This little work is a sort of _protegé_ of _The Forget-Me-Not_, and is
by the same editor. It contains fifty pieces in verse and prose, and
eight pleasing plates and a vignette--all which will please the little
folks more than our description of them would their elders. Nearly all
of them contain several figures, but one--The Riding School--about
twenty boys _playing at Soldiers_, horse and foot, very pleasantly
illustrates an observation in a recent number of the Edinburgh Review,
on the dramatic character of the amusements of children. The scene is a
large, ancient, dilapidated building, and the little people personate
the Duke of Wellington, the Marquess of Anglesea, &c., with all the
precision of military tactics--but no one has a taste for being a
private. So it is through life.
Our extract is almost a literary curiosity:
"THE INVALID'S PIPE.[2]
[2] This story has been transmitted to the Editor as the genuine
production of the son of a British military officer, only nine
years of age, and composed from a circumstance which actually
occurred in a noble German family.
"It was not far from the Castle of Fürstenstein, near the spot where the
gallant Blucher, with the brave army of Silesia, won such glory, that
the Baron of Fürstenstein met a maimed soldier, who was endeavouring to
reach Berlin to claim his pension, and whose age denoted that his wounds
had long been his honourable though painful companions. The Baron,
observing a very richly mounted pipe in the old man's possession,
accosted him with, 'God bless you, old soldier! does your pipe comfort
you this morning?' The pipe which the old soldier was smoking was made
of a curious sort of porcelain, and mounted with gold. The Baron
wondered to see so costly a pipe in the old soldier's possession, and
wishing to purchase it from him, said, 'My friend! what shall I give you
for your pipe?'
"'Oh, sir!' replied the soldier, shaking his head, 'this pipe I can
never part with; it was the gift of the bravest of men, who took it from
a Turkish Bashaw at the battle of Belgrade. There, sir, thanks to Prince
Eugene, we obtained noble spoils--there, where our troops so bravely
destroyed the Turkish squadrons.'
"'Talk another time of your exploits, my friend,' said the nobleman;
'here take this double ducat, and give me your pipe; I feel an
insurmountable wish to possess it.'
"'I am a poor man, sir, and have nothing to live upon but my pension;
yet I would not part with this pipe for all the gold that you possess.
Listen, sir, and I will relate to you the story of this pipe, which is
remarkable, or my poverty would long ere now have induced me to sell
it:--As we Hussars were charging over the enemy, a shot from the ranks
of the Janissaries pierced our noble captain through the breast; I
caught him in my arms, placed him on my horse, and carried him out of
the confusion of the battle. It was an irresistible sensation of
gratitude that prompted me to do so, for he had once rescued me when I
was wounded and taken prisoner. I watched over him to the latest moment;
and a few moments before his death, he gave me his purse and this pipe,
then pressed my hand and breathed his last sigh. Heroic spirit! never
shall I forget him!'
"As he thus spoke, the tears fell fast from the old man's eyes; but he
soon recovered himself, and proceeded--'The money I gave to the worthy
landlord under whose roof he died, and who had been thrice plundered by
the enemy; the pipe I kept as a sacred remembrance of the brave. In
every situation, and through all the vicissitudes of my life, I have
taken care to preserve it as a sacred relic, whether pursuing or
retreating from the enemy; and when it was not in use, I placed it for
safety withing my boot. At the battle of Prague, a cannon-ball
unfortunately carried my right leg and pipe away together. My first
thought was to secure the safety of my pipe, for at the moment I felt
but little pain, and then------'
"'Stop, soldier; your story is too affecting! O tell me, I entreat you,
who was the brave man, that I may also honour and respect his memory?'
"'His name was Walter von Fürstenstein; and I have heard that his family
was of Silesia, and that his estates lay in that province.'
"'Gracious God!' ejaculated the nobleman, 'he was my father! and the
estates you mention, good old man, are now mine. Come, friend, forget
all your sorrows, and live with me under that same Walter's roof whom
you so faithfully served; and come and eat of Walter's bread, and
partake of that comfort which your age demands, and which my gratitude
for your services to the best of fathers is ready to bestow. I am too
deeply affected to say more at present; enter this mansion, where you
shall repose in peace for the remainder of your life!'
"'Thanks, noble sir, I accept your generous charity; the son of Walter
von Fürstenstein is worthy of such a father. Here, sir, take this relic
(presenting the pipe)--it is a memorial of that Providence which has so
miraculously conducted me from the father to the son.'
"The pipe still remains hung up among the family trophies in the Castle
of Fürstenstein."
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