CHAPTER XIV.

CONCLUSION.

Some days after this, as Madame Tube and her children were walking in

the gardens of the palace, they met the Prince Royal, accompanied by the

good physician, whose name was Wundel. Raphael ran joyously up to them,

and kissing Dr. Wundel's hand, said, "How happy you have made me."

The Prince answered Raphael, "You are happy, indeed, to have recovered

your sight; but have you nothing more to desire?"

"Nothing," replied Raphael, "unless I could show my gratitude to the

good doctor."

"Good boy," said the Prince, "let me do it in your place." He drew from

his finger a brilliant ring, which he presented to Dr. Wundel "I thank

you in the name of this child," he added, "and beg of you to wear this

ring in remembrance of him." Then giving ten guineas to Madame Tube, he

turned again to Dr. Wundel, observing, "I can give them but a few pieces

of gold, but you have been the means of restoring sight."

After the Prince and Dr. Wundel had left them, Madame Tube said to her

children, "How many benevolent men we have met with! Master Teuzer; the

king's minister; Dr. Wundel, and the Prince Royal--and only two who

sought to injure us--our landlord, and Teuzer's apprentice."

"Mother, mother," cried Madelaine, much excited, and pointing to the

road; "there he is, there he is."

"Who, where?" asked her mother.

"Teuzer's apprentice; that wicked Robert."

It was he indeed, handcuffed, and accompanied by several

repulsive-looking men, also handcuffed, and guarded by armed police.

"What have these men done?" asked Madame Tube, of a spectator.

"They are smugglers," he replied, "and when taken, they fought

desperately, and have wounded several of the police. They are now going

to prison."

"Remark," said Madame Tube to her children, "how true it is, that sooner

or later, all evil is punished. But how did Robert happen to join the

smugglers?"

"Master Teuzer sent him away at Christmas," replied Madelaine, "in

consequence of the shameful falsehoods he spread--his next master

discovered that he sold his goods and retained the money--after leaving

him, I suppose, he joined the smugglers."

Madame Tube was now so much recovered, that she wished to return to

Dresden. Raphael longed to see his Jacot, which had been left in Master

Teuzer's charge; and Madelaine felt anxious to return to school, and to

her occupation of painting. Consequently, early in the following week

was fixed for their departure. On the appointed day the

_char-à-banc_ came to convey Madame Tube and her children back to

Dresden; how greatly her enjoyment was enhanced by Raphael's delight at

all he saw during the journey. They were warmly welcomed by their kind

friends at Dresden, who had, during their absence, fitted up their

little apartments comfortably.

Madelaine returned to school, and had the happiness of taking her

brother with her there. Some years after, Raphael devoted his recovered

sight to painting, for which he showed great talent. When he had arrived

at a great degree of perfection in this beautiful art, he painted a

picture of _Christ Restoring the Blind to Sight_. Large sums were

offered him for this _chef-d'oeuvre_, but he rejected them all, and

sent the picture to Dr. Wundel, who showed his beautiful present to the

Prince Royal. Raphael's gratitude pleased the Prince even more than the

picture; he immediately named him his painter, and allowed him a

considerable salary, which Raphael had the inexpressible happiness of

sharing with his beloved mothers and no less beloved and fondly

cherished Madelaine.

THE

BOY AND THE BOOK

or

HANS GENSFLEISCH,

The Little Printer

[Illustration: frontispiece]

PART I.

THE BOY.

Can English boys and girls living now in the nineteenth century, carry

their minds back so far in time as to the period when our Henry the

Fourth was reigning in England, and can they travel in thought so far

distant as to the country called Germany, and picture to themselves the

life of a little boy at that time and in that country? If so, we will

tell them something of the life of Hans Gensfleisch, the only son of a

poor widow, who lived about the beginning of the fifteenth century, not

far from Mainz, or Mayence, a city built on the banks of the river

Rhine, about half-way between its source and the sea. The father of Hans

had been a dyer, and had at one time carried on rather a thriving

business in Mainz; but after his death Frau[1] Gensfleisch had gone with

her son to live at a little village called Steinheim, about three miles

from the city walls, where, on a few acres of land, bought with her

husband's savings, and laid out partly as garden, and partly as field

and vineyard, she contrived to live with this, her only child. Hans and

his mother cultivated the little garden, sowed their own crops of barley

and flax in their little fields, and tended and trained the vines in

their small vineyard. Strong and active, and fond of employment, the

life of the little Hans was one long course of busy industry, from the

sowing of seeds in Spring to the gathering in of their small vintage

late in the Autumn. And in the long winter nights, there was always too

much to do within the cottage walls, by the light of their pine wood

fire, for him ever to find the time hang heavy on his hands. One night

he would be busy helping his mother to comb and hackle her little store

of flax; on another he would mend the net, with which he at times

contrived to catch his mother a river fish or two for supper; and it

would be _play_ to him when nothing else was wanting his help, to

go on with the making of a cross-bow and arrows with which he intended

some day to bring down many a wild duck or wood-pigeon.

The principal occupation of Hans was, however, to assist his mother in

carrying on some part of her husband's former trade; she having become

acquainted with many of the secrets of the art by which colors could be

extracted from plants and mineral substances, so as to give to wool,

flax, and silk, bright and unchanging colors. In those days such

operations, instead of being carried on in large factories and

workshops, and by wholesale as it were for the manufacturer of the

material, were often done just as people wanted any one particular

article of dress to be of a particular color. For instance, a woman who

had fashioned for her husband a rudely knitted vest of wool of her own

spinning; would bring the rather dingy garment to Frau Gensfleisch to

have it made red or blue, so that, worn under his brown leather jerkin,

it might look smart and gay;--or the young hunter, on going to the

chase, would come to her to have the tassels of his bow or horn made

scarlet or yellow;--or the knight equipping himself for war would send

to her the soiled plume of his helmet, to be made of a brilliant

crimson--to say nothing of the knight's lady, who, as she sat at home in

her dismal castle, with little else to amuse her but the embroidery

frame, would be forever sending down her maidens and serving-men into

the valley with skeins of wool and silk, to be dipped into Frau

Gensfleisch's dye-pots, and brought back to her of every color of the

rainbow. In this way Hans' mother continued to make a comfortable

living, and Hans himself was a very important help to her, in the

carrying on of her little art.

It was Hans' business to collect the numerous herbs and plants that his

mother required for the different colors. He not only knew well which

plants would produce certain colors, but knew where they could be found,

and at what seasons they were fit for use. Of some he carefully

collected the blossoms when fully expanded in the mid-day sun--of others

the leaves and stalks--while in many the coloring matter was to be

extracted from the roots, which Hans would carefully dig up, knowing

well by the forms of the leaves above ground, the kind of root that grew

beneath the soil.

This kind of knowledge which Hans had been picking up ever since he was

a very young child, made him at twelve years old a most useful little

personage, and although he had never learned to read or write, or even

been in a school, yet he could not by any means, be called ignorant, for

he not only observed and remembered all that came in his way, but he

turned his knowledge to the best account, by making it of use to himself

and others.

We say that Hans could neither read nor write, but it must not therefore

be thought that such acquirements were not valued in those days; on the

contrary, it was considered at that time one of the very best and most

desirable things in the whole world to be able to read, and one of the

cleverest things in the world to be able to write; while he who was so

happy as to be the possessor of a book, was esteemed one of the most

fortunate of human beings.

This may seem strange to you little girls and boys, my readers, who ever

since you were born have been surrounded with books of all sizes and

shapes, and on all sorts of subjects, from the books of grown-up people

that you could not understand, down to your most favorite story book

that you do understand and like so well as to read again and again.

We must, however, remind you, that books in those days were very

different things from what they are now, and their great value arose

from the fact that they were all written with pen and ink upon

parchment; for although a kind of paper had been made at that time, it

was not commonly used; and it was only after weeks and months of careful

labor, that one of these written books could be produced, so that it is

no wonder that a great value was set upon them. A book too was so

prized, that people liked to ornament it as much as possible, and many

of these written or manuscript books, which means _written by

hand_, had not only beautiful pictures in them, but were bound in

rich bindings, sometimes silk embroidered with gold and silver thread,

and sometimes even the backs were of beautifully carved ivory, or

adorned with filagree work, and pearls, and precious stones.

We value books in our time, but we do not ornament them so very much,

because we would rather have twenty interesting books on our shelves to

read by turns, than one precious volume locked up with clasps, and kept

in a box only to be taken out on particular occasions; and instead of a

man spending half his life over the writing of such a book, letter by

letter, word by word, and page by page, a man who in the course of a

little time has set the small metal letters together, which we call

printing types, so as to form a number of pages, can print those pages

if he likes on ten thousand sheets of paper, which will form a part of

ten thousand books of the same kind, and which when finished can be read

by _ten times ten thousand_ human beings!

But we will return to little Hans. We have said that he lived not far

from the town of Mainz, in Germany, and we must mention that one of the

most pleasant things he had to do in his little life was to pay a visit

occasionally to this great town and see all the busy and wonderful

things that were going on there. Mainz was a rich and important town at

that time, and was governed by an Archbishop, who was called an Elector,

because he was one of those who had the right of choosing an Emperor for

Germany, when one was wanted. Many Princes had also this right, but the

Archbishop of Mainz had the particular privilege of setting the crown on

the new Emperor's head, when he was crowned in the neighboring city of

Frankfort. Besides seeing all that was going on at Mainz, and purchasing

the different things that his mother wanted in the market, Hans' great

delight was to pay a visit to an uncle, who lived in the monastery of

St. Gothard, near the great cathedral.

This uncle was a monk, and called Father Gottlieb, and was considered at

that time a very learned man. He was good as well as learned, and full

of kindness to his little nephew Hans, who, from having so early lost

his own parent, looked up to Uncle Gottlieb as a real father, and loved

him as one.

[Illustration]

A monastery, I must tell you, was a place where a number of men lived

together away from the rest of the world, in order, as they thought, to

devote themselves more to the service of God, than if they were mixed up

with the business and pleasure of life. Whether they were right or wrong

in so doing, we will not now stop to inquire, but we must point out that

this custom had at that time a great many advantages, and certainly

enabled these monks to do a great deal of service to their

fellow-creatures. One of the most important of these services was with

regard to the making of books, such as we have before described. It was

in these monasteries, or houses of monks, that nearly all the books of

those times were written or transcribed, and a number of the monks were

always employed, if not in writing books, at all events in making copies

of those which had been written before. A room called the Scriptorium,

or writing-room, was to be found in every monastery, and most of the

monks could either write or read, and were looked upon in consequence as

very learned and wise. This made the visits of little Hans to his uncle

very pleasant. There was nothing he thought so great a treat as to have

something read to him out of one of Father Gottlieb's books, for he

possessed two of these precious volumes. One was a copy of the book of

Genesis, the first book in the Bible, you know, and the other was a

history of the lives of some of the holy men that have been called

saints by the Catholics. Seated on a low stool at his uncle's knee, Hans

could have listened for hours to stories of the patriarchs Abraham, and

Jacob, and Joseph, which Father Gottlieb slowly read from the pale

written volume; but the duties of the convent allowed him only short

portions of time, in which, shut up in his own little room or cell, he

could entertain his dearly loved nephew; and often when both were so

engaged he had to jump up at the sound of a bell calling him to prayers,

and then, hastily locking up the precious volume, he would kindly stroke

the boy's curly head, and with a message to his mother, bid him

farewell. At other times he would take Hans into the beautiful chapel

belonging to the monastery, and show him its gaily adorned altars, and

curious images; and once or twice Hans got a peep into the Scriptorium,

or writing-room, were the monks were at work over their sheets of

parchment, writing so carefully one after another the curiously formed

letters which were then in use, and which are still used in the printed

books of Germany. Being read to, and finding what pleasure arose from

being able to read, and seeing so much of book-making and writing, made

little Hans wish very much to be able to read and write. A few years

before, he had thought that nothing could be so grand or nice as to be a

knight and go to the wars, and he would make himself a helmet of rushes,

and with a long willow wand in his hand for a spear, and his cross-bow

slung at his back, he would try to fancy himself a warrior, and set off

in pretence to the Holy Land, to fight against the Turks; but latterly

he had begun to think that he should like nothing so well as to be able

to read and write like Father Gottlieb, and the rest of the monks, and

it was a great delight to him, when his uncle allowed him to take in his

own hands one of the precious volumes to pick out the different letters

and learn their names.

What brought Hans at this time very often to the monastery, was, that

his uncle, whose turn it was to be purveyor or provider for the convent,

had employed his mother to make what they called writing color or dye,

for the copyist. This was, of course, something the same as what we call

_ink_ and it so happened that Frau Gensfleisch was in possession of

a secret by which a black dye could be made, which would not turn brown

with time, as that of many of the manuscripts. Every ten days or

fortnight, therefore, it was Hans' business to take to the convent a

small flask of the valuable fluid, which his mother had carefully

prepared, from certain mineral and vegetable substances, and it was no

fault of his, if he did not on each occasion, somehow or other, add to

his own stock of knowledge; getting at one time perhaps a verse or two

read by his uncle, which finished the history of Joseph, or puzzling out

for himself the difference between the shape of a C and a G, till he

could quite distinguish them; or being told by his uncle some wonderful

legend or history connected with the paintings and carvings on the walls

of the convent; so that it may be said that the education of little Hans

was slowly proceeding in those matters, which at that time was

considered learning and science. In the midst of all his other

employments which did not require thought, Hans' mind would be occupied

with this new knowledge; and as he worked in the garden, or weeded and

dressed the vines in their little vineyard, the remembrance of the

stories Uncle Gottlieb had read to him or told him, would come into his

mind, and the pictures he had shown him appear as it were before his

eyes. At night too, as he sat by his mother's spinning-wheel, he would

try to trace on the sanded floor the letters he had learned from the

books, or begging a drop of black dye, he made attempts with a pointed

stick to mark them on the wooden table. Wherever he was, in fact, and

whatever he was about, letters would dance before his eyes, and his

former hopes of being a famous hunter or warrior when he grew up were

all lost in the one great hope, which now filled his mind, of one day

becoming a learned copyist or scribe. Such was the change that had taken

place in the mind of little Hans, when, on visiting the convent one day,

he found to his great dismay that his good uncle had gone on a journey

to the city of Frankfort, which lay some thirty or forty miles off, upon

the banks of the same river Maine, which just by Mainz empties its

waters into the Rhine. It was the time of the great Frankfort Market or

Fair, and Father Gottlieb had gone there to purchase for the convent all

that was wanted for the next year. He had gone up the river in a boat

with a party of monks and merchants, and was not expected to return

until the next week, as he would wait to bring with him all the

merchandise he purchased. It was a great trial to Hans to have another

whole week to wait before he saw his dear uncle again, but then what a

pleasure had he in his next visit to the convent; not only Uncle

Gottlieb to see, but all the beautiful and wonderful things which he had

brought back from the Frankfort Fair, and his own present to receive

too, which the kind uncle had not forgotten amid all his bustle and

business. This was no less than a knife--the first that Hans had ever

possessed of his own. It had a pretty stag's-horn handle and a green

leather sheath, so that, stuck in his girdle, it looked quite like that

of a real woodsman or hunter, and made Hans not a little proud.

Then what wonderful things had not his uncle to relate of the large and

rich city of Frankfort. Of all the beautiful works in gold and silver

with which the shops were filled; of the grand old hall where the

Emperors were elected and the chapel in which they were crowned; and

then of the curious people called Jews, who live in such numbers in one

part of the city, who did not worship Christ or the virgin, and were the

same people whom he had heard about in the stories of Jacob and Joseph.

Long after his usual time did Hans stay listening to all these matters,

and it was nightfall ere he got back again to his mother's cottage with

his present to her of a piece of fine cloth for a new head coif, which

Father Gottlieb sent her.

For many days Hans could think of nothing but his new knife, and well

pleased was he to show it to his young companions, many of whom had

never before seen so polished a piece of iron. In his herb-gatherings

for his mother, too, how useful it was to him in cutting through the

tough stalks of some of the plants and in digging up the roots; and what

fine things it enabled him to cut and carve for his mother,--new comb

for her flax amongst other things, and a spoon to stir her pots of dye.

He grew very expert in using his knife, and cutting and carving with it

almost put out of his head his dearly beloved letters that he had taken

such pains to learn.

It happened, however, one day, that after having been some hours out on

the hills, behind his mother's cottage, collecting a quantity of acorns

and oak-galls, which his mother required to make her black dye or ink, a

very violent storm came on, which obliged him to take shelter under a

large spreading beech tree, behind whose trunk he crept while the wind

and hail beat fiercely down. The storm lasted long, and to amuse himself

Hans began to exercise his carving powers upon the smooth bark of the

beech tree which sheltered him.

He carved some letters upon it; cutting away the bark of the beech and

leaving the letters white. Some he cut deep into the wood in sharp

furrows like the letters on a seal. Then he tried cutting away the bark

and leaving the letters stand out _in relief_ as it is called, from

the tree, like the letters on the impression of a seal. This was the

prettiest way of all, and he began to carve the letters of his own name.

The word _Hans_ he could manage very well, for he knew well the

letters which formed it, and he got on very well with the rest of his

other name as far as _Gens_,--but here, alas! he was stopped, for

he did not know how to make an F. He had learned how his name was spelt,

but it had never occurred to him before to write it; but it did not

matter--he was going the very next day to the convent, and he would

learn how an F was made, and then too he could also make himself sure of

the C, which he had always a difficulty in distinguishing from G, as he

had never learnt the alphabet in proper order. The next day accordingly,

on visiting the convent, after delivering his flask of ink, he asked his

uncle to show him once more the different letters which he did not yet

know perfectly; and his uncle not only did this, but on a strip of old

parchment he kindly wrote down all the letters from A to Z, so that at

any time Hans could use it as a copy when he wanted to put letters

together so as to make words.

Hans was greatly delighted. It seemed to him now as if he had got

possession of a key which locked up a great deal of valuable knowledge,

for his alphabet would not only help him to write but to read also. He

could not rest that evening, even before he had taken the bowl of milk

and piece of black bread that his mother had left for his supper, till

he had climbed the hill to the great beech tree, and carved upon it the

other letters of his name. When finished, his name reached half round

the tree, and each letter was nicely formed and neatly cut. All the

lines were straight, and the little points were all sharp and clear.

Written in those (to us) old-fashioned letters it looked perhaps

something like this:--

[Illustration: hans gensfleisch]

Hans wished his mother could but see it!

"Do mother, I pray thee, come up the hill as far as the great beech

tree," said he one evening as he thought of his nice piece of writing;

"I want to show thee how strangely the elves have marked the bark." This

he said in jest, hoping to entice his mother to see the wonder.

"Nay, child," said she, "my old bones are too stiff for climbing

now-a-days, and nought that the elves can do can make me wonder, seeing,

as I do, all the strange new things that are coming every day into the

world." And it was In vain that Hans tried to persuade her.

Some days after this, however, Hans on paying a visit to the tree and

finding that the white wood of the beech, from which he had peeled away

the bark, was becoming brown, so that the letters no longer looked out

plain and distinct, the thought came into his head of cutting each of

these raised letters away from the tree and taking them home. He did

so--slicing them carefully off, so that they were not split or broken,

and he was thus able to carry home to his mother, as she would not come

to see them, this first specimen of his own writing.

We shall see how the carrying home of those letters was afterwards to

influence the fate of Hans Gensfleisch--and of the whole world!

Proud was Hans that evening, when after his frugal supper was over, he

swept away the crumbs from off their little table, and arranged side by

side the letters of his name before his astonished mother--so that when

she compared them with his name upon the slip of parchment which was the

register of his birth, she could see that it was really and truly her

son's name that the curious signs signified. She thought her Hans very

clever, and she was pleased. We are not sure that Hans did not think

himself very clever too!

Hans put his letters carefully away in an old leather pouch which had

once belonged to his father, and often after his day's work was done

would he pull them out and arrange them on the table or on the hearth

before the fire. He soon found out that besides making his own name, he

could put together several other words which he had learned to spell.

Out of the letters which formed Hans Gensfleisch, for instance, he could

make the word _fisch_ which is the German for fish--_lang_,

long--_schein_, shine; and it was a great delight to his mother as

well as to himself, when he found too that he could put together the

letters of her name, _Lischen,_ just as they were also written on

the parchment register of his birth.

But he had other discoveries still to make with regard to his letters;

for one evening it so happened that as his mother was busy over a

boiling of ink that he was to take the next day to Mainz, and had put

some of it out in a sort of saucer or bowl upon the table to cool, Hans

in playing with his letters let one of them fall into the black color,

and pulling it hastily out again he popped it on to the first thing that

lay near, which happened to be a piece of chamois leather which was

stretched out after being cleaned ready for dyeing.

Scarcely had the letter laid an instant on the white leather than Frau

Gensfleisch, turning round, saw with dismay the mischief that was

done;--a large =h= was marked upon the chamois skin!

"Ah Hanschen! Hanschen!" cried she, "what art thou about--thou hast

ruined thy poor mother. See, lackaday! the lady of Dolberg's beautiful

chamois skin that was to be dyed of a delicate green for her ladyship's

slippers. See the ugly black marks that thou hast made upon it! This

comes of all thy letter making and spelling of words and names. Away

with the useless--things! Thou canst do better with thy knife and thy

time than to be bringing thy mother thus into trouble." And in her anger

the Frau Gensfleisch swept the precious letters off the table and threw

them into the fire.

Hans started forward in dismay to save them but it was too late. One

=g= alone remained of his treasured letters, but it was enough. He

had his knife and he could make others--and more than that, there was

left with him a valuable thought. The impression left on the white

chamois skin by the blackened letter had caused a new idea to flash into

his mind--the idea of Printing. On that evening, and in that little

cottage, in fact, the _invention of Printing_ took place.

It was something to have a lucky thought come into one's mind, but it is

quite another thing to have patience and industry and perseverance

enough to put that thought into action as it were, and make it turn to

profit and use. Luckily for Hans and for the world, he had these good

qualities even when thus a little boy, and from that time he made it the

business of his life to turn the thought to good account. We do not say

that the little boy Hans Gensfleisch could at that time foresee any but

a very small part of the good which might arise out of the invention of

printing. He could not possibly tell before-hand, how through its means,

knowledge would be spread all over the face of the earth, nor that that

book which was then only to be found in convents and monasteries--locked

up and rarely opened--read by a few learned monks, and seldom or ever

read to the people;--that this book, or the Bible, would through the

invention of Printing, be distributed all over the world, and that rich

and poor, wise and simple, young and old, would be able to possess it,

and read it, and learn from it the Word of God:--he did not foresee

this; but he saw that there might be an easier and a quicker way of

making books, and this he felt would be a good and useful thing to bring

about, and he resolved that he would do it. He saw that instead of

spending so much time in shaping over and over again the same letters,

that it would be a great saving of trouble, if letters were to be carved

out of wood or any other hard substance, and then blackened with ink and

pressed or _imprinted_ on the parchment, for then the same letters

could be used many times in making different words in different books.

Hans saw this plainly. He was sure of it, and he was almost sure that no

one had ever thought of it before. With a very natural feeling, and

certainly not a wrong one, he determined that it should be himself who

should bring about this new method of writing. He would keep it secret

from every one until he could _prove_ that it was a great and

useful discovery.

In the meantime, however, he had much to do. First, he must learn to

read and spell, and then he must also be able to write well, so as to

shape all the letters correctly when he carved them. From that time Hans

lost no more time in play. His cross-bow was laid aside, and he seldom

or never joined the other boys of the village in their games of running

and wrestling, nor did he follow the hunters to the chase on the hills

as he had been accustomed to do, or spend time in loitering with his net

along the river side. Instead of all this, he would go on every possible

pretext into the town and to the monastery to visit his uncle and get

all the knowledge he could. And after some time he told his uncle of his

great wish to learn to read and to become a scribe, and begged him to

persuade his mother to let him follow out his wish.

Father Gottlieb was pleased with the boy's earnest desire. He was good

and pious, and when he saw how full of this high hope was the mind of

the young boy, he said, "It is the will of God. He makes the humblest of

us tools for the furtherance of his wise designs. His will be done!" And

he talked to the Frau Gensfleisch upon the matter, and though he did not

think it right to tell her that her son might one day become a great and

learned man, yet he persuaded her that it would be wrong to oppose the

earnest wishes of Hans who had always been a good, and dutiful, and

loving son; and so it was settled between them that henceforth a part of

the widow's savings were to pay for the labor which was required for the

field and garden, and that Hans was to come to the convent every day to

be taught by the monks to read and write.

Henceforward Hans was to be a scholar, and his joy indeed was great.

PART II.

THE BOOK.

We must pass quickly over several years of the time during which Hans

Gensfleisch was going through the tedious operation of learning to read

and write. We can all of us remember it to be tedious, but in those days

it was so even more than now; since there were no such things as

spelling books, and children's story books to help on the young scholar,

and the letters were not as plainly written, nor of such a simple form

as our English letters. Hans' reading and spelling book was, perhaps,

some musty old parchment manuscript, discolored by age; and he had to

pore over it whole hours and days, before he could make out the meaning

of a simple page. The monks who had to teach him, too, were not all of

them so patient and kind as Father Gottlieb, his uncle, whose duties in

the convent did not often allow him to be his young nephew's instructor;

and there were hours and days when Hans grew sadly wearied of the task

he had undertaken, and his resolution would waver and falter. Instead of

being shut up in that close cell in the convent, where the small and

high window allowed only a tiny piece of sky to be seen, and where fresh

air scarcely ever entered; how much pleasanter would it be, he often

thought, to be out and away on the hills with his bow, or armed with his

knife herb-gathering for his mother. His bright vision of being the one

who should make books in a new and quick method grew dim in his mind,

and other ways of living seemed better and happier. But then again, at

such times it would perhaps happen that his uncle would send for him to

his own cell, and would make him read to him that he might see his

improvement, and would praise him for his progress, and encourage him to

go on; so that Hans' very heart would glow within him, and fresh zeal

and courage come to him again, and he would go back to his work

refreshed, and pleased, and hopeful as before.

At times, too, it would happen that he had something given him to read

to the monks, which interested him very much; some portion of the

history of a saint, perhaps, or a curious legend, so that no trouble was

too great in deciphering the crabbed writing, provided that he could

only get to the end of it, and make out all the sense; and he would

carry home the story in his head, and entertain his mother with it over

their evening meal. Then all this time, too, was he busy carving with

his knife, out of the hardest wood he could find, a stock of letters,

with which, when an occasion offered, he meant to make trial of

_imprinting_ whole sentences with ink. He did this secretly. He

feared to vex his mother, and run the risk of his letters being burned

as before, and he feared, too, that some one might find out his plan,

and make use of it before he was ready prepared to show it as his own.

All this kept him silent and reserved, and he nourished within his mind

many thoughts and hopes that no one knew of or suspected. To his mother

he was ever kind and good, and as of old, he would in all his leisure

hours gladly help her in her little household affairs, and in the

preparation of her dye, and while doing the latter, he would also make

trial of different kinds of ink that might be better for his letter

imprinting than the thin ink used by the copyist. He saw that a thicker

and more sticky kind of ink would be wanting for this purpose, and he

endeavored to find some substance that would produce this stickiness and

thickness. And thus was he ever preparing himself for the time when he

could bring everything to bear on the great plan which he cherished in

his mind; and in the meanwhile he grew up to be a man.

No longer a boy, at the age of eighteen Hans had not only learned to

read and write well his native language, but had also learned the Latin

tongue, which it was at that time quite necessary for him to know,

seeing that many of the books then written were in that language. He

came to be looked upon as a most learned youth, and the monks who had

taught him, thinking that he would be a credit to their convent, were

anxious that he should join them and become a monk like themselves,

devoting the rest of his life to copying manuscripts and writing books.

But this would not have suited at all with the purpose of Hans, and he

knew that he could be much more useful when out in the world than shut

up all his life writing in the convent. It grieved him to disappoint his

good uncle, who had always hoped that he would become a monk, but he

knew that he was right in refusing, and this made him strong and firm.

Hans was not always faithful, however, at this time to his good

purposes, and we must confess the acquaintanceship of some gay young

companions led him into some difficulties and dangers. He had one very

favorite friend, who, like himself, had been a scholar in the convent,

and this Conrad, for so he was called, being the son of a rich burgher

in the town, Hans was led into companionship with many gay and

thoughtless youths, who spent much of their time in feasting and

pleasure taking, and who were not like Hans accustomed to labor from

morning till night, and live on simple fare. And not only did Hans,

through the means of his friend Conrad, fall in the way of pleasure

taking, as we have said, but was also brought into a good many quarrels

and disputes, which otherwise he would not have been exposed to. At this

time it happened that there was in most towns two classes of people, who

were more distinct from each other than they are now-a-days. These were

the nobles or gentlemen, and the burghers or trades-people. Instead of

living peacefully together, and serving one another, these people were

continually quarrelling; the nobles trying to oppress the burghers, and

the burghers in their turn ever trying to resent the oppressions of the

nobles. With the youths, especially in the town of Mainz, a continual

warfare was always going on. The sons of the rich nobles being proud,

and not liking to hold companionship with the sons of the burghers; and

seeking on every occasion to vex and annoy them; and the latter, since

they were rich, thinking that they had a right to the same pleasures and

privileges as those of nobler birth, and being determined to stand up

for them; so that their disputes would not unfrequently end in fighting

and bloodshed.

It would have been easy for Hans, who was only the son of a poor and

humbler cottager, to have kept out of the way of these noble youths, and

he was far from being of a quarrelsome disposition; but it so happened

that he was often mixed up in the quarrels of his friend Conrad, who

being very generous and kind to him, Hans thought himself obliged to

take his part and defend him when any strife arose.

All this turned out very unfortunately for Hans Gensfleisch, as it was

the occasion at last of his being obliged to leave his native city, and

be absent for many years from his poor mother.

One evening, it happened that a party of youths were entertaining

themselves in a place called the Tennis-court, where a particular game

of ball was played, which was a favorite amusement among the youths of

that time. The greater number of the players on this occasion were

burghers' sons, and among them Hans and Conrad, who were very expert at

the game. Presently a party of nobles came up, who were vexed to find

the place so occupied. They accordingly placed themselves so as to

observe the game, and amused themselves with making rude remarks on the

burgher youths and with laughing at their gestures and dress.

"See the fine gentlemen," said they, "how daintily they handle the ball!

Better for them to keep to measuring silk or dealing out spices in their

fathers' shops, than try their skill here." "And the learned scholars,

too," said another, "they ought to stick to their musty parchments and

books, and not amuse themselves with such idle games as these."

Then one of them, on observing Hans, exclaimed, "See, too, the dyer's

son, with his rusty black jerkin. 'Tis a pity he does not dip it in one

of his old mother's dye-pots, if he would have himself pass for a

gentleman."

Conrad overheard this last remark and was very angry. A scornful

allusion to his friend was almost more than he could bear. It was his

turn to throw the ball, and scarce knowing what he did, he threw it with

force in the direction of the group of young nobles, and it struck one

of them on the temple. The youth drew his sword, (for at that time it

was common for the sons of nobles to wear them as ornaments), and ran

fiercely at him. Hans sprang forward to defend his friend and placed

himself before him. He had no weapon but his knife, and in defending his

friend with this, it so happened that he wounded the youth severely in

the side.

[Illustration]

A cry arose of "To prison with the assassin!" and it was with difficulty

that Hans could make his escape from out of the crowd which ran up from

all sides to see what was passing and take part in the affray. He

succeeded, however, in getting to the house of his friend, which was

near at hand, and here he was soon followed by Conrad, who was in great

distress. He said that the wound of the young man being found to be

dangerous, the officers of justice were already in search of Hans. He

advised him to leave the town immediately and to make the best of his

way to Worms, which is a town also on the banks of the Rhine, south of

Mainz. Here lived friends of his father, who would, he said, be ready to

receive him, and he furnished him with money for the journey. It was

nightfall, and wrapped in a cloak which was lent to him by Conrad, Hans

crept through the darkest and most retired streets until he reached the

convent, in order that he might relate his unfortunate adventure to his

uncle and take leave of him.

Not without much shame and sorrow had Hans to acknowledge to the good

father how he had neglected his oft-repeated cautions and advice, and it

was indeed a grief to his uncle to find into what dangers and

difficulties Hans had fallen, which would thus oblige him to leave his

friends and protectors and suddenly go forth alone into the world. He

reproached him severely for having gone into the company of riotous and

quarrelsome youths, and pointed out to him that as a monk he would have

been saved from all such dangers and temptations. He recommended him,

however, to repair immediately to a convent of monks in the town of

Worms, of which the superior, or chief monk, was known to him, and

giving him a letter of recommendation, he hoped that he might by this

means get employment as a scribe. With much good advice, and many

prayers for his safety, Father Gottlieb bade him farewell, laying his

hands on his head and bestowing on him his parting blessing. Hans had

now to take leave of his poor mother, and he turned his steps with a

heavy heart towards her cottage. Grieved was he indeed to tell her all

that had befallen;--how that he had shed the blood of a fellow creature,

and that he must leave her, when to return he knew not.

Frau Gensfleisch wept long and sore. She knew not what she should do

without her Hans. It was like tearing the life from out her body, she

said. Old as she was, who could tell that she should ever see him again.

Where would his wanderings end? What would become of him in the strange,

wide world into which he was thus thrown without guide or guard? While

she lamented, however, she hastily made a number of little preparations

with motherly care, to preserve him from want and to secure his comfort.

A bundle of clothes put together, a knapsack with bread and pieces of

dried meat and cheese, and a purse with all the money that she possessed

in the world, which she insisted on his taking.

"I will come back to thee, mother," said Hans, in a tone of more

cheerfulness than he really felt. "I will come back to thee again, and

see if I shall not one day become rich and great,--see if thou wilt not

have reason to be proud of thy Hanschen."

His mother shook her head. She could then only feel that she was losing

his daily care and presence, and that the future was all uncertain. But

she was at the same time pleased to see him of good cheer, and that his

courage and spirit did not forsake him. She promised to find out if the

young man whom he had wounded recovered, and to discover some means of

sending him word when he might return in safety; and with many embraces

and blessings, and parting words of love he went away.

Hans had not gone far, however, before turning his thoughts to the

future, and thinking of what had been his former hopes and intentions,

he all at once remembered the little bag of letters which he had some

years before carved out of wood, and which hung in the back room of the

cottage. He called to mind all the schemes and visions which of old he

had formed over these letters, and he thought to himself that now,

perhaps, was come the right time for turning them and all his acquired

knowledge to account. He determined to go back and fetch his letters;

and he thought it best to do so unknown to his mother, so that he might

not renew in her the sorrow of parting; retracing then his steps, he got

over the hedge which divided his mother's little garden from the road,

and softly opening the door that led to the little room in which he had

been accustomed to sleep, and where he had kept his treasured letters,

he took the little pouch from the nail on which it hung, and was

hastening away--when the sound of his mother's voice struck his ear. She

was weeping--but in the midst of her tears was she also praying for her

son. "Oh, good Lord," she said, "protect my child from the dangers of

the world. Let him not again sin against thy laws. Be thou to him a

shield, a fortress of defence, and let him love thy word and law.

Preserve him, I pray thee, to me good and pure, and let my eyes behold

my child again, ere they are closed in death."

Hans was deeply moved by these words of his poor forsaken mother, and he

also prayed. He prayed that her hopes might be fulfilled; and that he

might be a comfort and a blessing to her old age; and he said to

himself, that he would henceforth lead a life of usefulness and peace;

and so he went forth, strong in purpose, yet full of tenderness and

love.

After this parting, many years passed over Frau Gensfleisch's head ere

she beheld her son again; and few and far between were the tidings of

him that reached her cottage. Long and weary years were they to her; and

the hope so long deferred of seeing him again made, indeed, her heart

grow sick. Many and many a time would she go on foot into the town to

make inquiries of Father Gottlieb as to whether aught had been heard of

the absent one; and if by chance she was told of some traveller who had

come into the town from the south, she would go there though ever so

weak and weary, and never rest until she had found the stranger out, to

question him herself about all the youths whom he might have fallen in

with, in the hope that her Hans might have been one of them.

Through Father Gottlieb she heard of his safe arrival at Worms; and

these tidings came written on a slip of parchment by Hans himself, and

was brought by a travelling monk who was going about to collect alms,

and who called at the convent of St. Gothard in Mainz. In return, Frau

Gensfleisch got one of the monks to write for her a letter, in which she

told Hans of the recovery of the youth whom he had wounded, and begged

him to return to her. This letter was given into the charge of the same

monk, who, after visiting several other cities, was likely to return to

Worms; but as it did not bring Hans home again, no one felt sure that it

had ever reached him.

Several years passed without any more tidings of her son reaching Frau

Gensfleisch, until there called at her cottage one day a pilgrim who was

returning from the Holy Land, and was on his way to the city of Treves,

to which he was taking some holy relics. He brought to Frau Gensfleisch

a small bag of silver coin, as much in value as the money she had given

to Hans at his departure. The pilgrim told her it was sent by a youth in

the town of Strasburg, who sent with it love and greeting, and directed

him where to find her cottage. The pilgrim had forgotten the name of the

youth, he said, but that he had marked the little bag with a mark that

he was sure his mother would know; and sure enough she did; for there on

the leather had been imprinted the very same letter =g= which Hans

had saved from the fire, when his other letters were burnt. Frau

Gensfleisch knew by this that the money came from Hans, and her heart

beat for joy at the knowledge that he was well and rich, and above all

that he had not forgotten her.

Years rolled on, and the mother and son had never met again; when one

summer evening of the year 1438, a traveller, who had that morning

arrived in the town of Mainz, passed out of it towards the little

village of Steinheim. He was weary and way-worn; his clothes soiled and

dusty with long travel, and his cheeks tanned from long exposure to the

sun. Upon his back he bore a knapsack, and under his arm he carried a

large and carefully wrapped packet. As he reached the little hill at the

foot of which the village lay, he paused to look around him; and he

looked not as one who beholds for the first time a beautiful view,

taking in at a glance the whole picture which was spread before him; but

seeking out rather each well remembered object that was connected with

the past years of youth and childhood. Stretching from the north, and

far away to the west, was a long and wavy chain of hills, behind which

the sun was setting in a bright blaze of gold and red. How often had the

traveller seen such a sunset behind the blue summits of those hills

before! Flowing yet nearer to him was the noble river Rhine, winding

onward to the north, and bearing on its bosom many a little skiff which

scudded quickly before the evening breeze, or raft of timber which

floated slowly down its stream. How often had the stranger sailed in

such little barks upon its surface, or bathed and fished in its waters!

At his feet lay the little cluster of cottages which formed the village

of Steinheim; and amid its clustering trees and vineyards, it was not

fancy, perhaps, that led the traveller to think that he could

distinguish one roof from all the rest, and one patch of vines from out

the other larger vineyards. He passed on with quickened steps; but as he

approached the cottages, he found--not like the distant mountains or the

wide river--that much was new and changed. Houses and cottages had

sprung up where fields of barley and flax had grown, and a new church

stood where once a barn had been. He sought out the little cottage that

once he had known so well. Alas! it was strangely changed. A stone wall

supplied the place of the old briar-hedge, and shrubs had grown up into

trees, shadowing the door and window, whilst moss and ivy covered the

walls and roof. With a trembling hand he knocked at the lowly door. The

lattice was opened, and a strange face came to answer his inquiries.

"Does not the Frau Gensfleisch live here?" asked the stranger with a

faltering voice.

"The Frau Gensfleisch," said the woman; "nay, my good friend, the Frau

Gensfleisch has left our village this many a day. Maybe she lives now in

the town, or maybe she is dead; I cannot tell thee which."

The traveller turned away.

Frau Gensfleisch, however, was not dead. Finding that the care of her

little fields and vineyard was more than she was able to manage in her

declining years, she sold her cottage and land, and returned into the

town of Mainz to live, so that she might be near the Father Gottlieb,

who was now the only relation she had left besides her absent son. To

the good Father she could at least talk about Hans, and he was able

sometimes to cheer her fading hopes, by telling her that the day might

yet come when Hans would return to spend the rest of his life with her.

She lived in a dark and narrow street, and seldom went from home except

on certain days, when, as of old, she would take a flask of her ink to

the convent for the use of the monks, who were still, as during the

childhood of Hans Gensfleisch, busied over their endless copying and

writing. It was on the morning of the day on which the traveller we have

spoken of above had inquired after her at her old cottage, that a

message came to her from Father Gottlieb to say that she must come to

the convent with all speed, to hear some tidings of her son, which had

been brought by a traveller from the south. With a beating heart she

went, and from the Father Gottlieb she heard that a learned scribe had

come that day into the town who had known her son in the city of

Strasburg. This scribe had brought with him a most wonderful book, and

all the town was filled with surprise and curiosity to hear that this

volume, which was a copy of the Bible, had been written by one man--the

traveller himself--and that in its production he had used neither pen,

nor style,[2] nor reed, but had _imprinted_ it with ink in some

unknown way, which had caused the writing to be more regular and even,

and plainer to read than that of any manuscript which had ever been seen

or heard of. The whole town was talking of the book, and the wonder of

the people was even greater still when the traveller said that he could

at will produce many such books as this, and that each should be so much

alike the other, that not one letter--not one jot or one tittle of a

letter should be different. Frau Gensfleisch listened in wonder,--but

wonder was lost in hope, for she said to herself, "This man has known my

Hans, for he too could imprint letters;" and she eagerly inquired his

name.

Father Gottlieb said that the name of the stranger was Johann Gutenberg,

and that he was tall and dark, and spoke with a northern tongue. He

promised Frau Gensfleisch, however, that she should see him and question

him herself about her son, as soon as the stranger returned from the

palace of the Archbishop, where had gone to exhibit his wonderful book,

and he left her in his cell, promising to return and fetch her when the

stranger should arrive.

Frau Gensfleisch sat in silence and alone for two heavy hours. She heard

bell after bell rung, which summoned the monks to their prayers or to

their meals. And many a passing footstep made her cheeks flush and her

pulse quicken, as she said to herself, "Now, I shall hear about my son;"

and she repeated over to herself all the questions that she would ask

and the messages she would send, in case the stranger really knew her

Hans; when at last the door of the cell was unlocked and the Father

Gottlieb came.

He said he would take her to the apartment of the Superior, to which the

traveller had been summoned on his return from the Archbishop, and there

she could wait until he had time enough to speak with her about her son.

When Frau Gensfleisch entered the room of the Superior, a crowd of monks

was so gathered round the stranger that she could see neither his face

nor form. He was opening out his wonderful volume, and the curious monks

pressed eagerly round him. Loud and long were their exclamations of

surprise as the book was opened, and page after page displayed. It was

wonderful--it was marvellous--It was not like the work of hands, they

said no scribe or copyist would write each letter so like another, and

they said it must be done by magic, for that no mortal hands could write

so wonderfully plain and exact and regular; and they questioned the

stranger about his method of _imprinting_ but he replied to all

their questioning, "It is not magic, holy fathers, but it is patience

which hath done it."

Scarcely had these words been uttered, when catching the ear of Frau

Gensfleisch, she started from her seat, and pushing aside the monks, who

stood around the stranger, she made her way up to him, and she said, as

she laid hold of his cloak and looked him in the face, "Stranger, what

is thy name--what is thy true name? Is it not Hans Gensfleisch--wert

thou not born here--art thou not my son?" And as she spoke she grasped

eagerly both his hands.

The stranger paused, and a pang as if of sorrow seemed to pass across

his brow, as he saw the weakness and infirmity of her who stood

trembling before him. The years which had passed over his own head and

had changed him from the slender youth into the strong and healthy man,

had indeed laid a sore and heavy hand on her, who all this time had been

left alone and unprotected, bowed down with sorrow and infirmity. He

reproached himself for his long absence and neglect. Then falling on her

neck, he embraced her long and tenderly, and he said, "Mother, I am

indeed thy Hans!" and then turning to the wondering monks, "Yes, holy

fathers, I am the Hans Gensfleisch, who was in this convent taught to

read and write. When but a child, it was chance which first gave me the

thought of thus imprinting books, but long years of patience and

industry have been needed ere I could bring it to perfection." Then to

his mother, he said, "I will leave thee no more. Too much of my life has

been passed away from thee--but now shalt thou have thy son again to

cheer thy last days and to make thee happy."

And happy indeed was Frau Gensfleisch, and she needed no promises from

her son to assure her of the joy and comfort which his care would secure

her for the few remaining years of her life. One thing alone displeased

her, which was that he should have adopted a name different from that by

which he had been known in childhood, but when he told her of the

ridicule which had followed him wherever he went, when his strange name

of Gensfleisch[3] was heard, she was reconciled; especially when he

reminded her too, that the name which he had taken, was one which

belonged to his family and to which he had some claim; and when in

future she would hear her son called by his name of Gutenberg, and was

told that that name was become known not only all over Germany, but in

strange and distant lands, she would say, "Yes, Gutenberg--it soundeth

well. It is a goodly name,--but he is still my Hans, my own son Hans!"

And Father Gottlieb, too, when they talked to him of the fame which his

nephew had gained, and how that his native town felt proud that one of

her citizens should had discovered and made perfect so wonderful and

useful an art, so that he was looked upon as a great and famous man--the

good Father would thank God that the fame and the greatness he had

gained stood not in the way of his being likewise a duteous, loving son,

and a good and pious man.

* * * * *

And thus our _story_ ends--but we will venture to add something of

the _history_ of Johann or John Gutenberg. Nothing, we believe, in

the foregoing story is contrary to _what is known_ of the real

history of the first inventor of printing, and it is certain that after

his return from Strasburg to his native city in the year 1438, he

established a printing-press in Mainz, and produced from it many printed

books, principally in Latin. He had for some time as a kind of partner

in his art, a man of the name of Faust, or Fust, the son of a goldsmith

of Mainz, who afterwards separating from Gutenberg went to Paris, where

he printed books, and in consequence was persecuted as a magician or

sorcerer; so wonderful was it thought to produce books so easily, and so

much like each other.

Gutenberg was afterwards assisted in the carrying on of his printing by

a rich burgher of Mainz of the name of Conrad Hammer, whom we may

suppose to have been the early friend through defence of whom he was

obliged to fly from home.

Shortly after the invention of printing, it would appear that paper was

made in sufficient perfection to be employed instead of parchment in the

formation of books. A celebrated Latin Bible, printed by Gutenberg in

1450, of which a very perfect copy is to be seen in the public library

at Frankfort, is beautifully printed on paper: and it must strike every

one with astonishment that such great perfection could have been

attained in so short a time in so difficult an art--especially when we

call to mind that each of the little letters with which it was printed,

had to be carved separately out of wood, since metal letters or

_type_ were not used till a few years later. The printing, too, is

remarkably clear, distinct, and regular, and is a striking proof of the

extraordinary skill and industry--and as he himself says in our story,

patience--which must have been employed over it.

The great superiority of printing over writing was so generally felt and

acknowledged, that before the end of the century in which Gutenberg

lived, printed books began to be common, and in the year 1471, an

Englishman of the name of Caxton, introduced the art into England, and

set up a printing press in Westminster.

We have alluded to the advantages we enjoy in our days from the

_commonness_ of books, and from the knowledge which by their means

is spread all over the world; and the sense of this advantage has led

people to feel a great interest in all that concerned the inventor or

discoverer of printing.

The city of Mainz especially, has always felt proud that he was born

there, and, about two hundred years after his death, erected a statue to

him in one of their streets. In 1837, however, another and a finer

statue in bronze was erected, and the people of the town celebrated the

event with all kinds of rejoicings and festivities. They liked to do

honor to their ingenious and useful citizen, even though he had been

dead nearly four hundred years, and they hung garlands of flowers on his

statue, and had music and processions and illuminations--all to

celebrate the memory of the son of the poor widow Gensfleisch.

No one who then looked upon the beautiful bronze statue of Gutenberg, or

sees it now as it stands in the middle of the city of Mainz, can doubt

for a moment that such a patient, persevering, and ingenious man, the

inventor of such a great and useful an art, deserves better to have a

statue raised to his memory, than any hero, king, or conqueror, that has

ever yet existed.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: The German for Mistress]

[Footnote 2: The style was a pointed instrument made of metal, and used

for writing with by the ancients. Pens made of reeds were also used.]

[Footnote 3: In English _Gooseflesh_.]

THE CRYSTAL PALACE

A Story for Boys and Girls

CHAPTER I.

"I wish the holidays, were here!" said Frank Grey, to his school-fellow,

George Grant, "for I want so much to see 'The Crystal Palace;' and I

know Grandma will take me, if I ask her."

"Ah! it must be a jolly place, I'm sure," said George; "but _I_

shall never see it, I dare say."

"Why not?" asked Frank; "just tell _your_ Grandmother, and she will

take you, too."

"But I have no Grandmother," said George, despondingly; "I never had, as

long as I can recollect."

"Oh! then I don't know what you are to do, I'm sure," said Frank;

"unless you have an aunt or uncle who will take you: for you have no

mother, have you?"

"Why, certainly, I have," replied George, laughing, "and a father, too;

but then he is always busy in the factory; and mother, she is mostly

poorly, or shut up in the nursery with the little children, and often

says, she's sorry that she has neither time nor strength to take me

sight-seeing."

"That's rather vexing, though," said Frank, shaking his curly head. "I

think I should not like to change with you; but that's not bragging, is

it."

"Why, no; what made, you think of that?" asked George, astonished.

"Because grandma has often told me, that to _boast_ is rude,

unkind, and wicked," replied Frank.

"Ha, ha! how very odd!" cried George; "whatever could she mean?"

"I know," said Frank.

"Then, tell me; do."

"No, no; for you will only laugh, and then I shall feel vexed; so, say

no more about it," returned Frank.

"But I will not laugh, upon my word," said George, who felt his

curiosity excited.

"Well, then," said Frank, looking a little shy; "she says, that it is

_rude_, because it seems as if I thought myself above my

schoolfellows; and it is _unkind_, because, by doing so, I pain

their feelings; and it is _wicked_, because God expects us to be

humbly thankful for all the good things He gives us; and not to bride

ourselves upon them, in the least."

"I can't see any good in it," said George. "I know, that I am very proud

to show _my_ presents, when I get any; and I see no harm in it, I'm

sure."

"But my grandma knows more than you about it, a great deal," said Frank;

"and so she shall tell you, when you see her; for I mean to ask her, if

you may go with us, to see 'The Crystal Palace.'"

"Oh no; I think you had better not; she might be angry if you did," said

George, with a look that plainly contradicted what he said.

"Why, bless you, grandma's never angry," said Frank, laughing at the

very thought; "for she's the very kindest, dearest grandma in the world,

I do believe; and says, she never likes to disappoint me, when I ask for

what is _right_"

"I wish I had a grandma like her," said George, pouting; "for then I

should see every sight in London; I would teaze her till I did. I often

try to do so now; but mother looks as if she soon would cry, and bids me

say no more about it; for that she has neither time nor strength to take

me out."

"Dear me; I would not ask her then," said little Frank: "because fatigue

might make her worse, you know; and then, how very sorry you would

feel!"

George gave a little kind of cough, that seemed to say, lie should not

feel for anything so much as his own pleasures.

"Besides," continued Frank, "I am always told, that only naughty

children _teaze_; and I should never be rewarded for impatience."

"Ah! that's all very fine," cried George; "but how is one to get one's

way without? I suppose that you would have me stay at home, and mope

with mother all the holidays, and never go outside the door. But that is

not the way I manage, I can tell you; for I often slip away, and run out

on the sly, and have a game with any boys I meet."

"What! without asking leave?" inquired Frank, looking at him

sorrowfully.

"To be sure I do," said George.

"Well; I should be quite frightened," replied Frank. "And the thought

that my mother might miss me, and be made uneasy, would be sure to spoil

my sport."

"I never think about it," answered George; "for when I get a thing into

my head, nothing will turn me, as nurse often says to mother. I dare say

I shall see 'The Crystal Palace' in this way, at least, if I can find it

out alone."

"Now, promise me that you will not attempt it," cried Frank,

affectionately; "and I will promise you that you shall go with me, in

grandma's carriage, which will be far more proper, and nice, you know.

Do you not think so?"

"Of course I do," said George. "And shall I _really_ go? and will

your grandma take me? and shall you fetch me, the _first_ day after

go home, do you suppose?"

"No; for the first day will be Sunday," replied Frank; "and then we

never even talk about such things."

"Well, Monday, then. Will it be Monday?"

"Monday, perhaps, or Tuesday; for we shall have so much to talk about on

Saturday, when I go home, that grandma may not have the time to settle

it. I often wish the holidays began upon a Thursday, or a Friday at the

latest, that I might have my chatter out before the Sunday comes."

"I never thought of such a thing before," said George. But the writer

fully sympathises with her little friend, and wishes that all pious

teachers would profit by his hint.

During the previous conversation, the two boys had been kneeling up,

upon a form, with their arms extended on the table, on which "The

Illustrated London News" was spread before them. It was often purchased

by their kind schoolmistress for their amusement and instruction. And

greatly did the pictures please them; though, for the present, they

profited but little by the printed news.

"Ten more horrid days before _this half_ is over," said George,

peevishly. "It seems an age. I count the very hours. But you think that

we are _sure_ to go on Monday, don't you?"

"Not sure," said Frank. "We must not be too sure of anything, my grandma

says."

"Well, then, I dare say I shan't wait for you," said the impatient

George; "I do hate waiting, above all things."

"But you must try to be more patient," said Frank gently. "Does not your

poor mamma say so, to you?"

"Ah! very often; almost every day," cried George; "but what's the good

of that? for I keep hammering on, for anything I want. Oh! how I wish

the holidays were here just now; I am so wretched!"

"Dear me! and instead of that, I feel so happy," said dear Frank. "Ten

days will soon be gone, I think, and then--O then--Grandma will come,

and see my prize, and look so very pleased, and take me home with her!"

CHAPTER II.

And Frank was right, my dear young reader, for the ten days soon passed

away, and very pleasurably too, as even George confessed. There were so

many extra sports provided--a magic lantern, and dissolving views for

the last evening, with cakes and crackers, and amusing recitations, and

all went very merrily to bed, looking forward to the following day, when

they should see their friends and homes once more.

Frank felt a little sorry when the carriage came, without grandma to

fetch him. He fairly jumped about within it, as though to make it carry

him the faster to her. He bounded from it when it reached the door, and

ran with outstretched arms into the drawing-room, where she was waiting

to embrace him, and to listen fondly to all he had to tell. She gazed

with tears of pleasure in her eyes, upon the handsome volume he

presented, as a proof of his good conduct and improvement; and wiped her

spectacles with care, to read the nice inscription on the title-page,

and told him, "in return for his attention and obedience, it would give

her pleasure to grant him many treats throughout the holidays."

Frank thought at once about the Crystal Palace: but looking up, he saw

his grandmother was pale and delicate, and therefore would not name it,

until she should seem to him a little better; for already had he learnt,

in some degree, to follow Him "who pleased not himself."

George Grant was rather glad to learn, that he was to go home by

railway, for having an indifferent character, and no prize whatever, he

did not long to see his mother's face, at least at school, lest painful

questions should be asked as to his conduct. Still he was happy when he

saw her, and made more noise about it, far, than Frank.

When asked, "if he had gained a prize," he looked a little sheepish; and

speaking in a sullen tone, began to make complaints about "unfairness in

the teachers," and said his "schoolmistress had favorites, he was very

sure," with many other things, equally untrue.

His mother listened to his list of troubles, and told him, that she

feared the fault lay nearer home, and that he had not taken all the

pains he ought, nor sought to profit by her kind instructions.

George strove to justify himself, but failed in his endeavors to

convince his mother that he had been dutiful and diligent; but as her

strength was small, she gave up the debate, and listened languidly,

whilst he talked on unceasingly about "The Crystal Palace," and wondered

whether Frank would _ever_ think about his promise, and listened

for the sound of every carriage wheel that rumbled in the distance and

rushed up to the window, whenever any vehicle came down the quiet

street, and wearied both himself and all around him, by his useless

lamentations.

Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday too, thus passed away. But on Wednesday he

had grown quite insupportable, and his mother was compelled to banish

him from her own bedroom, and giving him a puzzle she had purchased,

requested him to go into the dining-room, and put them all together. But

George rejected all amusements but the _very_ one he wanted, and

went instead into the nursery, where he plagued the younger children,

took away their little toys, played with them so roughly, that he threw

them on the floor, made _them_ all fretful, and the maid so vexed,

that she told him he had grown quite tiresome, and "that she panted for

the time when he would be packed off to school again." Whereupon he flew

into a passion, which ended in a fit of sobbing and crying: the noise

awoke the baby, nurse grew very angry, and pushed him out into the

dining-room, bidding him stay there alone, and come no more near her.

Just at this very time Frank saw his dear Grandma appeared much better,

coughed much less frequently, spoke much more easily, and moved about

more freely. So he thought the time was come to talk about "The Crystal

Palace." He said "how much he wished to see it, when it was convenient,

and that he should also like to show it to George Grant, if she had no

objection, for that his parents had no time to take him to it."

Pleased with his consideration, his grandmamma immediately complied with

his request, and, as the day was very fine for winter, ordered the

carriage to be ready in two hours, and promised to go round and take up

his young friend.

Frank ran to smother her with kisses, and looking lovingly upon him she

exclaimed--"God grant that I may live to see my own dear boy a Crystal

Palace!"

"Now, Granny dear, that is a funny wish," cried Frank, "for why should I

be made of glass, instead of flesh and bones, I wonder?"

"Let us take a little time to talk about it, dear; fancy yourself at

school again, going to take an _object_ lesson," she replied.

"No, thank you, no!" said Frank, cutting a caper; "I would rather think

myself at home instead."

"Well, then, at home, but tell me the properties of Crystal."

Frank seated himself beside her on the sofa, looked up wisely into the

corner of the ceiling, and said, after a pause, "Is crystal glass,

Grandma?"

"Why, not exactly, yet they have so many qualities in common, that you

may almost think of them as one."

"Glass, then, is clear, transparent, bright; what else, Grandma?"

"It is pellucid, that is, not opaque, or dark--it gives admission to

the light, and reflects it back again in all its beauty, brilliancy, and

purity. I do not wish to see my little boy a _green-house,_ or a

_glass-house_ merely, for then he would be brittle, and not

strong--easily damaged, if not broken up. But crystals are hard bodies;

they resist all injuries, they can bear a beating without breaking; for

they are regularly formed, and complete in all their parts. And crystal

glass is the firmest and the best, has fewest flaws and imperfections,

and can best sustain a storm."

"And so, for all these reasons, they call the great building we are soon

to see, a Crystal Palace, I suppose?"

"Exactly so. What more have you to add, my Frank?"

"Why, that for the same reason you wish to see me like it, I suppose,

that I may be transparent, pure, and strong, and have the light of

Goodness shining through me."

"It is indeed my earnest wish, and daily prayer, my dear; and doubtless

you can tell me, _Who_ alone can cause you to resemble this

beautiful and useful building? I know your Governess agrees with Dr.

Johnson, who once said that 'the end of all learning should be piety,'

and therefore I feel certain she has taught you how _true wisdom_

can be found."

"Oh yes, Grandma, she often tells us God alone can bless our learning,

and make it really useful to us, and that therefore we should ask Him

for the teaching of His Holy Spirit many times a day."

"And does my Frank attend to this advice?"

"Sometimes I do, and then I feel quite light and happy like; but when I

grow careless, and forget it, I am sure to get into some scrape or other

soon. So then, I am glad enough to go back to my old ways, and ask that

God would help me in the future."

"A safe and blessed practice, dear, and one that will preserve you from

all dangers. Prayer is our strength, our safety; and when we ask the aid

of God with _all our hearts_, we shall never ask in vain, you may

be sure."

After a little pause, Frank broke into a peal of merry laughter.

"What is it that amuses you so much?" said Mrs. Grey.

"Why, Grandma, I was thinking," said he, colouring, and looking shy,

"what an enormous-looking fellow I should be, if I were like 'The

Crystal Palace.'"

"Yes; then you would be 1800 feet in length, and 450 feet in breadth,

and noble trees would be sheltered by your arms, and you would be a kind

of modern Atlas, that the fables tell us could support the globe."

"I would rather be a little boy, than anything made of bricks and

mortar, though," said Frank, complacently.

"But there is no brick, or stone, or mortar, in the whole;--but all is

iron, wood, and glass--and the vast building is composed of very many

parts, each only eight feet square, but so great in number, that it is

longer than any street you know, for it covers 18 acres of ground, which

is nine times larger than your garden at the school, and all is

supported upon iron pillars of the same size and pattern. Yet this

immense erection is all formed of complete and distinct parts, not half

as large as the room we are now sitting in. Let this teach you, that

mere size is not necessary to completeness; but that a number of

beautiful and little parts, put well together, form a noble, grand, and

most effective whole."

"I see, Grandma," said Frank, smiling archly; "so you mean, that though

_I_ am but very little, and all that, yet I may be complete and

useful too."

"You understand me thoroughly, my dear; for were any of these parts

defective, the whole would be incomplete, and we might never have the

pleasure of walking for miles, on a wet day, under the cover of 'The

Crystal Palace,' as I hope we shall do during the next Christmas

holidays. So you see, that small things are of great importance, after

all."

"I thought it was to be a great bazaar, and not a garden, Grandmama,"

said Frank.

"And you are right, for in the first instance it is destined to receive

specimens of the industry of _the whole world_ and a novel and a

grand idea it is,--for which we have to thank Prince Albert, who is not

only almost the highest person in the land, but also one of the wisest

and the best; and often should we thank God for giving us so good a

Queen and Prince, so very different to many that you read about in

history."

"Yes, Grandma, I read in 'Peter Parley' of many wicked kings;--but will

this bazaar be larger than the Pantheon?"

"Very much larger than I can make you comprehend, until you see it; for

it will be twenty _miles_ to walk over, and when the great

'_Exposition_,' as it is called, is ended, it will be filled,

perhaps, with graceful shrubs and lovely flowers, flourishing all

through the winter, where we may enjoy ourselves for hours daily, and

quite forget the frost and snow outside."

"It is quite delightful to think of, I declare, Grandma. I believe that

I shall like it better then, than now."

"Both will be very charming, dear. But, perhaps the _first_ will be

the most instructive; for there will be goods from _every country in

the world_--specimens of natural productions,--the arts and

manufactures,--of every invention that the ingenuity of man has

constructed; and of almost all the glorious things that God has given

us, in this lovely world."

"Why, Grandma, there never was anything so grand and beautiful before!"

"Nothing, upon so large a scale; but bazaars are not a novelty. They

have long been common in the Eastern countries, such as Egypt, Persia,

India, and Turkey. In these countries, the shops are not spread abroad

through many streets, as we now see them, but are collected in one spot,

and are arranged in heads or classes, according to the various kinds of

trades, or articles for sale.

"In fact, the word 'Bazaar' means market; and these markets are usually

built with high brick roofs, and cupolas, that will admit but little

light. They have their passages all lined with shops on each side, and

each exactly like the other. All of them are raised above the path on

which the customers are standing, and are open to the air, having no

walls, but such as separate the various shops. This plan was found

convenient, in climates where the heat forbids exertion. It saved the

purchasers much trouble and fatigue; for exercise is not as pleasant, or

as healthy there, as here."

"I fancy that I should not like such places very much, Grandma," said

Frank; "for I do love a walk with you uncommonly, and more especially

when you are going shopping, as you sometimes do, one sees so many

pretty things, that one never heard or thought about before."

"And I am pleased to take you, Frank, because you never trouble me to

purchase what may be too expensive or unsuitable;--neither do you stand

looking on the toys and pretty things, with greedy, longing eyes, that

tell as plainly your desires as words could do." "Because, Grandma, I

know that you will give me all that you think proper, and so the sight

quite satisfies me. But I may not be so quiet on the matter when we see

the Great Bazaar;--I wonder that they only have them in the East,

though."

"They do, at times, my dear--and the first Bazaar in Europe, or

'_Exhibition of Industry_,' as it was called, took place in France,

and was held in the Palace of St. Cloud, a beautiful and royal

residence, which was emptied for the purpose."

"A second and a larger followed, the next year, and displayed all the

manufactures and the curiosities then known in Paris--and these excited

so much interest that Bonaparte, who then reigned in France, had a

building erected expressly for the purpose, in the _Champs de

Mars_. It was made of wood, and lined with the old flags that he had

just brought home from his war in Italy, and decorated with his

banners,--and so these sad trophies of the wickedness of man, and of his

anger, hatred, and revenge, were turned to a good purpose at the last.

"Then some years afterwards, there were wooden galleries placed around

the quadrangle of the Palace of the Louvre, to receive similar

contributions; and people were still so pleased by them, that a

_fourth_ succeeded.

"The fourth was on a larger scale, for Bonaparte had then become an

Emperor, and wished all things he did to be _Imperial_, or very

grand.

"A building, therefore, was erected for the purpose, by the side of the

river that runs through Paris. Can you recollect its name?"

"The Seine, Grandma."

"Yes. It was built beside the Seine, facing the _Champs Elysèe_,

and was then considered very beautiful.

"A fifth, a sixth, and seventh followed, in the course of time; but I

will not dwell upon them now, but only add that--

"The eighth was held by Louis Phillippe, who then reigned in France--for

Bonaparte had died in St. Helena--banished from his throne and his

adopted country, and brought to see the folly of his mad ambition; and

this Bazaar was held in the _Place de la Concorde_, a suitable

locality for such an object,--for _Concorde_, you know, means peace

and harmony, instead of war and fighting."

"A pleasanter and better thing is peace than war, I think, Grandma,"

said Frank. "I wish there was no quarreling at all."

"I join you heartily, my dear, and hope the time will shortly come when

wars shall cease for ever. But the building raised by Louis Phillippe in

La Place de la Concorde, consisted of four pavilions, joined by

galleries together; and as many as 2500 persons sent in their

contributions.

"But the ninth surpassed all former ones,--covered 120,000 feet of

ground--consisted of eight large apartments, with a noble hall, and

spacious galleries. It cost nearly £15,000, and had 3300 exhibitors this

time.

"All this success at length induced the men of Manchester to make a

similar display--and their example was soon followed by the men of

Leeds, and many other of our largest towns.

"And then, once more, in the year 1844, the French announced another

'_L'Exposition de l'Industrie Francaise'_--which gained great

praise from all who visited it.

"Next, '_The Free-Trade Bazaar_' excited universal interest, and

was held in Covent Garden Theatre, in the year 1845, when tens of

thousands went to see and purchase the beautiful commodities displayed.

"And last of all was the Exhibition held a year ago in Paris, which

exceeded all that had ever been attempted. The area of the former

building was increased so much, that it now amounted to 221,000 feet,

making it about one-third as large as the enormous Crystal Palace now

erected in Hyde Park.

"It was formed of wood and zinc, and cost £16,000; but will speedily be

eclipsed by the one we are about to look at. And so you have a little

history of these various plans, which will give you a greater interest

in our own, I think."

"It will, indeed, Grandma," said Frank; "for, like a stupid fellow, I

thought that this was the beginning of the whole."

"And very natural, my dear; for distant objects never impress the mind

like what is visible and present. But other nations soon followed France

and England, and Belgium and Bavaria were among the earliest, and

_Munich_ had the honor of completing the _first permanent_ or

lasting building, devoted only to the purposes of an industrial

exhibition for native goods, in 1845."

"But _ours_ is for all the world, I think you said, Grandma?"

"Yes, dear, for every nation; and a wonderful assemblage there will be

of all things useful, beautiful, and curious. Rare carvings from China,

splendid shawls from India, gorgeous carpets from Persia, all elegant

and tasteful things from France, all native manufactures from Russia and

the North, all specimens from New Zealand, California, and the Countries

of the South. In fact, all the nations of the earth, and the islands of

the sea, will unite with our own dear countrymen in making a display of

their talents and their treasures."

"And of them all, what shall _I_ like the best, Grandma?" said

Frank, bewildered by the catalogue.

"It is not possible that I can know your taste, my dear," said Mrs.

Grey, smiling at the simple question; "and yet I can imagine that an

enormous _globe_ will interest you most. It is to be made by Mr.

Wyld, and will be fifty-six feet in diameter, so tell me how great will

its circumference be?"

"One hundred and sixty-eight, Grandma," said Frank so readily, that he

had a kiss in consequence.

"Well, this great globe will cost £5000, which is more money than you

can comprehend at present; but you _can_ fancy how beautiful it

will look, with all the mountains raised upon it, and all the seas and

rivers clearly marked, and all the nations seen distinctly, and with no

mistake about their boundaries, which sometimes puzzle little folks to

find, and all the cities and large places plainly visible, without the

need of looking for them long and carefully; in short, a year or two of

the study of Geography mastered in an hour."

"But how shall I get at it?" asked Frank, with an air of disappointment.

"It will be so far above my head: look here, Grandma, I only reach as

high as _this_," said he, posting himself against the wall, "and

this globe will be higher than the ceiling, I should think?"

"It will be higher than the house, my dear, but, to remedy the

difficulty, there will be galleries all round it, and staircases to

mount them, so that there will be no danger, and nothing to prevent the

sight, and I think you will find it a great treat."

"Grandma!" said Frank, drawing a deep breath, "it seems too much to

think about, it will be so very grand and lovely. I really must be very,

very good _next half_, or else perhaps you will not let me see it,

after all?"

"Fear not, my child; you _will_ be good, if you ask of God to make

you so, for Jesus' sake, as many times a day as you are told to do at

school. And now I see the carriage waits, so let us go."

CHAPTER III.

"I really think _you_ are a _perfect_ Crystal Palace, dearest

Grandmama," said Frank, when Mrs. Grey had given orders to the coachman

to drive round and call for Master Grant, "for you are always good, and

kind, and happy."

"Alas! my child, my defects are most deplorable, and my faults are very

many, and I daily have to say, as well as you, 'O Lord! make haste to

help me.'"

"I cannot fancy it, I do assure you," said the little doubter; "you seem

to _me_ so very, very good."

"And so I may, and yet never be a Crystal Palace, Frank; for only the

child of God, and the believer in Jesus, can be really one. Many, I

fear, mistake in this great matter, and are thought true Christians by

others and themselves, when they only seek the praise of men, and not

the favor and the love of God. We must try ourselves by this test, dear,

and alter everything that is not done to please our kind and heavenly

Father. Besides, you know, there never has been more than one

'_perfect_' Crystal Palace in this world, from the beginning. Can

you tell me who it was?"

"Adam, I suppose, Grandma."

"Well, Adam truly was a Crystal Palace when he was _first_ created,

but he soon became opaque, and lost his purity, transparency, and

beauty, all at once. How did he do this, dear?"

"By disobedience."

"Yes, by wilful disobedience. He did not try to keep the _one_

command of God, nor did he ask for help to do so, but indulged his

foolish, wicked wish instead; and so, because he pleased his greedy eye,

his whole body became full of darkness (Matt. vi. 23), and he was no

longer the temple of the living God." (2 Cor. vi. 16.)

"Jesus was the only _perfect_ Crystal Palace, then, Grandma? I

should have thought of that before."

"Yes, Jesus was God, and God is light, and in Him is no darkness at all.

(1 John i. 5.) Jesus was _the light_ of the world, and He promised

all His children that they should not walk in darkness, but should have

the light of life." (John viii. 12.)

"So, then, Grandma, the real followers of Jesus _are_ Crystal

Palaces, but _not perfect_ Crystal Palaces;--that is what you mean,

I think?"

"It is, my dear. But is this the house where George Grant lives? I see

that James has stopped the horses."

"I do not know, indeed, Grandma; he only came to school at Michaelmas,

and I know but little of him; yet, as he wished so very much to see the

Crystal Palace, I thought that you would take him."

"You thought right, Frank, and James shall ask his mother's leave, or

rather, perhaps, it will seem kinder if we alight ourselves and do so."

"Thank you, Grandma," cried Frank, "I am sure that he will not be

disappointed now, as he expected, for no one can refuse _you_, when

you ask a favor."

Mrs. Grey smiled at his affectionate enthusiasm, and bade him follow

her.

CHAPTER IV.

Mrs. Grey inquired for Mrs. Grant, and learnt with sorrow that she was

too unwell to be seen by any visitors; she therefore sent a kind and

civil message, requesting her permission to convey her little son to see

the Crystal Palace, and promising to bring him home quite safely in two

hours. The servant left them in the drawing-room, which, though not

shabby, looked dusty and uncomfortable, and seemed to want the care and

presence of a mistress, and to prove, besides, that those who

_served_ had not the fear of God within their hearts, or they would

have done their duty faithfully, and kept it in far better order, though

their poor lady was laid aside by illness.

The maid returned in a few minutes, and brought the grateful thanks of

Mrs. Grant, with regret that she could not come down to see her guests,

and then left the room to get her little master ready.

Mrs. Grey sat waiting long and patiently, whilst Frank trotted round the

room, tried every chair and sofa,--examined every ornament about

it,--and placed himself at last before the window, to watch the

passers-by, for his amusement, saying at the time, "It seems as if

George never meant to come, Grandma."

"I must confess that they are very long in bringing him, my dear," said

Mrs. Grey; "but sickness in a house occasions often much confusion, and

therefore we must have more patience."

"How long have we been here, Grandma?" said Frank, after a long silence,

as Mrs. Grey had taken up a book, and he would not interrupt her

reading: "it seems almost a day to me."

"It is almost an hour, indeed," replied his Grandmama, looking at her

watch; "and as the horses are more restive and impatient than my little

Frank, and cannot so easily be taught their duty, I will ring, and ask

the reason of so much delay."

The maid appeared all fright and bustle, and said that, from the attic

to the kitchen, she had sought for Master George, in vain.

Mrs. Grey was quite concerned, and said, "She feared some dreadful

mischief had befallen him, and hoped his poor mamma would not be told."

The girl then changed her tone, and appeared more angry than alarmed,

and said, "It was only one of his old tricks," and that "she wished he

might be flogged when he was found."

Frank felt his eyes brimful of tears, and looked beseechingly at Mrs.

Grey, as if to ask her powerful mediation. She read his thoughts, and

said:--

"Beating will do but little good, unless he can be first convinced of

its necessity, which does not often happen."

"There's no one _here_ can take that trouble, ma'am," said the

maid, peevishly; "I do assure you, Master George teazes us all, beyond

endurance. I'm sure I wish the time were come for him to be sent back to

school--for there is no peace within the house whilst he is in it."

"Dear me," thought Frank, "how very sorry I should he if Grandma's

servants said the same of me;--but they are all so very kind,

instead--and seem so glad to see me, and so pleased at all my treats. I

think this maid is rather cross, and feel afraid she often scolds poor

George."

"I fear that waiting longer will be useless, then," said Mrs. Grey; "but

I wish that you would bring the little truant up to me, when he returns,

for I should like to have some conversation with him."

"He will not like to show his face to you, ma'am, I should think," said

Mary; "he will be mad enough when he comes back, let him be where he

may--and it just serves him right," she added, as if rejoicing in his

disappointment. "I declare I cannot say that I am sorry, for he has led

me such a life about this 'Crystal Palace,' that, what with the illness

of my _missus_, and the noise of the children, added to my usual

work, I'm driven almost wild. I wonder who would ever have the plague of

them--not I, if I could help it!"

"Then suffer me to say, that you act a most dishonest part in taking

such a situation," said Mrs. Grey, with dignity.

Mary bridled up, and "hoped she always did her duty--and was sure that

her character could bear the strictest scrutiny--and that she had had

the care of twenty times more property in many of her former places."

"I bring no charge against you as a thief," said Mrs. Grey; "you quite

misunderstand my meaning. You may be very careful of the tea and

sugar--you may never waste your master's money--you may keep the

children clean, and neatly mend their clothes--you may even make them

say their prayers each night and morning--but if they do not see you

_love_ them--if you take no pleasure in their sports--feel no

delight in their society--no joy when they are good--no pain when they

are naughty--you will never gain a proper influence, and should not

enter into a situation that you cannot fitly occupy. This is the

dishonesty I spoke of, and not purloining goods or money."

"I did not rightly understand you ma'am," said Mary, still looking hot

and angry.

"But now you do. I think you feel the force of what I said?"

"Perhaps so, ma'am," said Mary, with reluctance.

"When, formerly, I had to hire a nurse," said Mrs. Grey, "my first

inquiries were--

"Are you very, _very_ fond of children? Do you love them tenderly

and constantly? Have you patience with their provoking little ways? Are

you calm and gentle, when you must rebuke or punish them? And do you

strive to make them good, as well as merry?

"These were my questions," she continued; "and those who could not

conscientiously say _Yes_, ought not, I said, to take the charge of

children. For _love alone_ will lead us to make sacrifices, and

children constantly require us to give up our own ease and

self-indulgence, and devote ourselves unceasingly to all their wants. A

nurse should feel herself a _temporary_ mother, and should make her

every thought tend to her children's welfare. It is a high and honorable

post, and has a rich reward, when well sustained. You must excuse me,

therefore, if, with such opinions, I spoke, as you might think, too

freely on the subject."

Mary was mollified by so much condescension, and, curtseying, said:--

"Oh, never mind, ma'am; no doubt you said it for my good; but could you

have to do with Master George, I do believe that he would even try

_your_ patience. There is no rest or quiet in him; he never will be

satisfied with what he has, but is always worrying for what he has not

got. Nothing will pacify him; and we often are obliged to shut him up

alone for hours together, he is so very troublesome."

"You had better, far, _employ_ him," said Mrs. Grey, "and so keep

him out of mischief, for solitude is only useful to the thoughtful and

the happy."

"But he does not love his book, ma'am, and is only pleased with

rioting," said Mary. "So what is to be done with such a boy?"

"No doubt he is a very troublesome and trying child," said Mrs. Grey;

"and I hope that God will give you grace and strength to bear with him,

and set before him _quietly_ his numerous faults. I have always

found this plan the most successful, and I advise you to begin it."

Just at this moment Mrs. Grant appeared. Surprised at hearing so much

conversation in the drawing-room, she had left her easy chair, and

having reached the landing-place, she leant against the banisters, and

listened to the conversation we have just recorded.

Delighted with the wisdom and the kindness of the observations, she felt

obliged to make a desperate effort and go to thank the visitor who gave

such good advice.

She looked so weak and delicate, that it was evident she had no power to

contend with her unruly son, and much less to inflict upon him the

needful discipline.

Frank stood before her, wondering in his little heart how any boy could

vex or tease so gentle and so sweet a mother.

"I should like to sit upon a stool beside her," said he to himself, "and

read some pretty book, and talk it over afterwards, and put her pillows

smooth, and watch when she seemed tired, and then hold my tongue awhile,

and let her fall asleep. I would walk on tip-toe in her room, and never

talk too loud to make her head ache, and run of all her errands, and so

try to save the servants trouble. Mary would not grumble then, I hope. I

must persuade poor George to turn over a new leaf, and see if he is not

more happy by it."

Mrs. Grant spoke very nicely to him; told him her little boy was very

fond of him, and gave him a good character, and that she hoped he would

be like him very soon. She regretted that her own ill-health prevented

her from giving him the indulgences he wanted, and that his father was

too busy in providing for his welfare, to spare him any time. She bade

him prize his own more happy lot, and seemed to wish to make all

possible excuses for the unkindness and undutifulness of her only son.

Fearing she would suffer from fatigue, Mrs. Grey took leave, promising

to come again and give her little boy some other treat, if he improved

his conduct.

Frank felt dull and disappointed just at first, but when he reached the

lively, bustling scene, where stood the Crystal Palace, he soon forgot

his short-lived troubles in astonishment and joy.

His Grandmama explained the use of every part, showed him the columns

and their sockets, the girders and the ribs, the sheets of glass, all

four feet long, the gutters and the water-pipes, the frames and

ventilators, the bolts, the rivets, and the nuts; the central aisle and

transept, each seventy-two feet wide, and more than sixty high, running

along the length and breadth of the whole building; the galleries,

running too along the sides, with the ingenious plans adopted to keep

the whole well aired, and have it neither hot nor cold. But as we hope

to have a very full account prepared for the use of our young friends,

by the time that they come home again at _mid-summer_--when the

whole will be completed, and filled with all its varied stores--we will

say no more at present on the subject, but reserve it for their study,

just before they make their visit to the Crystal Palace, in their next

holidays.

Frank and his Grandma were highly gratified; and having both expressed

their thanks to the kind friend who had given them an order of

admission, they were walking back towards the carriage, when a rush, a

hubbub, and a frightful screaming, stopped them in their way. Frank

turned very pale, for he fancied that he knew the voice. Alas! it was

too true--poor George had fallen down from off a scaffolding, and had

put out his collarbone, and broken several ribs!

He had slily left his home, according to his threat at school; had asked

his way at last to Kensington--all weary, hot, and frightened--and then

had found, too late, that there was "_no admission but on

business_" allowed.

Determined not to be defeated in his plans, he contrived to climb over

the fencing at a private corner, by the help of some loose stones that

lay beside it, caught his jacket on a nail, and tore it from the

shoulder to the wrist, and looking all around in great alarm, beheld

Frank Grey, a little way before him, walking with a lady and a

gentleman, switching his little cane, and looking up delighted in their

faces.

He took another glance at his torn coat, saw that his shoes were muddy,

and his hands all dirt, and blood, and scratches, and remembered--worse

than all--oh! far, far worse!--that he was there by stealth--a naughty,

wilful, disobedient boy, who dared not look upon his friends, because

his conscience told him how he was degraded. So, anxious to avoid his

little play-mate, he rushed up a ladder leading to the scaffolding, to

hide himself--missed his footing in his hurry, and fell down on to the

ground from a great height.

Oh! how his shrieks and groans did wound the heart of our dear Frank! He

wanted to push through the crowd, and get to him; but he was ordered

back by a wise doctor, who had just arrived, and who had his patient

placed upon a plank, and carried to the hospital hard by.

Mrs. Grey begged that her carriage might be used; but the doctor civilly

declined, and said that "it was most important that the little fellow

should be given up to him; but that his mother had been sent for, just

before, and was the _only_ person who might see him."

Oh! how dear Frank sobbed, as the shrieks rent the air!--- and as they

grew fainter and fainter in the distance, his Grandmama ordered the

servant to lift him to the carriage, that he might be taken quickly

home.

Frank snoozed up close beside his Grandmama, and sat so silent that she

hoped he slept, exhausted by his tears and pity; but, lifting up his

eyes, at length he said--

"Grandma, I fear poor George is not a 'Crystal Palace.' Is he?"

"Not now, my dear, but he may yet be one; and if he live to come again

to school, you must never tell him of this day's disgrace; for neither

boys nor men are goaded into goodness; but you must try, and pray, to

win him back to Jesus, and make him love and wish to imitate that

gracious Saviour, who, when himself a little boy, was said to grow in

favor both with God and man (Luke ii. 52)."

"I will, indeed; indeed, I will!" said Frank, weeping afresh; and so, to

turn his thoughts, his Grandmama proposed that they should call on Mrs.

Scott, and ask after her health.

Frank willingly agreed, for Harry Scott had always been a favorite with

him, though many years his senior. He was a noble, generous, and

condescending lad, who liked to play with little fellows, and not to

teaze and banter them, as too many of them do. Frank never was more

happy than when he was allowed to have a game with Harry. But now he had

not seen him for six months, and then only once or twice, as Harry and

his mother were going to the sea for change of air.

What, then, was his surprise and sorrow, to be told, that he had now

been very ill five months, and that it was not at all expected that he

ever would be better, until he went to dwell in the New Jerusalem--that

_'Noblest Crystal Palace',_--"descending out of heaven from God,

having the glory of God: and whose light is like unto a stone most

precious, even like a jasper stone, clear as crystal; with gates of

pearl, and angels for the porters; with streets of gold, and a pure

river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne

of God and of the Lamb."--Rev. xxi. and xxii.

Poor Frank began to cry again, and think that he could hardly bear this

second trial. But Mrs. Scott looked cheerful, to his great astonishment,

and begged that they would walk up stairs, and see her son, who knew of

their arrival, and would be glad to see them.

Frank had mixed feelings as he listened to the invitation. He longed to

see dear Harry, and yet he was afraid of a sick chamber, and pictured it

all darkness and distress; and feared that he might hear again such

groans and shrieks as George had uttered.

He held his Grandma's hand quite tight, as he went with her along the

hall, and felt disposed to ask her not to go further, when they got to

the first landing; but then, remembering that Harry had expressed a wish

to see them, he thought it would be selfish and cruel to refuse; and so

he walked on bravely, though his little heart went pit-a-pat, and

sometimes seemed about to jump into his throat!

But when the door was opened, all his dread had gone! The room was light

and cheerful, the shutters were unclosed, and the blinds were up. A

cheerful fire blazed and crackled, and dear Harry lay beside it on a

sofa, looking lovely and lovingly as ever on him!

He put out both his hands to welcome him, and Frank saw that they were

very, very, very thin! Indeed, they looked almost transparent, they were

so white, and small, and delicate. Frank gave a little cough to stop a

sob, and stooped down to kiss him tenderly. But Harry gently put him

back, for he knew his cough was coming, caused by the opening of the

door. Long, long it lasted: the perspiration poured from his pale

forehead, and was dried upon his burning cheek; and the phlegm was

rattling in his throat, and yet would not come higher, and Frank really

feared he would be choked!

But soon the coughing ceased, and, smiling sweetly, he lay awhile quiet

and exhausted. Frank never took his eyes from off his face, and thought

it looked more beautiful than ever he had known it; and whilst he stood

and wondered what could make him look so calm amidst such suffering,

Harry once more opened his sweet soft hazel eyes, and said:--

"I hope, dear little Frank, I have not frightened you. I tried to stop

my cough on your account, and it made it worse than usual."

Poor Frank now stooped again to kiss him, but could not restrain his

tears another moment, yet kept repeating, "Oh! pray forgive me, Harry! I

do not mean to fret you; but indeed I cannot help it. Do forgive me; do

forgive me, Harry dear!"

It was now Harry's turn to be affected, and he could scarcely refrain

from weeping, with his feeling little friend; but resolutely mastering

his emotion, he began:--

"I asked you up to see me, dearest Frank, not to distress you, but to

comfort you, and cheer you, and prepare you for my death, which will

very shortly happen. I know you love me, and will grieve to lose me: and

_I_ feel sorry too, sometimes, to leave all those I love so

well--but then I go to others dearer still, even to God and Jesus, my

_own own_ Saviour!"

Little Frank began to dry his tears, and smile upon his happy friend.

"I have been to see 'The Crystal Palace,' Harry, and it is _so_

large and grand!" said he, hoping to amuse him.

"No doubt it will be, when completed, quite like a scene in fairy-land,"

said Harry, calmly; "but before that time arrives, angels will have

fetched me to one of the 'many mansions' that Jesus has prepared for all

who love him. (John xiv. 1, 2.) And think what palaces of light and

glory _they_ will be, dear Frank!"

"No doubt they will," said Frank, but looked as if he had no wish to see

them either, for the present.

Harry read his little thoughts, and said, "You are glad you are not in

my condition too. You would rather stay on earth with Grandmama, and all

the nice things that surround you here."

"Why, yes, I must confess I would," said Frank; "but I hope _that_

is not wrong? Is it anything against me, Harry?"

"By no means, Frank. And when I was in health like you, I felt the

same."

"Oh! I am glad of _that_" said Frank, relieved.

"But now that this earthly house of my tabernacle is dissolving, it is

very sweet to feel that I have a building of God, a house not made with

hands, eternal in the heavens, (2 Cor. v. 1); and I want to tell you how

you may have one too."

"I should like to know, I'm sure," said Frank.

"Yes. It is the one _thing needful_, dear; and all the time, and

trouble, and labor, spent in getting ready to take possession of it,

will be well repaid, the very moment that we see it. And however fair

that house may be I shall be fitted to inhabit it, which is another

comfort; for Jesus will present me faultless before his presence, with

exceeding joy. (Jude, 24.) He has loved me--suffered for me--saved me,

and preserved me to this hour; and now he is going to take me to

himself. There I shall see his glory; there I shall love him, and obey

him, and adore him, as all the blessed spirits do who are already

there."

"I can hardly wonder that you wish to go," said Frank, catching the

inspiration of his friend.

"No; it is far more wonderful that so many wish to stay."

"And yet this is a very pleasant place," said Frank. "I always feel it

so when I am good."

"And God means it for a very pleasant place, my dear. He has given us

the mountain and the glen, the forest and the grove, the lake and the

waterfall, the fruits and the flowers, the beasts and the birds, and all

that is beautiful and good for us! And when I think of these, I repeat

my favorite verse, and say--

"O God! O Good beyond compare!

If thus thy meaner works are fair--

If thus thy bounty gilds the span

Of ruined earth and sinful man,

How glorious must the mansion be

Where thy redeemed shall dwell with thee!"

"I am glad that it is proper to be happy," said Frank, thoughtfully; "I

used to tell George Grant at school I thought it was; but he said that

all good people must be dull and sad, and called them '_spoonies_.'"

"Then you must show him his mistake, dear, and let him see you always

cheerful; because you are obedient, industrious, affectionate, and

grateful."

"I wish I _was_ a Crystal Palace, I am sure, from the bottom of my

heart," said Frank.

"A what! my dear?" asked Henry in surprise.

"Tell him what I mean, Grandma; you can explain it better, far, than I

can do," said Frank.

"No; try yourself, instead."

"I really can't, Grandma, though I do _quite_ understand it; so

tell him, if you please."

Mrs. Grey explained the previous conversations, with which the reader is

acquainted, and at the conclusion, Frank exclaimed:--

"And, Harry dear, it is delightful to see that God has made of you a

'Crystal Palace,' I am sure."

Poor Harry shook his head at first, and said, "A very little palace,

dear, I am afraid."

"But Grandma says, that little things may be complete, and beautiful,

and luminous," said Frank.

"Well, shall I tell you, then, how it has been formed?" said Harry.

"Oh, do!" said Frank; "that will be kind."

"Then tell me what is _all_ glass made of?"

"Of flint and sand," said Frank.

"Exactly; and how are they melted down to glass?"

"By a great fire, called a furnace," replied Frank.

"Just so; and in this very furnace of affliction has my heart of flint,

and my loose sand of character, that would not fix itself to any good,

been melted down by God, to what you see. Let Him have _all_ the

praise, dear boy."

Harry now laid back his head, and looked fatigued.

Frank turned towards his grandmama, to see if she observed it, and would

take her leave.

Harry watched them both, and stretching out his arms, embraced Frank

tenderly, and said:--"You will live to be a 'Crystal Palace,' darling.

Only promise me one thing, before you go, that you will never, never

cease to pray about it."

Mrs. Scott now rose, and wished them hastily to leave the room, for she

saw her son was very faint; and before Frank and Mrs. Grey had left the

house, Harry had gone to take possession of his mansion!

His Grandmama did not inform him, for she thought it would too much

excite him; but after sitting silent in the carriage for a time, Frank

said:--

"Grandma! I never will forget one word that dearest Harry said to me;

nor will I cease to pray that both George Grant and I may each become a

_living_ 'Crystal Palace.'"