and a
safety. And the sound of a beauteous hymn welled up all around; and
the angel spread his wings like a veil over the sleeping youth. The
vision had fled, and it grew dark in the snow hut; but the Bible
rested beneath his head, and faith and hope dwelt in his soul. God was
with him; and he carried home about with him in his heart, even in the
uttermost parts of the sea.
THE PHOENIX BIRD.
In the Garden of Paradise, beneath the Tree of Knowledge, bloomed a
rose bush. Here, in the first rose, a bird was born: his flight was
like the flashing of light, his plumage was beauteous, and his song
ravishing.
But when Eve plucked the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil, when
she and Adam were driven from Paradise, there fell from the flaming
sword of the cherub a spark into the nest of the bird, which blazed up
forthwith. The bird perished in the flames; but from the red egg in
the nest there fluttered aloft a new one--the one solitary Phoenix
bird. The fable tells us that he dwells in Arabia, and that every year
he burns himself to death in his nest; but each time a new Phoenix,
the only one in the world, rises up from the red egg.
The bird flutters round us, swift as light, beauteous in colour,
charming in song. When a mother sits by her infant's cradle, he stands
on the pillow, and, with his wings, forms a glory around the infant's
head. He flies through the chamber of content, and brings sunshine
into it, and the violets on the humble table smell doubly sweet.
But the Phoenix is not the bird of Arabia alone. He wings his way
in the glimmer of the northern lights over the plains of Lapland, and
hops among the yellow flowers in the short Greenland summer. Beneath
the copper mountains of Fablun, and England's coal mines, he flies, in
the shape of a dusty moth, over the hymn-book that rests on the knees
of the pious miner. On a lotus leaf he floats down the sacred waters
of the Ganges, and the eye of the Hindoo maid gleams bright when she
beholds him.
The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? The Bird of Paradise, the
holy swan of song! On the car of Thespis he sat in the guise of a
chattering raven, and flapped his black wings, smeared with the lees
of wine; over the sounding harp of Iceland swept the swan's red beak;
on Shakespeare's shoulder he sat in the guise of Odin's raven, and
whispered in the poet's ear "Immortality!" and at the minstrels' feast
he fluttered through the halls of the Wartburg.
The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? He sang to thee the
_Marseillaise_, and thou kissedst the pen that fell from his wing; he
came in the radiance of Paradise, and perchance thou didst turn away
from him towards the sparrow who sat with tinsel on his wings.
The Bird of Paradise--renewed each century--born in flame, ending in
flame! Thy picture, in a golden frame, hangs in the halls of the rich;
and thou thyself often fliest around, lonely and disregarded, a
myth--"The Phoenix of Arabia."
In Paradise, when thou wert born in the first rose, beneath the Tree
of Knowledge, thou receivedst a kiss, and thy right name was given
thee--thy name, POETRY.
[Illustration]
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