Nevertheless, as Hans and the damsel were agreed, every thing

else--threats, denunciations, sarcasms, cuttings-off with a shilling,

and loss of a ponderous dowry--all went for nothing. They were married,

as some thousands were before them in just the like circumstances. But

if the Bohemian maid was not mad, it must be confessed that Hans was

rather so. He was monstrously exasperated at the contempt heaped by the

heavy bergman on the future Bürgermeister of Rapps, and determined to

show a little spirit. As his fiddle entered into all his schemes, he

resolved to have music at his wedding; and no sooner did he and his

bride issue from the church, than out broke the harmony which he had

provided. The fiddle played merrily, "You'll repent, repent, repent;

you'll repent, repent, repent;" and the bassoon answered, in surly

tones, "And soon! and soon!" "I hope, my dear," said the bride, "You

don't mean the words for us." "No, love," explained Hans, gallantly; "I

don't say 'we,' but 'you'--that is, certain haughty people on these

hills that shall be nameless." Then the music played till they reached

the inn where they dined, and then set off in a handsome hired carriage

for Rapps.

It is true, that there was little happiness in this affair to any one.

The old people were full of anger, curses, and threats of total

disownment. Hans's pride was pricked, and perforated, till he was as

sore as if he had been tattooed with his own needle; and his wife was

completely drowned in sorrow at such a parting with her parents, and

with no little sense of remorse for her disobedience. Nevertheless, they

reached home; things began gradually to assume a more composed aspect.

Hans loved his wife; she loved him; he was industrious, she was careful;

and they trusted, in time, to bring her parents round, when they should

see that they were doing well in the world.

Again the saving scheme began to haunt Hans; but he had one luckless

notion, which was destined to cost him no little vexation. With the

stock of the shop, he had inherited from his father a stock of old

maxims, which, unluckily, had not got burnt in the fire with the rest of

the patrimonial heritage. Among these was one, that a woman can not keep

a secret. Acting on this creed, Hans not only never told his wife of the

project of becoming Bürgermeister of Rapps, but he did not even give her

reason to suppose that he laid up a shilling; and that she might not

happen to stumble upon his money, he took care to carry it always about

him. It was his delight, when he got into a quiet corner, or as he came

along a retired lane, from his errands, to take it out and count it; and

calculate when it would amount to this and that sum, and when the full

sum would be really his own. Now, it happened one day, that having been

a good deal absorbed in these speculations, he had loitered a precious

piece of time away; and suddenly coming to himself, he set off, as was

his wont, on a kind of easy trot, in which, his small, light form thrown

forward, his pale, gray-eyed, earnest-looking visage thrown up toward

the sky, and his long blue coat flying in a stream behind him, he cut

one of the most extraordinary figures in the world; and checking his

pace as he entered the town, he involuntarily clapped his hand on his

pocket, and behold! his money was gone! It had slipped away through a

hole it had worn. In the wildness and bitterness of his loss, he turned

back, heartily cursing the spinner and the weaver of that most

detestable piece of buckram that composed his breeches-pocket, for

having put it together so villainously that it broke down with the

carriage of a few dollars, halfpence, thimbles, balls of wax and thread,

and a few other sundries, after the trifling wear of seven years, nine

months, and nineteen days.

He was peering, step by step, after his lost treasure, when up came his

wife, running like one wild, and telling him that he must come that

instant; for the Ritter of Flachenflaps had brought in new liveries for

all his servants, and threatened if he did not see Hans in five minutes,

he would carry the work over to the other side of the street. There was

a perplexity! The money was not to be found, and if it were found in the

presence of his wife, he would regard it as no better than lost. He was

therefore obliged to excuse his conduct, being caught in the act of

poring after something, to tell, if not a lie, at least the very

smallest part of the truth, and say that he had lost his thimble. The

money was not found, and to make bad worse, he was in danger of losing a

good job, and all the Ritter's work forever, as a consequence.

Away he ran, therefore, groaning inwardly, at full speed, and, arriving

out of breath, saw the Ritter's carriage drawn up at his opponent's

door. Wormwood upon wormwood! His money was lost; his best customer was

lost, and thrown into the jaws of the detested Hippopotamus. There he

beheld him and his man in a prime bustle from day to day, while his own

house was deserted. All people went where the Ritter went, of course.

The Hippopotamus was now grazing and browsing through Hans's richest

meadows with a vengeance. He was flourishing out of all bounds. He had

got a horse to ride out on and take orders, and to all appearance was

likely to become Bürgermeister ten years before Hans had got ten dollars

of his own.

It was too much for even his sanguine temperament; he sank down to the

very depths of despair; his fiddle had lost its music; he could not

abide to hear it; he sate moody and disconsolate, with a beard an inch

long. His wife for some time hoped it would go off; but, seeing it come

to this, she began to console and advise, to rouse his courage and his

spirits. She told him it was that horse which gave the advantage to his

neighbor. While he went trudging on foot, wearying himself, and wasting

his time, people came, grew weary, and would not wait. She offered,

therefore, to borrow her neighbor's ass for him; and advised him to ride

out daily a little way. It would look as though he had business in the

country. It would look as if his time was precious; it would look well,

and do his health good into the bargain. Hans liked her counsel; it

sounded well--nay, exceedingly discreet. He always thought her a gem of

a woman, but he never imagined her half so able. What a pity a woman

could not be trusted with a secret! Were it not for that, she would be a

helpmate past all reckoning.

The ass, however, was got: out rode Hans; looked amazingly hurried; and,

being half-crazed with care, people thought he was half-crazed with

stress of business. Work came in; things went flowingly on again; Hans

blessed his stars; and as he grasped his cash, he every day stitched it

into the crown of his cap, taking paper-money for the purpose. No more

pots, no more hiding-holes, no more breeches-pockets for him; he put it

under the guardianship of his own strong thread and dexterous needle;

and all went on exceedingly well.

Accidents will, however, occur, if men will not trust their wives; and

especially if they will not avoid awkward habits. Now, Hans had a

strange habit of sticking his needles on his breeches-knees as he sat at

work; and sometimes he would have half-a-dozen on each knee for

half-a-dozen days. His wife often told him to take them out when he came

down from his board, and often took them out herself; but it was of no

use. He was just in this case one day as he rode out to take measure of

a gentleman, about five miles off. The ass, to his thinking, was in a

remarkably brisk mood. Off it went, without whip or spur, at a good

active trot, and, not satisfied with trotting, soon fairly proceeded to

a gallop. Hans was full of wonder at the beast. Commonly it tired his

arm worse with thrashing it during his hour's ride, than the exercise of

his goose and sleeve-board did for a whole day; but now he was fain to

pull it in. It was to no purpose; faster than ever it dashed on,

prancing, running sideways, wincing, and beginning to show a most ugly

temper. What, in the name of all Balaams, could possess the animal, he

could not for his life conceive! The only chance of safety appeared to

lie in clinging with both arms and legs to it, like a boa-constrictor to

its victim, when, shy!--away it flew, as if it were driven by a legion

of devils. In another moment, it stopped; down went its head, up went

its infernal heels; and Hans found himself some ten yards off, in the

middle of a pool. He escaped drowning, but the cap was gone; he had been

foolish enough to stitch some dollars, in hard cash, recently received,

into it along with his paper, and they sunk it, past recovery! He came

home, dripping like a drowned mouse, with a most deplorable tale; but

with no more knowledge of the cause of his disaster than the man in the

moon, till he tore his fingers on the needles, in abstracting his wet

clothes.

Fortune now seemed to have said, as plainly as she could speak, "Hans,

confide in your wife. You see all your schemes without her fail. Open

your heart to her--deal fairly, generously, and you will reap the merits

of it." It was all in vain--he had not yet come to his senses. Obstinate

as a mule--he determined to try once more. But good-by to the ass! The

only thing he resolved to mount was his shop board--that bore him well,

and brought him continued good, could he only continue to keep it.

His wife, I said, came from the mountains; she, therefore, liked the

sight of trees. Now, in Hans's back-yard there was neither tree nor

turf, so she got some tubs, and in them she planted a variety of

fir-trees, which made a pleasant appearance, and gave a help to her

imagination of the noble firs of her native scenes. In one of these

tubs, Hans conceived the singular design of depositing his future

treasure. "Nobody, will meddle with them," he thought, so accordingly,

from week to week, he concealed in one of them his acquisitions. It had

gone on a long time. He had been out one day, collecting some of his

debts--he had succeeded beyond his hopes, and came back exulting. The

sum was saved; and, in the gladness of his heart, he bought his wife a

new gown. He bounded into the house with the lightness of seventeen. His

wife was not there--he looked into the back-yard. Saints and angels!

what is that? He beheld his wife busy with the tubs. The trees were

uprooted, and laid on the ground, and every particle of soil was thrown

out of the tubs. In the delirium of consternation, he flew to ask what

she had been doing.

"Oh! the trees, poor things, did not flourish; they looked sickly and

pining; she determined to give them some soil more suitable to their

natures; she had thrown the earth into the river, at the bottom of the

yard."

"And you have thrown into the river," exclaimed Hans, frantically, "the

hoarding of three years; the money which had cost me many a weary

day--many an anxious night. The money which would have made our

fortunes--in short, that would have made me Bürgermeister of Rapps."

Completely thrown off his guard, he betrayed his secret.

"Good gracious!" cried his wife, exceedingly alarmed; "why did you not

tell me of it?"

"Ay, that is the question!" said he. And it was a question; for, spite

of himself, it had occurred to his mind some dozens of times, and now it

came so overwhelmingly, that even when he thought he treated it with

contempt, it had fixed itself upon his better reason, and never left him

till it had worked a most fortunate revolution. He said to himself, "Had

I told my wife of it at the first, it could not possibly have happened

worse; and it is very likely it would have happened better. For the

future, then, be it so."

Thereupon, he unfolded to her the whole history and mystery of his

troubles, and his hopes. Now, Mrs. Hans Nadeltreiber had great cause to

feel herself offended, most grievously offended; but she was not at all

of a touchy temperament. She was a sweet, tender, patient, loving

creature, who desired her husband's honor and prosperity beyond any

thing; so she sate down, and in the most mild, yet acute and able

manner, laid down to him a plan of operations, and promised him such

aids and succors, that, struck at once with shame, contrition, and

admiration, he sprung up, clasped her to his heart, called her the very

gem of womanhood, and skipped two or three times across the floor, like

a man gone out of his senses. The truth is, however, he was but just

come into them.

From this day, a new life was begun in Hans's house. There he sat at his

work; there sat his wife by his side; aiding and contriving with a

woman's wit, a woman's love, and a woman's adroitness. She was worth ten

journeymen. Work never came in faster; never gave such satisfaction;

never brought in so much money; nor, besides this, was there ever such

harmony in the house, nor had they ever held such delectable discourse

together. There was nothing to conceal. Hans's thoughts flowed like a

great stream; and when they grew a little wild and visionary, as they

were apt to do, his wife smoothened and reduced them to sobriety, with

such a delicate touch, that, so far from feeling offended, he was

delighted beyond expression with her prudence. The fifty dollars were

raised in almost no time; and, as if prognostic of its becoming the seed

of a fortune, it came in most opportunely for purchasing a lot of cloth,

which more than trebled its cost, and gave infinite satisfaction to his

customers. Hans saw that the tide was rapidly rising with him, and his

wife urged him to push on with it; to take a larger house; to get more

hands; and to cut such a figure as should at once eclipse his rival. The

thing was done; but as their capital was still found scanty enough for

such an undertaking, Mrs. Nadeltreiber resolved to try what she could do

to increase it.

I should have informed the reader, had not the current of Hans's

disasters ran too strong for me, that his wife's parents were dead, and

had died without giving her any token of reconciliation--a circumstance

which, although it cut her to the heart, did not quite cast her down,

feeling that she had done nothing but what a parent might forgive, being

all of us creatures alike liable to error, demanding alike some little

indulgence for our weaknesses and our fancies. Her brother was now sole

representative of the family; and knowing the generosity of his nature,

she determined to pay him a visit, although, for the first time since

her marriage, in a condition very unfit for traveling. She went. Her

brother received her with all his early affection. In his house was born

her first child; and so much did she and her bantling win upon his

heart, that when the time came that she must return, nothing would serve

but he would take her himself. She had been so loud in Hans's praise,

that he determined to go and shake him by the hand. It would have done

any one good to have seen this worthy mountaineer setting forth, seated

in his neat, green-painted wicker wagon; his sister by his side, and the

child snugly-bedded in his own corn-hopper at their feet. Thus did they

go statelily, with his great black horse drawing them. It would have

been equally pleasant to see him set down his charge at the door of

Hans's house, and behold with wonder that merry mannikin, all smiles and

gesticulation, come forth to receive them. The contrast between Hans and

his brother-in-law was truly amusing. He, a shadow-like homunculus, so

light and dry, that any wind threatened to blow him before it; the

bergman, with a countenance like the rising sun, the stature of a giant,

and limbs like an elephant. Hans watched, with considerable anxiety, the

experiment of his kinsman seating himself in a chair. The chair,

however, stood firm; and the good man surveyed Hans, in return, with a

curious and critical air, as if doubtful whether he must not hold him

in contempt for the want of that solid matter of which he himself had

too much. Hans's good qualities, however, got the better of him. "The

man's a man, though," said he to himself, very philosophically, "and as

he is good to my sister, he shall know of it." Hans delighted him every

evening, by the powers of his violin; and the bergman, excessively fond

of music, like most of his countrymen, declared that he might perform in

the emperor's orchestra, and find nobody there to beat him. When he took

his leave, therefore, he seized one of Hans's hands with a cordial gripe

that was felt through every limb, and into the other he put a bag of one

thousand rix dollars, saying, "My sister ought not to have come

dowerless into a good husband's house. This is properly her own: take

it, and much good may it do you."

Our story need not be prolonged. The new tailor soon fled before the

star of Hans's ascendency. A very few years saw him installed into the

office of Bürgermeister, the highest of earthly honors in his eyes; and

if he had one trouble left, it was only in the reflection that he might

have attained his wishes years before had he understood the heart of a

good woman. The worshipful Herr Bürgermeister, and Frau Bürgermeisterin

of Rapps, often visited their colossal brother of the Böhmerwald, and

were thought to reflect no discredit on the old bergman family.

[From Dickens's "Household Words."]

LITTLE MARY.--A TALE OF THE IRISH FAMINE.

That was a pleasant place where I was born, though 'twas only a thatched

cabin by the side of a mountain stream, where the country was so lonely,

that in summer time the wild ducks used to bring their young ones to

feed on the bog, within a hundred yards of our door; and you could not

stoop over the bank to raise a pitcher full of water, without

frightening a shoal of beautiful speckled trout. Well, 'tis long ago

since my brother Richard, that's now grown a fine, clever man, God bless

him! and myself, used to set off together up the mountain to pick

bunches of the cotton plant and the bog myrtle, and to look for birds'

and wild bees' nests. 'Tis long ago--and though I'm happy and well off

now, living in the big house as own maid to the young ladies, who, on

account of my being foster-sister to poor darling Miss Ellen, that died

of decline, treat me more like their equal than their servant, and give

me the means to improve myself; still, at times, especially when James

Sweeney, a dacent boy of the neighbors, and myself are taking a walk

together through the fields in the cool and quiet of a summer's evening,

I can't help thinking of the times that are passed, and talking about

them to James with a sort of peaceful sadness, more happy, maybe, than

if we ware laughing aloud.

Every evening, before I say my prayers, I read a chapter in the Bible

that Miss Ellen gave me; and last night I felt my tears dropping forever

so long over one verse, "And God shall wipe away all tears from their

eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying,

neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are passed

away." The words made me think of them that are gone--of my father, and

his wife that was a true, fond mother to me; and above all, of my little

sister Mary, the _clureen bawn_[F] that nestled in her bosom.

I was a wild slip of a girl, ten years of age, and my brother Richard

about two years older, when my father brought home his second wife. She

was the daughter of a farmer up at Lackabawn, and was reared with care

and dacency; but her father held his ground at a rack-rent, and the

middleman that was between him and the head landlord did not pay his own

rent, so the place was ejected, and the farmer collected every penny he

had, and set off with his family to America. My father had a liking for

the youngest daughter, and well become him to have it, for a sweeter

creature never drew the breath of life; but while her father passed for

a _strong_[G] farmer, he was timorous-like about asking her to share his

little cabin; however, when he found how matters stood, he didn't lose

much time in finding out that she was willing to be his wife, and a

mother to his boy and girl. _That_ she was, a patient loving one. Oh! it

often sticks me like a knife, when I think how many times I fretted her

with my foolishness and my idle ways, and how 'twas a long time before

I'd call her "mother." Often, when my father would be going to chastise

Richard and myself for our provoking doings, especially the day that we

took half-a-dozen eggs from under the hatching hen, to play "Blind Tom"

with them, she'd interfere for us, and say, "Tim, _aleagh_, don't touch

them this time; sure 'tis only _arch_ they are: they'll get more sense

in time." And then, after he was gone out, she'd advise us for our good

so pleasantly, that a thundercloud itself couldn't look black at her.

She did wonders, too, about the house and garden. They were both dirty

and neglected enough when she first came over them; for I was too young

and foolish, and my father too busy with his out-door work, and the old

woman that lived with us in service too feeble and too blind to keep the

place either clean or decent; but my mother got the floor raised, and

the green pool in front drained, and a parcel of roses and honey-suckles

planted there instead. The neighbors' wives used to say, 'twas all pride

and upsetting folly, to keep the kitchen-floor swept clean, and to put

the potatoes on a dish, instead of emptying them out of the pot into the

middle of the table; and, besides, 'twas a cruel, unnatural thing, they

said, to take away the pool from the ducks, that they were always used

to paddle in so handy. But my mother was always too busy and too happy

to heed what they said; and, besides, she was always so ready to do a

kind turn for any of them, that, out of poor shame, they had at last to

leave off abusing her "fine English ways."

West of our house there was a straggling, stony piece of ground, where,

within the memory of man nothing ever grew but nettles, docks, and

thistles. One Monday, when Richard and myself came in from school, my

mother told us to set about weeding it, and to bring in some basketfuls

of good clay from the banks of the river; she said that if we worked

well at it until Saturday, she'd bring me a new frock, and Dick a

jacket, from the next market-town; and encouraged by this, we set to

work with right good will, and didn't leave off till supper time. The

next day we did the same; and by degrees, when we saw the heap of weeds

and stones that we got out, growing big, and the ground looking nice and

smooth and red and rich, we got quite anxious about it ourselves, and we

built a nice little fence round it to keep out the pigs. When it was

manured, my mother planted cabbages, parsnips, and onions in it; and, to

be sure, she got a fine crop out of it, enough to make us many a nice

supper of vegetables stewed with pepper, and a small taste of bacon or a

red herring. Besides, she sold in the market as much as bought a Sunday

coat for my father, a gown for herself, a fine pair of shoes for Dick,

and as pretty a shawl for myself, as e'er a colleen in the country could

show at mass. Through means of my father's industry and my mother's good

management, we were, with the blessing of God, as snug and comfortable a

poor family as any in Munster. We paid but a small rent, and we had

always plenty of potatoes to eat, good clothes to wear, and cleanliness

and decency in and about our little cabin.

Five years passed on in this way, and at last little Mary was born. She

was a delicate fairy thing, with that look, even from the first, in her

blue eyes, which is seldom seen, except where the shadow of the grave

darkens the cradle. She was fond of her father, and of Richard, and of

myself, and would laugh and crow when she saw us, but _the love in the

core of her heart_ was for her mother. No matter how tired, or sleepy,

or cross the baby might be, one word from _her_ would set the bright

eyes dancing, and the little rosy month smiling, and the tiny limbs

quivering, as if walking or running couldn't content her, but she must

fly to her mother's arms. And how that mother doted on the very ground

she trod! I often thought that the Queen in her state carriage, with her

son, God bless him! alongside of her, dressed out in gold and jewels,

was not one bit happier than my mother, when she sat under the shade of

the mountain ash, near the door, in the hush of the summer's evening,

singing and _cronauning_ her only one to sleep in her arms. In the month

of October, 1845, Mary was four years old. That was the bitter time,

when first the food of the earth was turned to poison; when the gardens

that used to be so bright and sweet, covered with the purple and white

potato blossoms, became in one night black and offensive, as if fire had

come down from heaven to burn them up. 'Twas a heart-breaking thing to

see the laboring men, the crathurs! that had only the one half-acre to

feed their little families, going out, after work, in the evenings to

dig their suppers from under the black stalks. Spadeful after spadeful

would be turned up, and a long piece of a ridge dug through, before

they'd get a small kish full of such withered _crohauneens_,[H] as other

years would be hardly counted fit for the pigs.

It was some time before the distress reached us, for there was a trifle

of money in the savings' bank, that held us in meal, while the neighbors

were next door to starvation. As long as my father and mother had it,

they shared it freely with them that were worse off than themselves; but

at last the little penny of money was all spent, the price of flour was

raised; and, to make matters worse, the farmer that my father worked

for, at a poor eight-pence a day, was forced to send him and three more

of his laborers away, as he couldn't afford to pay them even _that_ any

longer. Oh! 'twas a sorrowful night when my father brought home the

news. I remember, as well as if I saw it yesterday, the desolate look in

his face when he sat down by the ashes of the turf fire that had just

baked a yellow meal cake for his supper. My mother was at the opposite

side, giving little Mary a drink of sour milk out of her little wooden

piggin, and the child didn't like it, being delicate and always used to

sweet milk, so she said:

"Mammy, won't you give me some of the nice milk instead of that?"

"I haven't it _asthore_, nor can't get it," said her mother, "so don't

ye fret."

Not a word more out of the little one's mouth, only she turned her

little cheek in toward her mother, and staid quite quiet, as if she was

hearkening to what was going on.

"Judy," said my father, "God is good, and sure 'tis only in Him we must

put our trust; for in the wide world I can see nothing but starvation

before us."

"God _is_ good, Tim," replied my mother; "He won't forsake us."

Just then Richard came in with a more joyful face than I had seen on him

for many a day.

"Good news!" says he, "good news, father! there's work for us both on

the Droumcarra road. The government works are to begin there to-morrow;

you'll get eight-pence a day, and I'll get six-pence."

If you saw our delight when we heard this, you'd think 'twas the free

present of a thousand pounds that came to us, falling through the roof,

instead of an offer of small wages for hard work.

To be sure the potatoes were gone, and the yellow meal was dear and dry

and chippy--it hadn't the _nature_ about it that a hot potato has for a

poor man; but still 'twas a great thing to have the prospect of getting

enough of even that same, and not to be obliged to follow the rest of

the country into the poor-house, which was crowded to that degree that

the crathurs there--God help them!--hadn't room even to die quietly in

their beds, but were crowded together on the floor like so many dogs in

a kennel. The next morning my father and Richard were off before

daybreak, for they had a long way to walk to Droumcarra, and they should

be there in time to begin work. They took an Indian meal cake with them

to eat for their dinner, and poor dry food it was, with only a draught

of cold water to wash it down. Still my father, who was knowledgeable

about such things, always said it was mighty wholesome when it was well

cooked; but some of the poor people took a great objection against it on

account of the yellow color, which they thought came from having sulphur

mixed with it--and they said, Indeed it was putting a great affront on

the decent Irish to mix up their food as if 'twas for mangy dogs. Glad

enough, poor creatures, they were to get it afterward, when sea-weed and

nettles, and the very grass by the roadside, was all that many of them

had to put into their mouths.

When my father and brother came home in the evening, faint and tired

from the two long walks and the day's work, my mother would always try

to have something for them to eat with their porridge--a bit of butter,

or a bowl of thick milk, or maybe a few eggs. She always gave me plenty

as far as it would go; but 'twas little she took herself. She would

often go entirely without a meal, and then she'd slip down to the

huckster's, and buy a little white bun for Mary; and I'm sure it used to

do her more good to see the child eat it, than if she had got a

meat-dinner for herself. No matter how hungry the poor little thing

might be, she'd always break off a bit to put into her mother's mouth,

and she would not be satisfied until she saw her swallow it; then the

child would take a drink of cold water out of her little tin porringer,

as contented as if it was new milk.

As the winter advanced, the weather became wet and bitterly cold, and

the poor men working on the roads began to suffer dreadfully from being

all day in wet clothes, and, what was worse, not having any change to

put on when they went home at night without a dry thread about them.

Fever soon got among them, and my father took it. My mother brought the

doctor to see him, and by selling all our decent clothes, she got for

him whatever was wanting, but all to no use: 'twas the will of the Lord

to take him to himself, and he died after a few days' illness.

It would be hard to tell the sorrow that his widow and orphans felt,

when they saw the fresh sods planted on his grave. It was not grief

altogether like the grand stately grief of the quality, although maybe

the same sharp knife is sticking into the same sore bosom _inside_ in

both; but the _outside_ differs in rich and poor. I saw the mistress a

week after Miss Ellen died. She was in her drawing-room with the blinds

pulled down, sitting in a low chair, with her elbow on the small

work-table, and her cheek resting on her hand--not a speck of any thing

white about her but the cambric handkerchief, and the face that was

paler than the marble chimney-piece.

When she saw me (for the butler, being busy, sent me in with the

luncheon-tray), she covered her eyes with her handkerchief, and began to

cry, but quietly, as if she did not want it to be noticed. As I was

going out, I just heard her say to Miss Alice in a choking voice:

"Keep Sally here always; our poor darling was fond of her." And as I

closed the door, I heard her give one deep sob. The next time I saw her,

she was quite composed; only for the white cheek and the black dress,

you would not know that the burning feel of a child's last kiss had ever

touched her lips.

My father's wife mourned for him after another fashion. _She_ could not

sit quiet, she must work hard to keep the life in them to whom he gave

it; and it was only in the evenings when she sat down before the fire

with Mary in her arms, that she used to sob and rock herself to and fro,

and sing a low, wailing keen for the father of the little one, whose

innocent tears were always ready to fall when she saw her mother cry.

About this time my mother got an offer from some of the hucksters in the

neighborhood, who knew her honesty, to go three times a week to the next

market-town, ten miles off, with their little money, and bring them back

supplies of bread, groceries, soap, and candles. This she used to do,

walking the twenty miles--ten of them with a heavy load on her back--for

the sake of earning enough to keep us alive. 'Twas very seldom that

Richard could get a stroke of work to do: the boy wasn't strong in

himself, for he had the sickness too; though he recovered from it, and

always did his best to earn an honest penny wherever he could. I often

wanted my mother to let me go in her stead and bring back the load; but

she never would hear of it, and kept me at home to mind the house and

little Mary. My poor pet lamb! 'twas little minding she wanted. She

would go after breakfast and sit at the door, and stop there all day,

watching for her mother, and never heeding the neighbors' children that

used to come wanting her to play. Through the live-long hours she would

never stir, but just keep her eyes fixed on the lonesome _boreen_;[I]

and when the shadow of the mountain-ash grew long, and she caught a

glimpse of her mother ever so far off, coming toward home, the joy that

would flush on the small, patient face, was brighter than the sunbeam on

the river. And faint and weary as the poor woman used to be, before ever

she sat down, she'd have Mary nestling in her bosom. No matter how

little she might have eaten herself that day, she would always bring

home a little white bun for Mary; and the child, that had tasted nothing

since morning, would eat it so happily, and then fall quietly asleep in

her mother's arms.

At the end of some months I got the sickness myself, but not so heavily

as Richard did before. Any way, he and my mother tended me well through

it. They sold almost every little stick of furniture that was left, to

buy me drink and medicine. By degrees I recovered, and the first evening

I was able to sit up, I noticed a strange, wild brightness in my

mother's eyes, and a hot flush on her thin cheeks--she had taken the

fever.

Before she lay down on the wisp of straw that served her for a bed, she

brought little Mary over to me: "Take her, Sally," she said--and between

every word she gave the child a kiss--"take her; she's safer with you

than she'd be with me, for you're over the sickness, and 'tisn't long

any way, I'll be with you, my jewel," she said, as she gave the little

creature one long close hug, and put her into my arms.

'Twould take long to tell all about her sickness--how Richard and I, as

good right we had, tended her night and day; and how, when every

farthing and farthing's worth we had in the world was gone, the mistress

herself came down from the big house, the very day after the family

returned home from France, and brought wine, food, medicine, linen, and

every thing we could want.

Shortly after the kind lady was gone, my mother took the change for

death; her senses came back, she grew quite strong-like, and sat up

straight in the bed.

"Bring me the child, Sally, _aleagh_," she said. And when I carried

little Mary over to her, she looked into the tiny face, as if she was

reading it like a book.

"You won't be long away from me, my own one," she said, while her tears

fell down upon the child like summer-rain.

"Mother," said I, as well as I could speak for crying, "sure you _Know_

I'll do my best to tend her."

"I know you will, _acushla_; you were always a true and dutiful daughter

to me and to him that's gone; but, Sally, there's _that_ in my weeny one

that won't let her thrive without the mother's hand over her, and the

mother's heart for hers to lean against. And now--" It was all she could

say: she just clasped the little child to her bosom, fell back on my

arm, and in a few moments all was over. At first, Richard and I could

not believe that she was dead; and it was very long before the orphan

would loose her hold of the stiffening fingers; but when the neighbors

came in to prepare for the wake, we contrived to flatter her away.

Days passed on; the child was very quiet; she used to go as usual to sit

at the door, and watch, hour after hour, along the road that her mother

always took coming home from market, waiting for her that could never

come again. When the sun was near setting, her gaze used to be more

fixed and eager; but when the darkness came on, her blue eyes used to

droop like the flowers that shut up their leaves, and she would come in

quietly without saying a word, and allow me to undress her and put her

to bed.

It troubled us and the young ladies greatly that she would not eat. It

was almost impossible to get her to taste a morsel; indeed the only

thing she would let inside her lips was a bit of a little white bun,

like those her poor mother used to bring her. There was nothing left

untried to please her. I carried her up to the big house, thinking the

change might do her good, and the ladies petted her, and talked to her,

and gave her heaps of toys and cakes, and pretty frocks and coats; but

she hardly noticed them, and was restless and uneasy until she got back

to her own low, sunny door-step.

Every day she grew paler and thinner, and her bright eyes had a sad,

fond look in them, so like her mother's. One evening she sat at the door

later than usual.

"Come in, _alannah_," I said to her. "Won't you come in for your own

Sally?"

She never stirred. I went over to her; she was quite still, with her

little hands crossed on her lap, and her head drooping on her chest. I

touched her--she was cold. I gave a loud scream, and Richard came

running; he stopped and looked, and then burst out crying like an

infant. Our little sister was dead!

Well, my Mary, the sorrow was bitter, but it was short. You're gone home

to Him that comforts as a mother comforteth. _Agra machree_, your eyes

are as blue, and your hair as golden, and your voice as sweet, as they

were when you watched by the cabin-door; but your cheeks are not pale,

_acushla_, nor your little hands thin, and the shade of sorrow has

passed away from your forehead like a rain-cloud from the summer sky.

She that loved you so on earth, has clasped you forever to her bosom in

heaven; and God himself has wiped away all tears from your eyes, and

placed you both and our own dear father, far beyond the touch of sorrow

or the fear of death.

FOOTNOTES:

[F] White dove.

[G] Rich.

[H] Small potatoes.

[I] By-road.

THE OLD WELL IN LANGUEDOC.

The proof of the truth of the following statement, taken from the

_Courrier de l'Europe_, rests not only upon the known veracity of the

narrator, but upon the fact that the whole occurrence is registered in

the judicial records of the criminal trials of the province of

Languedoc. We give it as we heard it from the lips of the dreamer, as

nearly as possible in his own words.

As the junior partner in a commercial house at Lyons, I had been

traveling some time on the business of the firm, when, one evening in

the month of June, I arrived at a town in Languedoc where I had never

before been. I put up at a quiet inn in the suburbs, and, being very

much fatigued, ordered dinner at once; and went to bed almost

immediately after, determined to begin very early in the morning my

visits to the different merchants.

I was no sooner in bed than I fell into a deep sleep, and had a

dream that made the strongest impression upon me.

I thought that I had arrived at the same town, but in the middle of the

day, instead of the evening, as was really the case; that I had stopped

at the very same inn, and gone out immediately, as an unoccupied

stranger would do, to see whatever was worthy of observation in the

place. I walked down the main street, into another street, crossing it

at right angles, and apparently leading into the country. I had not gone

very far, when I came to a church, the Gothic portico of which I stopped

to examine. When I had satisfied my curiosity, I advanced to a by-path

which branched off from the main street. Obeying an impulse which I

could neither account for nor control, I struck into the path, though it

was winding, rugged, and unfrequented, and presently reached a miserable

cottage, in front of which was a garden covered with weeds. I had no

difficulty in getting into the garden, for the hedge had several gaps in

it, wide enough to admit four carts abreast. I approached an old well,

which stood solitary and gloomy in a distant corner; and looking down

into it, I beheld distinctly, without any possibility of mistake, a

corpse which had been stabbed in several places. I counted the deep

wounds and the wide gashes whence the blood was flowing.

I would have cried out, but my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. At

this moment I awoke, with my hair on end, trembling in every limb, and

cold drops of perspiration bedewing my forehead--awoke to find myself

comfortably in bed, my trunk standing beside me, birds warbling

cheerfully around my window; while a young, clear voice was singing a

provincial air in the next room, and the morning sun was shining

brightly through the curtains.

I sprung from my bed, dressed myself, and, as it was yet very early, I

thought I would seek an appetite for breakfast by a morning stroll. I

accordingly entered the main street, and went along. The farther I

walked, the stranger became the confused recollection of the objects

that presented themselves to my view. "It is very strange," I thought;

"I have never been here before; and I could swear that I have seen this

house, and the next, and that other on the left." On I went, till I came

to the corner of a street, crossing the one down which I had come. For

the first time, I remembered my dream, but put away the thought as too

absurd; still, at every step, some fresh point of resemblance struck me.

"Am I still dreaming!" I exclaimed, not without a momentary thrill

through my whole frame. "Is the agreement to be perfect to the very

end?" Before long, I reached the church, with the same architectural

features that had attracted my notice in the dream; and then the

high-road, along which I pursued my way, coming at length to the same

by-path that had presented itself to my imagination a few hours before.

There was no possibility of doubt or mistake. Every tree, every turn,

was familiar to me. I was not at all of a superstitious turn, and was

wholly engrossed in the practical details of commercial business. My

mind had never dwelt upon the hallucinations, the presentiments, that

science either denies, or is unable to explain; but I must confess, that

I now felt myself spell-bound, as by some enchantment; and, with

Pascal's words on my lips, "A continued dream would be equal to

reality," I hurried forward, no longer doubting that the next moment

would bring me to the cottage; and this really was the case. In all its

outward circumstances, it corresponded to what I had seen in my dream.

Who, then, could wonder that I determined to ascertain whether the

coincidence would hold good in every other point? I entered the garden,

and went direct to the spot on which I had seen the well; but here the

resemblance failed--well, there was none. I looked in every direction;

examined the whole garden, went round the cottage, which appeared to be

inhabited, although no person was visible; but nowhere could I find any

vestige of a well.

I made no attempt to enter the cottage, but hastened back to the hotel,

in a state of agitation difficult to describe. I could not make up my

mind to pass unnoticed such extraordinary coincidences; but how was any

clew to be obtained to the terrible mystery?

I went to the landlord, and after chatting with him for some time on

different subjects, I came to the point, and asked him directly to whom

the cottage belonged that was on a by-road which I described to him.

"I wonder, sir," said he, "what made you take such particular notice of

such a wretched little hovel. It is inhabited by an old man with his

wife, who have the character of being very morose and unsociable. They

rarely leave the house--see nobody, and nobody goes to see them; but

they are quiet enough, and I never heard any thing against them beyond

this. Of late, their very existence seems to have been forgotten; and I

believe, sir, that you are the first who, for years, has turned his

steps to the deserted spot."

These details, far from satisfying my curiosity, did but provoke it the

more. Breakfast was served, but I could not touch it; and I felt that if

I presented myself to the merchants in such a state of excitement, they

would think me mad; and, indeed, I felt very much excited. I paced up

and down the room, looked out at the window, trying to fix my attention

on some external object, but in vain. I endeavored to interest myself in

a quarrel between two men in the street; but the garden and the cottage

preoccupied my mind; and, at last, snatching my hat, I cried, "I will

go, come what may."

I repaired to the nearest magistrate, told him the object of my visit,

and related the whole circumstance briefly and clearly. I saw directly

that he was much impressed by my statement.

"It is, indeed, very strange," said he, "and after what has happened, I

do not think I am at liberty to leave the matter without further

inquiry. Important business will prevent my accompanying you in a

search, but I will place two of the police at your command. Go once more

to the hovel, see its inhabitants, and search every part of it. You may,

perhaps, make some important discovery."

I suffered but a very few moments to elapse before I was on my way,

accompanied by the two officers, and we soon reached the cottage. We

knocked, and after waiting for some time, an old man opened the door. He

received us somewhat uncivilly, but showed no mark of suspicion, nor,

indeed, of any other emotion, when we told him we wished to search the

house.

"Very well, gentlemen; as fast, and as soon as you please," he replied.

"Have you a well here?" I inquired.

"No, sir; we are obliged to go for water to a spring at a considerable

distance."

We searched the house, which I did, I confess, with a kind of feverish

excitement, expecting every moment to bring some fatal secret to light.

Meantime, the man gazed upon us with an impenetrable vacancy of look,

and we at last left the cottage without seeing any thing that could

confirm my suspicions. I resolved to inspect the garden once more; and a

number of idlers having been by this time collected, drawn to the spot

by the sight of a stranger with two armed men engaged in searching the

premises, I made inquiries of some of them whether they knew any thing

about a well in that place. I could get no information at first, but at

length an old woman came slowly forward, leaning on a crutch.

"A well!" cried she; "is it the well you are looking after? That has

been gone these thirty years. I remember, as if it were only yesterday,

many a time, when I was a young girl, how I used to amuse myself by

throwing stones into it, and hearing the splash they used to make in the

water."

"And could you tell where that well used to be?" I asked, almost

breathless with excitement.

"As near as I can remember, on the very spot on which your honor is

standing," said the old woman.

"I could have sworn it!" thought I, springing from the place as if I had

trod upon a scorpion.

Need I say, that we set to work to dig up the ground. At about eighteen

inches deep, we came to a layer of bricks, which, being broken up, gave

to view some boards, which were easily removed; after which we beheld

the mouth of the well.

"I was quite sure it was here," said the woman. "What a fool the old

fellow was to stop it up, and then have so far to go for water!"

A sounding-line, furnished with hooks, was let down into the well; the

crowd pressing around us, and breathlessly bending over the dark and

fetid hole, the secrets of which seemed hidden in impenetrable

obscurity. This was repeated several times without any result. At

length, penetrating below the mud, the hooks caught an old chest, upon

the top of which had been thrown a great many large stones; and after

much effort and time, we succeeded in raising it to daylight. The sides

and lid were decayed and rotten; it needed no locksmith to open it; and

we found within, what I was certain we should find, and which paralyzed

with horror all the spectators, who had not my pre-convictions--we found

the remains of a human body.

The police-officers who had accompanied me now rushed into the house,

and secured the person of the old man. As to his wife, no one could at

first tell what had become of her. After some search, however, she was

found hidden behind a bundle of fagots.

By this time, nearly the whole town had gathered around the spot; and

now that this horrible fact had come to light, every body had some crime

to tell, which had been laid to the charge of the old couple. The people

who predict after an event, are numerous.

The old couple were brought before the proper authorities, and privately

and separately examined. The old man persisted in his denial, most

pertinaciously; but his wife at length confessed, that, in concert with

her husband, she had once--a very long time ago--murdered a peddler,

whom they had met one night on the high-road, and who had been

incautious enough to tell them of a considerable sum of money which he

had about him, and whom, in consequence, they induced to pass the night

at their house. They had taken advantage of the heavy sleep induced by

fatigue, to strangle him; his body had been put into the chest, the

chest thrown into the well, and the well stopped up.

The peddler being from another country, his disappearance had occasioned

no inquiry; there was no witness of the crime; and as its traces had

been carefully concealed from every eye, the two criminals had good

reason to believe themselves secure from detection. They had not,

however, been able to silence the voice of conscience; they fled from

the sight of their fellow-men; they trembled at the slightest noise, and

silence thrilled them with terror. They had often formed a determination

to leave the scene of their crime--to fly to some distant land; but

still some undefinable fascination kept them near the remains of their

victim.

Terrified by the deposition of his wife, and unable to resist the

overwhelming proofs against him, the man at length made a similar

confession; and six weeks after, the unhappy criminals died on the

scaffold, in accordance with the sentence of the Parliament of Toulouse.

They died penitent.

The well was once more shut up, and the cottage leveled to the ground.

It was not, however, until fifty years had in some measure deadened the

memory of the terrible transaction, that the ground was cultivated. It

is now a fine field of corn.

Such was the dream and its result.

I never had the courage to revisit the town where I had been an actor in

such a tragedy.

[From the Dublin University Magazine.]

SUMMER PASTIME.

Do you ask how I'd amuse me

When the long bright summer comes,

And welcome leisure woos me

To shun life's crowded homes;

To shun the sultry city,

Whose dense, oppressive air

Might make one weep with pity

For those who must be there?

I'll tell you then--I would not

To foreign countries roam,

As though my fancy could not

Find occupance at home;

Nor to home-haunts of fashion

Would I, least of all, repair,

For guilt, and pride, and passion,

Have summer-quarters there.

Far, far from watering-places

Of note and name I'd keep,

For there would vapid faces

Still throng me in my sleep;

Then contact with the foolish,

The arrogant, the vain,

The meaningless--the mulish,

Would sicken heart and brain.

No--I'd seek some shore of ocean

Where nothing comes to mar

The ever-fresh commotion

Of sea and land at war;

Save the gentle evening only

As it steals along the deep,

So spirit-like and lonely,

To still the waves to sleep.

There long hours I'd spend in viewing

The elemental strife,

My soul the while subduing

With the littleness of life;

Of life, with all its paltry plans,

Its conflicts and its cares--

The feebleness of all that's man's--

The might that's God's and theirs!

And when eve came I'd listen

To the stilling of that war,

Till o'er my head should glisten

The first pure silver star;

Then, wandering homeward slowly,

I'd learn my heart the tune

Which the dreaming billows lowly,

Were murmuring to the moon!

R.C.

[From Dickens's Household Words.]

THE CHEMISTRY OF A CANDLE.

The Wilkinsons were having a small party, it consisted of themselves and

Uncle Bagges, at which the younger members of the family, home for the

holidays, had been just admitted to assist after dinner. Uncle Bagges

was a gentleman from whom his affectionate relatives cherished

expectations of a testamentary nature. Hence the greatest attention was

paid by them to the wishes of Mr. Bagges, as well as to every

observation which he might be pleased to make.

"Eh! what? you sir," said Mr. Bagges, facetiously addressing himself to

his eldest nephew, Harry--"Eh! what? I am glad to hear, sir, that you

are doing well at school. Now--eh! now, are you clever enough to tell me

where was Moses when he put the candle out?"

"That depends, uncle," answered the young gentleman, "on whether he had

lighted the candle to see with at night, or by daylight to seal a

letter."

"Eh! very good, now! 'Pon my word, very good," exclaimed Uncle Bagges.

"You must be Lord Chancellor, sir--Lord Chancellor, one of these days."

"And now, uncle," asked Harry, who was a favorite with the old

gentleman, "can you tell me what you do when you put a candle out?"

"Clap an extinguisher on it, you young rogue, to be sure."

"Oh! but I mean, you cut off its supply of oxygen," said Master Harry.

"Cut off its ox's--eh? what? I shall cut off your nose, you young dog,

one of these fine days."

"He means something he heard at the Royal Institution," observed Mrs.

Wilkinson. "He reads a great deal about chemistry, and he attended

Professor Faraday's lectures there on the chemical history of a candle,

and has been full of it ever since."

"Now, you sir," said Uncle Bagges, "come you here to me, and tell me

what you have to say about this chemical, eh? or comical; which? this

comical chemical history of a candle."

"He'll bore you, Bagges," said Mrs. Wilkinson. "Harry, don't be

troublesome to your uncle."

"Troublesome! Oh, not at all. He amuses me. I like to hear him. So let

him teach his old uncle the comicality and chemicality of a farthing

rushlight."

"A wax candle will be nicer and cleaner, uncle, and answer the same

purpose. There's one on the mantle-shelf. Let me light it."

"Take care you don't burn your fingers, or set any thing on fire," said

Mrs. Wilkinson.

"Now, uncle," commenced Harry, having drawn his chair to the side of Mr.

Bagges, "we have got our candle burning. What do you see?"

"Let me put on my spectacles," answered the uncle.

"Look down on the top of the candle around the wick. See, it is a

little cup full of melted wax. The heat of the flame has melted the wax

just round the wick. The cold air keeps the outside of it hard, so as to

make the rim of it. The melted wax in the little cup goes up through the

wick to be burnt, just as oil does in the wick of a lamp. What do you

think makes it go up, uncle?"

"Why--why, the flame draws it up, doesn't it?"

"Not exactly, uncle. It goes up through little tiny passages in the

cotton wick, because very, very small channels, or pipes, or pores, have

the power in themselves of sucking up liquids. What they do it by is

called cap--something."

"Capillary attraction, Harry," suggested Mr. Wilkinson.

"Yes, that's it; just as a sponge sucks up water, or a bit of lump-sugar

the little drop of tea or coffee left in the bottom of a cup. But I

mustn't say much more about this, or else you will tell me I am doing

something very much like teaching my grandmother to--you know what."

"Your grandmother, eh, young sharpshins?"

"No--I mean my uncle. Now, I'll blow the candle out, like Moses; not to

be in the dark, though, but to see into what it is. Look at the smoke

rising from the wick. I'll hold a bit of lighted paper in the smoke, so

as not to touch the wick. But see, for all that, the candle lights

again. So this shows that the melted wax sucked up through the wick is

turned into vapor; and the vapor burns. The heat of the burning vapor

keeps on melting more wax, and that is sucked up too within the flame,

and turned into vapor, and burnt, and so on till the wax is all used up,

and the candle is gone. So the flame, uncle, you see is the last of the

candle, and the candle seems to go through the flame into

nothing--although it doesn't, but goes into several things, and isn't it

curious, as Professor Faraday said, that the candle should look so

splendid and glorious in going away."

"How well he remembers, doesn't he?" observed Mrs. Wilkinson.

"I dare say," proceeded Harry, "that the flame of the candle looks flat

to you; but if we were to put a lamp glass over it, so as to shelter it

from the draught, you would see it is round, round sideways, and running

up to a peak. It is drawn up by the hot air; you know that hot air

always rises, and that is the way smoke is taken up the chimney. What

should you think was in the middle of the flame?"

"I should say, fire," replied Uncle Bagges.

"Oh, no! The flame is hollow. The bright flame we see is something no

thicker than a thin peel, or skin; and it doesn't touch the wick. Inside

of it is the vapor I told you of just now. If you put one end of a bent

pipe into the middle of the flame, and let the other end of the pipe dip

into a bottle, the vapor or gas from the candle will mix with the air

there; and if you set fire to the mixture of gas from the candle and

air in the bottle, it would go off with a bang."

"I wish you'd do that, Harry," said Master Tom, the younger brother of

the juvenile lecturer.

"I want the proper things," answered Harry. "Well, uncle, the flame of

the candle is a little shining case, with gas in the inside of it, and

air on the outside, so that the case of flame is between the air and the

gas. The gas keeps going into the flame to burn, and when the candle

burns properly, none of it ever passes out through the flame; and none

of the air ever gets in through the flame to the gas. The greatest heat

of the candle is in this skin, or peel, or case of flame."

"Case of flame!" repeated Mr. Bagges. "Live and learn. I should have

thought a candle flame was as thick as my poor old noddle."

"I can show you the contrary," said Harry. "I take this piece of white

paper, look, and hold it a second or two down upon the candle flame,

keeping the flame very steady. Now I'll rub off the black of the smoke,

and--there--you find that the paper is scorched in the shape of a ring;

but inside the ring it is only dirtied, and not singed at all."

"Seeing is believing," remarked the uncle.

"But," proceeded Harry, "there is more in the candle flame than the gas

that comes out of the candle. You know a candle won't burn without air.

There must be always air around the gas, and touching it like to make it

burn. If a candle hasn't got enough air, it goes out, or burns badly, so

that some of the vapor inside of the flame comes out through it in the

form of smoke, and this is the reason of a candle smoking. So now you

know why a great clumsy dip smokes more than a neat wax candle; it is

because the thick wick of the dip makes too much fuel in proportion to

the air that can get to it."

"Dear me! Well, I suppose there is a reason for every thing," exclaimed

the young philosopher's mamma.

"What should you say, now," continued Harry, "if I told you that the

smoke that comes out of a candle is the very thing that makes a candle

light? Yes; a candle shines by consuming its own smoke. The smoke of a

candle is a cloud of small dust, and the little grains of the dust are

bits of charcoal, or carbon, as chemists call it. They are made in the

flame, and burned in the flame, and, while burning, make the flame

bright. They are burned the moment they are made; but the flame goes on

making more of them as fast as it burns them; and that is how it keeps

bright. The place they are made in, is in the case of flame itself,

where the strongest heat is. The great heat separates them from the gas

which comes from the melted wax, and, as soon as they touch the air on

the outside of the thin case of flame, they burn."

"Can you tell how it is that the little bits of carbon cause the

brightness of the flame?" asked Mr. Wilkinson.

"Because they are pieces of solid matter," answered Harry. "To make a

flame shine, there must always be some solid--or at least liquid--matter

in it."

"Very good," said Mr. Bagges--"solid stuff necessary to brightness."

"Some gases and other things," resumed Harry, "that burn with a flame

you can hardly see, burn splendidly when something solid is put into

them. Oxygen and hydrogen--tell me if I use too hard words,

uncle--oxygen and hydrogen gases, if mixed together and blown through a

pipe, burn with plenty of heat but with very little light. But if their

flame is blown upon a piece of quick-lime, it gets so bright as to be

quite dazzling. Make the smoke of oil of turpentine pass through the

same flame, and it gives the flame a beautiful brightness directly."

"I wonder," observed Uncle Bagges, "what has made you such a bright

youth."

"Taking after uncle, perhaps," retorted his nephew. "Don't put my candle

and me out. Well, carbon or charcoal is what causes the brightness of

all lamps, and candles, and other common lights; so, of course, there is

carbon in what they are all made of."

"So carbon is smoke, eh? and light is owing to your carbon. Giving light

out of smoke, eh? as they say in the classics," observed Mr. Bagges.

"But what becomes of the candle," pursued Harry, "as it burns away?

where does it go?"

"Nowhere," said his mamma, "I should think. It burns to nothing."

"Oh, dear, no!" said Harry, "every thing--every body goes somewhere."

"Eh!--rather an important consideration that," Mr. Bagges moralized.

"You can see it goes into smoke, which makes soot, for one thing,"

pursued Harry. "There are other things it goes into, not to be seen by

only looking, but you can get to see them by taking the right

means--just put your hand over the candle, uncle."

"Thank you, young gentleman, I had rather be excused."

"Not close enough down to burn you, uncle; higher up. There--you feel a

stream of hot air; so something seems to rise from the candle. Suppose

you were to put a very long, slender gas-burner over the flame, and let

the flame burn just within the end of it, as if it were a chimney, some

of the hot steam would go up and come out at the top, but a sort of dew

would be left behind in the glass chimney, if the chimney was cold

enough when you put it on. There are ways of collecting this sort of

dew, and when it is collected it turns out to be really water. I am not

joking, uncle. Water is one of the things which the candle turns into in

burning--water, coming out of fire. A jet of oil gives above a pint of

water in burning. In some lighthouses they burn, Professor Faraday says,

up to two gallons of oil in a night, and if the windows are cold, the

steam from the oil clouds the inside of the windows, and, in frosty

weather, freezes into ice."

"Water out of a candle, eh?" exclaimed Mr. Bagges. "As hard to get, I

should have thought, as blood out of a post. Where does it come from?"

"Part from the wax, and part from the air, and yet not a drop of it

comes either from the air or the wax. What do you make of that, uncle?"

"Eh? Oh! I'm no hand at riddles. Give it up."

"No riddle at all, uncle. The part that comes from the wax isn't water,

and the part that comes from the air isn't water, but when put together

they become water. Water is a mixture of two things, then. This can be

shown. Put some iron wire or turnings into a gun-barrel open at both

ends. Heat the middle of the barrel red-hot in a little furnace. Keep

the heat up, and send the steam of boiling water through the red-hot

gun-barrel. What will come out at the other end of the barrel won't be

steam; it will be gas, which doesn't turn to water again when it gets

cold, and which burns if you put a light to it. Take the turnings out of

the gun-barrel, and you will find them changed to rust, and heavier than

when they were put in. Part of the water is the gas that comes out of

the barrel, the other part is what mixes with the iron turnings, and

changes them to rust, and makes them heavier. You can fill a bladder

with the gas that comes out of the gun-barrel, or you can pass bubbles

of it up into a jar of water turned upside down in a trough, and, as I

said, you can make this part of the water burn."

"Eh?" cried Mr. Bagges. "Upon my word. One of these days, we shall have

you setting the Thames on fire."

"Nothing more easy," said Harry, "than to burn part of the Thames, or

any other water; I mean the gas that I have just told you about, which

is called hydrogen. In burning, hydrogen produces water again, like the

flame of the candle. Indeed, hydrogen is that part of the water, formed

by a candle burning, that comes from the wax. All things that have

hydrogen in them produce water in burning, and the more there is in

them, the more they produce. When pure hydrogen burns, nothing comes

from it but water, no smoke or soot at all. If you were to burn one

ounce of it, the water you would get would be just nine ounces. There

are many ways of making hydrogen, besides out of steam by the hot

gun-barrel. I could show it you in a moment by pouring a little

sulphuric acid mixed with water into a bottle upon a few zinc or steel

filings, and putting a cork in the bottle with a little pipe through it,

and setting fire to the gas that would come from the mouth of the pipe.

We should find the flame very hot, but having scarcely any brightness. I

should like you to see the curious qualities of hydrogen, particularly

how light it is, so as to carry things up in the air; and I wish I had

a small balloon to fill with it and make go up to the ceiling, or a

bag-pipe full of it to blow soap-bubbles with, and show how much faster

they rise than common ones, blown with the breath."

"So do I," interposed Master Tom.

"And so," resumed Harry, "hydrogen, you know, uncle, is part of water,

and just one-ninth part."

"As hydrogen is to water, so is a tailor to an ordinary individual, eh?"

Mr. Bagges remarked.

"Well, now, then, uncle, if hydrogen is the tailor's part of the water,

what are the other eight parts? The iron-turnings used to make hydrogen

in the gun-barrel, and rusted, take just those eight parts from the

water in the shape of steam, and are so much the heavier. Burn iron

turnings in the air, and they make the same rust, and gain just the same

in weight. So the other eight parts must be found in the air for one

thing, and in the rusted iron turnings for another, and they must also

be in the water; and now the question is, how to get at them?"

"Out of the water? Fish for them, I should say," suggested Mr. Bagges.

"Why, so we can," said Harry. "Only instead of hooks and lines, we must

use wires--two wires, one from one end, the other from the other, of a

galvanic battery. Put the points of these wires into water, a little

distance apart, and they instantly take the water to pieces. If they are

of copper, or a metal that will rust easily, one of them begins to rust,

and air-bubbles come up from the other. These bubbles are hydrogen. The

other part of the water mixes with the end of the wire and makes rust.

But if the wires are of gold, or a metal that does not rust easily,

air-bubbles rise from the ends of both wires. Collect the bubbles from

both wires in a tube, and fire them, and they turn to water again; and

this water is exactly the same weight as the quantity that has been

changed into the two gases. Now, then, uncle, what should you think

water was composed of?"

"Eh? well--I suppose of those very identical two gases, young

gentleman."

"Right, uncle. Recollect that the gas from one of the wires was

hydrogen, the one-ninth of water. What should you guess the gas from the

other wire to be?"

"Stop--eh?--wait a bit--eh--oh!--why, the other eight-ninths, to be

sure."

"Good again, uncle. Now this gas that is eight-ninths of water is the

gas called oxygen that I mentioned just now. This is a very curious gas.

It won't burn in air at all itself, like gas from a lamp, but it has a

wonderful power of making things burn that are lighted and put into it.

If you fill a jar with it--"

"How do you manage that?" Mr. Bagges inquired.

"You fill the jar with water," answered Harry, "and you stand it upside

down in a vessel full of water too. Then you let bubbles of the gas up

into the jar, and they turn out the water and take its place. Put a

stopper in the neck of the jar, or hold a glass plate against the mouth

of it, and you can take it out of the water, and so have bottled oxygen.

A lighted candle put into a jar of oxygen blazes up directly and is

consumed before you can say 'Jack Robinson.' Charcoal burns away in it

as fast, with beautiful bright sparks--phosphorus with a light that

dazzles you to look at--and a piece of iron or steel just made red-hot

at the end first, is burnt in oxygen quicker than a stick would be in

common air. The experiment of burning things in oxygen beats any

fire-works."

"Oh, how jolly!" exclaimed Tom.

"Now we see, uncle," Harry continued, "that water is hydrogen and oxygen

united together, that water is got wherever hydrogen is burnt in common

air, that a candle won't burn without air, and that when a candle burns

there is hydrogen in it burning, and forming water. Now, then, where

does the hydrogen of the candle get the oxygen from, to turn into water

with it?"

"From the air, eh?"

"Just so. I can't stop to tell you of the other things which there is

oxygen in, and the many beautiful and amusing ways of getting it. But as

there is oxygen in the air, and as oxygen makes things burn at such a

rate, perhaps you wonder why air does not make things burn as fast as

oxygen. The reason is, that there is something else in the air that

mixes with the oxygen and weakens it."

"Makes a sort of gaseous grog of it, eh?" said Mr. Bagges. "But how is

that proved?"

"Why, there is a gas, called nitrous gas, which, if you mix it with

oxygen, takes all the oxygen into itself, and the mixture of the nitrous

gas and oxygen, if you put water with it, goes into the water. Mix

nitrous gas and air together in a jar over water, and the nitrous gas

takes away the oxygen, and then the water sucks up the mixed oxygen and

nitrous gas, and that part of the air which weakens the oxygen is left

behind. Burning phosphorus in confined air will also take all the oxygen

from it, and there are other ways of doing the same thing. The portion

of air left behind is called nitrogen. You wouldn't know it from common

air by the look; it has no color, taste, nor smell, and it won't burn.

But things won't burn in it either; and any thing on fire put into it

goes out directly. It isn't fit to breathe; and a mouse, or any animal,

shut up in it dies. It isn't poisonous, though; creatures only die in it

for want of oxygen. We breathe it with oxygen, and then it does no harm,

but good; for if we breathe pure oxygen, we should breathe away so

violently, that we should soon breathe our life out. In the same way, if

the air were nothing but oxygen, a candle would not last above a minute."

"What a tallow-chandler's bill we should have!" remarked Mrs. Wilkinson.

"'If a house were on fire in oxygen,' as Professor Faraday said, 'every

iron bar, or rafter, or pillar, every nail and iron tool, and the

fire-place itself; all the zinc and copper roofs, and leaden coverings,

and gutters, and; pipes, would consume and burn, increasing the

combustion.'"

"That would be, indeed, burning 'like a house on fire,'" observed Mr.

Bagges.

"'Think,'" said Harry, continuing his quotation, "'of the Houses of

Parliament, or a steam-engine manufactory. Think of an iron-proof

chest--no proof against oxygen. Think of a locomotive and its

train--every engine, every carriage, and even every rail would be set on

fire and burnt up.' So now, uncle, I think you see what the use of

nitrogen is, and especially how it prevents a candle from burning out

too fast."

"Eh?" said Mr. Bagges. "Well, I will say I do think we are under

considerable obligations to nitrogen."

"I have explained to you, uncle," pursued Harry, "how a candle, in

burning, turns into water. But it turns into something else besides

that; there is a stream of hot air going up from it that won't condense

into dew; some of that is the nitrogen of the air which the candle has

taken all the oxygen from. But there is more in it than nitrogen. Hold a

long glass tube over a candle, so that the stream of hot air from it may

go up through the tube. Hold a jar over the end of the tube to collect

some of the stream of hot air. Put some lime-water, which looks quite

clear, into the jar; stop the jar, and shake it up. The lime-water,

which was quite clear before, turns milky. Then there is something made

by the burning of the candle that changes the color of the lime-water.

That is a gas, too, and you can collect it, and examine it. It is to be

got from several things, and is a part of all chalk, marble, and the

shells of eggs or of shell-fish. The easiest way to make it is by

pouring muriatic or sulphuric acid on chalk or marble. The marble or

chalk begins to hiss or bubble, and you can collect the bubbles in the

same way that you can oxygen. The gas made by the candle in burning, and

which also is got out of the chalk and marble, is called carbonic acid.

It puts out a light in a moment; it kills any animal that breathes it,

and it is really poisonous to breathe, because it destroys life even

when mixed with a pretty large quantity of common air. The bubbles made

by beer when it ferments, are carbonic acid, so is the air that fizzes

out of soda-water--and it is good to swallow though it is deadly to

breathe. It is got from chalk by burning the chalk as well as by putting

acid to it, and burning the carbonic acid out of chalk makes the chalk

lime. This is why people are killed sometimes by getting in the way of

the wind that blows from lime-kilns."

"Of which it is advisable carefully to keep to the windward," Mr.

Wilkinson observed.

"The most curious thing about carbonic acid gas," proceeded Harry, "is

its weight. Although it is only a sort of air, it is so heavy that you

can pour it from one vessel into another. You may dip a cup of it and

pour it down upon a candle, and it will put the candle out, which would

astonish an ignorant person; because carbonic acid gas is as invisible

as the air, and the candle seems to be put out by nothing. A soap-bubble

of common air floats on it like wood on water. Its weight is what makes

it collect in brewers' vats; and also in wells, where it is produced

naturally; and owing to its collecting in such places it causes the

deaths we so often hear about of those who go down into them without

proper care. It is found in many springs of water, more or less; and a

great deal of it comes out of the earth in some places. Carbonic acid

gas is what stupefies the dogs in the Grotto del Cane. Well, but how is

carbonic acid gas made by the candle?"

"I hope with your candle you'll throw some light upon the subject," said

Uncle Bagges.

"I hope so," answered Harry. "Recollect it is the burning of the smoke,

or soot, or carbon of the candle that makes the candle-flame bright.

Also that the candle won't burn without air. Likewise that it will not

burn in nitrogen, or air that has been deprived of oxygen. So the carbon

of the candle mingles with oxygen, in burning, to make carbonic acid

gas, just as the hydrogen does to form water. Carbonic acid gas, then,

is carbon or charcoal dissolved in oxygen. Here is black soot getting

invisible and changing into air; and this seems strange, uncle, doesn't

it?"

"Ahem! Strange, if true," answered Mr. Bagges. "Eh? well! I suppose it's

all right."

"Quite so, uncle. Burn carbon or charcoal either in the air or in

oxygen, and it is sure always to make carbonic acid, and nothing else,

if it is dry. No dew or mist gathers in a cold glass jar if you burn dry

charcoal in it. The charcoal goes entirely into carbonic acid gas, and

leaves nothing behind but ashes, which are only earthy stuff that was in

the charcoal, but not part of the charcoal itself. And now, shall I tell

you something about carbon?"

"With all my heart," assented Mr. Bagges.

"I said that there was carbon or charcoal in all common lights--so there

is in every common kind of fuel. If you heat coal or wood away from the

air, some gas comes away, and leaves behind coke from coal, and charcoal

from wood; both carbon, though not pure. Heat carbon as much as you will

in a close vessel, and it does not change in the least; but let the air

get to it, and then it burns and flies off in carbonic acid gas. This

makes carbon so convenient for fuel. But it is ornamental as well as

useful, uncle The diamond is nothing else than carbon."

"The diamond, eh? You mean the black diamond."

"No; the diamond, really and truly. The diamond is only carbon in the

shape of a crystal."

"Eh? and can't some of your clever chemists crystallize a little bit of

carbon, and make a Koh-i-noor?"

"Ah, uncle, perhaps we shall, some day. In the mean time, I suppose, we

must be content with making carbon so brilliant as it is in the flame of

a candle. Well; now you see that a candle-flame is vapor burning, and

the vapor, in burning, turns into water and carbonic acid gas. The

oxygen of both the carbonic acid gas and the water comes from the air,

and the hydrogen and carbon together are the vapor. They are distilled

out of the melted wax by the heat. But, you know, carbon alone can't be

distilled by any heat. It can be distilled, though, when it is joined

with hydrogen, as it is in the wax, and then the mixed hydrogen and

carbon rise in gas of the same kind as the gas in the streets, and that

also is distilled by heat from coal. So a candle is a little gas

manufactory in itself, that burns the gas as fast as it makes it."

"Haven't you pretty nearly come to your candle's end?" said Mr.

Wilkinson.

"Nearly. I only want to tell uncle, that the burning of a candle is

almost exactly like our breathing. Breathing is consuming oxygen, only

not so fast as burning. In breathing we throw out water in vapor and

carbonic acid from our lungs, and take oxygen in. Oxygen is as necessary

to support the life of the body, as it is to keep up the flame of a

candle."

"So," said Mr. Bagges, "man is a candle, eh? and Shakspeare knew that, I

suppose (as he did most things), when he wrote

"'Out, out, brief candle!'

"Well, well; we old ones are moulds, and you young squires are dips and

rushlights, eh? Any more to tell us about the candle?"

"I could tell you a great deal more about oxygen, and hydrogen, and

carbon, and water, and breathing, that Professor Faraday said, if I had

time; but you should go and hear him yourself, uncle."

"Eh? well! I think I will. Some of us seniors may learn something from a

juvenile lecture, at any rate, if given by a Faraday. And now, my boy, I

will tell you what," added Mr. Bagges, "I am very glad to find you so

fond of study and science: and you deserve to be encouraged: and so I'll

give you a what-d'ye-call-it? a Galvanic Battery on your next birth-day;

and so much for your teaching your old uncle the chemistry of a candle."

THE MYSTERIOUS COMPACT.

A FREE TRANSLATION FROM THE GERMAN.

IN TWO PARTS.--PART I.

In the latter years of the last century, two youths, Ferdinand von

Hallberg, and Edward von Wensleben were receiving their education in the

military academy of Marienvheim. Among their schoolfellows they were

called Orestes and Pylades, or Damon and Pythias, on account of their

tender friendship, which constantly recalled to their schoolfellows'

minds the history of these ancient worthies. Both were sons of

officers, who had long served the state with honor, both were destined

for their father's profession, both accomplished and endowed by nature

with no mean talents. But fortune had not been so impartial in the

distribution of her favors--Hallberg's father lived on a small pension,

by means of which he defrayed the expenses of his son's schooling at the

cost of the government; while Wensleben's parents willingly paid the

handsomest salary in order to insure to their only child the best

education which the establishment afforded. This disparity in

circumstances at first produced a species of proud reserve, amounting to

coldness, in Ferdinand's deportment, which yielded by degrees to the

cordial affection that Edward manifested toward him on every occasion.

Two years older than Edward, of a thoughtful and almost melancholy turn

of mind, Ferdinand soon gained a considerable influence over his weaker

friend, who clung to him with almost girlish dependence.

Their companionship had now lasted with satisfaction and happiness to

both, for several years, and the youths had formed for themselves the

most delightful plans--how they were never to separate, how they were to

enter the service in the same regiment, and if a war broke out, how they

were to fight side by side and conquer, or die together. But destiny, or

rather Providence, whose plans are usually opposed to the designs of

mortals, had ordained otherwise for the friends than they anticipated.

Earlier than was expected, Hallberg's father found an opportunity to

have his son appointed to an infantry regiment, and he was ordered

immediately to join the staff in a small provincial town, in an

out-of-the-way mountainous district. This announcement fell like a

thunder-bolt on the two friends; but Ferdinand considered himself by far

the more unhappy, since it was ordained that he should be the one to

sever the happy bond that bound them, and to inflict a deep wound on his

loved companion. His schoolfellows vainly endeavored to console him by

calling his attention to his new commission, and the preference which

had been shown him above so many others. He only thought of the

approaching separation; he only saw his friend's grief, and passed the

few remaining days that were allowed him at the academy by Edward's

side, who husbanded every moment of his Ferdinand's society with jealous

care, and could not bear to lose sight of him for an instant. In one of

their most melancholy hours, excited by sorrow and youthful enthusiasm,

they bound themselves by a mysterious vow, namely, that the one whom God

should think fit to call first from this world should bind himself (if

conformable to the Divine will) to give some sign of his remembrance and

affection to the survivor.

The place where this vow was made was a solitary spot in the garden, by

a monument of gray marble, overshadowed by dark firs, which the former

director of the institution had caused to be erected to the memory of

his son, whose premature death was recorded on the stone.

Here the friends met at night, and by the fitful light of the moon they

pledged themselves to the rash and fanciful contract, and confirmed and

consecrated it the next morning, by a religious ceremony. After this

they were able to look the approaching separation in the face more

manfully, and Edward strove hard to quell the melancholy feeling which

had lately arisen in his mind on account of the constant foreboding that

Ferdinand expressed of his own early death. "No," thought Edward, "his

pensive turn of mind and his wild imagination cause him to reproach

himself without a cause for my sorrow and his own departure. Oh, no,

Ferdinand will not die early--he will not die before me. Providence will

not leave me alone in the world."

The lonely Edward strove hard to console himself, for after Ferdinand's

departure, the house, the world itself, seemed a desert; and absorbed by

his own memories, he now recalled to mind many a dark speech which had

fallen from his absent friend, particularly in the latter days of their

intercourse, and which betokened but too plainly a presentiment of early

death. But time and youth exercised, even over these sorrows, their

irresistible influence. Edward's spirits gradually recovered their tone;

and as the traveler always has the advantage over the one who remains

behind, in respect of new objects to occupy his mind, so was Ferdinand

even sooner calmed and cheered, and by degrees he became engrossed by

his new duties, and new acquaintances, not to the exclusion, indeed, of

his friend's memory, but greatly to the alleviation of his own sorrow.

It was natural, in such circumstances, that the young officer should

console himself sooner than poor Edward. The country in which Hallberg

found himself was wild and mountainous, but possessed all the charms and

peculiarities of "far off" districts--simple, hospitable manners,

old-fashioned customs, many tales and legends which arise from the

credulity of the mountaineers, who invariably lean toward the marvelous,

and love to people the wild solitudes with invisible beings.

Ferdinand had soon, without seeking for it, made acquaintance with

several respectable families in the town; and, as it generally happens

in such cases, he had become quite domesticated in the best country

houses in the neighborhood; and the well-mannered, handsome, and

agreeable youth was welcomed every where. The simple, patriarchal life

in these old mansions and castles--the cordiality of the people, the

wild, picturesque scenery, nay, the very legends themselves were

entirely to Hallberg's taste. He adapted himself easily to his new mode

of life, but his heart remained tranquil. This could not last. Before

half a year had passed, the battalion to which he belonged was ordered

to another station, and he had to part with many friends. The first

letter which he wrote after this change, bore the impression of

impatience at the breaking up of a happy time. Edward found this natural

enough; but he was surprised in the following letters to detect signs

of a disturbed and desultory state of mind, wholly foreign to his

friend's nature. The riddle was soon solved. Ferdinand's heart was

touched for the first time, and, perhaps, because the impression had

been made late, it was all the deeper. Unfavorable circumstances opposed

themselves to his hopes: the young lady was of an ancient family, rich,

and betrothed since her childhood to a relation, who was expected

shortly to arrive in order to claim her promised hand. Notwithstanding

this engagement, Ferdinand and the young girl had become sincerely

attached to each other, and had both resolved to dare every thing with

the hope of being united. They pledged their troth in secret; the

darkest mystery enveloped not only their plans, but their affections;

and as secrecy was necessary to the advancement of their projects.

Ferdinand entreated his friend to forgive him if he did not intrust his

whole secret to a sheet of paper that had at least sixty miles to

travel, and which must pass through so many hands. It was impossible

from his letter to guess the name of the person or the place in

question. "You know that I love," he wrote, "therefore you know that the

object of my secret passion is worthy of any sacrifice; for you know

your friend too well to believe him capable of any blind infatuation,

and this must suffice for the present. No one must suspect what we are

to each other; no one here or round the neighborhood must have the

slightest clew to our plans. An awful personage will soon make his

appearance among us. His violent temper, his inveterate obstinacy

(according to all that one hears, of him), are well calculated to

confirm in _her_ a well-founded aversion. But family arrangements and

legal contracts exist, the fulfillment of which the opposing party are

bent on enforcing. The struggle will be hard, perhaps unsuccessful;

notwithstanding, I will strain every nerve. Should I fall, you must

console yourself, my dear Edward, with the thought, that it will be no

misfortune to your friend to be deprived of an existence rendered

miserable by the failure of his dearest hopes, and separation from his

dearest friend. Then may all the happiness which heaven has denied me be

vouchsafed to you and her, so that my spirit may look down contentedly

from the realms of light, and bless and protect you both."

Such was the usual tenor of the letters which Edward received during

that period. His heart was full of anxiety--he read danger and distress

in the mysterious communications of Ferdinand; and every argument that

affection and good sense could suggest aid he make use of, in his

replies, to turn his friend from this path of peril which threatened to

end in a deep abyss. He tried persuasion, and urged him to desist for

the sake of their long-tried affection. But when did passion ever listen

to the expostulations of friendship?

Ferdinand only saw one aim in life--the possession of the beloved one.

All else faded from before his eyes, and even his correspondence

slackened; for his time, was much taken up in secret excursions,

arrangements of all kinds, and communications with all manner of

persons; in fact every action of his present life tended to the

furtherance of his plan.

All of a sudden his letters ceased. Many posts passed without a sign of

life. Edward was a prey to the greatest anxiety; he thought his friend

had staked and lost. He imagined an elopement, a clandestine marriage, a

duel with a rival, and all these casualties were the more painful to

conjecture, since his entire ignorance of the real state of things gave

his fancy full range to conjure up all sorts of misfortunes. At length,

after many more posts had come in without a line to pacify Edward's

fears, without a word in reply to his earnest entreaties for some news,

he determined on taking a step which he had meditated before, and only

relinquished out of consideration for his friend's wishes. He wrote to

the officer commanding the regiment, and made inquiries respecting the

health and abode of Lieutenant von Hallberg, whose friends in the

capital had remained for nearly two months without news of him, he who

had hitherto proved a regular and frequent correspondent.

Another fortnight dragged heavily on, and at length the announcement

came in an official form. Lieutenant von Hallberg had been invited to

the castle of a nobleman whom he was in the custom of visiting, in order

to be present at the wedding of a lady; that he was indisposed at the

time, that he grew worse, and on the third morning had been found dead

in his bed, having expired during the night from an attack of apoplexy.

Edward could not finish the letter, it fell from his trembling hand. To

see his worst fears realized so suddenly, overwhelmed him at first. His

youth withstood the bodily illness which would have assailed a weaker

constitution, and perhaps mitigated the anguish of his grief. He was not

dangerously, ill, but they feared many days for his reason; and it

required all the kind solicitude of the director of the college,

combined with the most skillful medical aid, to stem the torrent of his

sorrow, and to turn it gradually into a calmer channel, until by degrees

the mourner recovered both health and reason. His youthful spirits,

however, had received a blow from which they never rebounded, and one

thought lay heavy on his mind which he was unwilling to share with any

other person, and which, on that account, grew more and more painful. It

was the memory of that holy promise which had been mutually contracted,

that the survivor was to receive some token of his friend's remembrance

of him after death. Now two months had already passed since Ferdinand's

earthly career had been arrested, his spirit was free, why no sign? In

the moment of death Edward had had no intimation, no message from the

passing spirit, and this apparent neglect, so to speak, was another deep

wound in Edward's breast. Do the affections cease with life? Was it

contrary to the will of the Almighty that the mourner should taste this

consolation? Did individuality lose itself in death and with it memory?

Or did one stroke destroy spirit and body? These anxious doubts, which

have before now agitated many who reflect on such subjects, exercised

their power over Edward's mind with an intensity that none can imagine

save one whose position is in any degree similar.

Time gradually deadened the intensity of his affliction. The violent

paroxysms of grief subsided into a deep but calm regret; it was as if a

mist had spread itself over every object which presented itself before

him, robbing them indeed of half their charms, yet leaving them visible,

and in their real relation to himself. During this mental change, the

autumn arrived, and with it the long-expected commission. It did not

indeed occasion the joy which it might have done in former days, when it

would have led to a meeting with Ferdinand, or at all events to a better

chance of meeting, but it released him from the thralldom of college,

and it opened to him a welcome sphere of activity. Now it so happened

that his appointment led him accidentally into the very neighborhood

where Ferdinand had formerly resided, only with this difference, that

Edward's squadron was quartered in the lowlands, about a short day's

journey from the town and woodland environs in question.

He proceeded to his quarters, and found an agreeable occupation in the

exercise of his new duties.

He had no wish to make acquaintances, yet he did not refuse the

invitations that were pressed upon him, lest he should be accused of

eccentricity and rudeness; and so he found himself soon entangled in all

sorts of engagements with the neighboring gentry and nobility. If these

so-called gayeties gave him no particular pleasure, at least for the

time they diverted his thoughts; and, with this view, he accepted an

invitation (for the new year and carnival were near at hand) to a great

shooting-match which was to be held in the mountains--a spot which it

was possible to reach in one day with favorable weather and the roads in

a good state. The day was appointed, the air tolerably clear; a mild

frost had made the roads safe and even, and Edward had every expectation

of being able to reach Blumenberg in his sledge before night, as on the

following morning the match was to take place. But as soon as he got

near the mountains, where the sun retires so early to rest, snow-clouds

drove from all quarters, a cutting wind came roaring through the

ravines, and a heavy fall of snow began. Twice the driver lost his way,

and daylight was gone before he had well recovered it; darkness came on

sooner than in other places, walled in as they were by dark mountains,

with dark clouds above their heads. It was out of the question to dream

of reaching Blumenberg that night; but in this hospitable land, where

every house-holder welcomes the passing traveler, Edward was under no

anxiety as to shelter. He only wished, before the night quite set in, to

reach some country house or castle; and now that the storm had abated in

some degree, that the heavens were a little clearer, and that a few

stars peeped out, a large valley opened before them, whose bold outline

Edward could distinguish, even in the uncertain light. The well-defined

roofs of a neat village were perceptible, and behind these, half-way up

the mountain that crowned the plain, Edward thought he could discern a

large building which glimmered with more than one light. The road led

straight into the village. Edward stopped and inquired.

That building was, indeed, a castle; the village belonged to it, and

both were the property of the Baron Friedenberg. "Friedenberg!" repeated

Edward: the name sounded familiar to him, yet he could not call to mind

when and where he had heard it. He inquired if the family were at home,

hired a guide, and arrived at length, by a rugged path which wound

itself round steep rocks, to the summit of them, and finally to the

castle, which was perched there like an eagle's nest. The tinkling of

the bells on Edward's sledge attracted the attention of the inmates; the

door was opened with prompt hospitality--servants appeared with torches;

Edward was assisted to emerge from under the frozen apron of his

carriage, out of his heavy pelisse, stiff with hoar frost, and up a

comfortable staircase into a long saloon of simple construction, where a

genial warmth appeared to welcome him from a spacious stove in the

corner. The servants here placed two large burning candles in massive

silver sconces, and went out to announce the stranger.

The fitting-up of the room, or rather saloon, was perfectly simple.

Family portraits, in heavy frames, hung round the walls, diversified by

some maps. Magnificent stags' horns were arranged between; and the taste

of the master of the house was easily detected in the hunting-knives,

powder-flasks, carbines, smoking-bags, and sportsmen's pouches, which

were arranged, not without taste, as trophies of the chase. The ceiling

was supported by large beams, dingy with smoke and age; and on the sides

of the room were long benches, covered and padded with dark cloth, and

studded with large brass nails; while round the dinner-table were placed

several arm-chairs, also of an ancient date. All bore the aspect of the

"good old times," of a simple patriarchal life with affluence. Edward

felt as if there were a kind welcome in the inanimate objects which

surrounded him, when the inner door opened, and the master of the house

entered, preceded by a servant, and welcomed his guest with courteous

cordiality.

Some apologies which Edward offered on account of his intrusion, were

silenced in a moment.

"Come, now, lieutenant," said the baron, "I must introduce you to my

family. You are no such a stranger to us, as you fancy."

With these words he took Edward by the arm, and, lighted by the servant,

they passed through several lofty rooms, which were very handsomely

furnished, although in an old-fashioned style, with faded Flemish

carpets, large chandeliers, and high-backed chairs: everything in

keeping with what the youth had already seen in the castle. Here were

the ladies of the house. At the other end of the room, by the side of an

immense stove, ornamented with a large shield of the family arms, richly

emblazoned, and crowned by a gigantic Turk, in a most comfortable

attitude of repose sat the lady of the house, an elderly matron of

tolerable circumference, in a gown of dark red satin, with a black

mantle, and a snow-white lace cap. She appeared to be playing cards with

the chaplain, who sat opposite to her at the table, and the Baron

Friedenberg to have made the third hand at ombre, till he was called

away to welcome his guest. On the other side of the room were two young

ladies, an elder person, who might be a governess, and a couple of

children, very much engrossed by a game at loto.

As Edward entered, the ladies rose to greet him; a chair was placed for

him near the mistress of the house, and very soon a cup of chocolate and

a bottle of tokay were served on a rich silver salver, to restore the

traveler after the cold and discomfort of his drive; in fact it was easy

for him to feel that these "far-away" people were by no means displeased

at his arrival. An agreeable conversation soon began among all parties.

His travels, the shooting match, the neighborhood, agriculture, all

afforded subjects, and in a quarter of an hour Edward felt as if he had

long been domesticated with these simple but truly well informed people.

Two hours flew swiftly by, and then a bell sounded for supper; the

servants returned with lights, announced that the supper was on the

table, and lighted the company into the dining-room--the same into which

Edward had first been ushered. Here, in the background, some other

characters appeared on the scene--the agent, a couple of subalterns, and

the physician. The guests ranged themselves round the table. Edward's

place was between the baron and his wife. The chaplain said a short

grace, when the baroness, with an uneasy look, glanced at her husband

over Edward's shoulder, and said, in a low whisper,

"My love, we are thirteen--that will never do."

The baron smiled, beckoned to the youngest of the clerks, and whispered

to him. The youth bowed, and withdrew. The servant took the cover away,

and served his supper in the next room.

"My wife," said Friedenberg, "is superstitious, as all mountaineers are.

She thinks it unlucky to dine thirteen. It certainly has happened twice

(whether from chance or not who can tell?) that we have had to mourn the

death of an acquaintance who had, a short time before, made the

thirteenth at our table."

"This idea is not confined to the mountains. I know many people in the

capital who think with the baroness," said Edward. "Although in a town

such ideas, which belong more especially to the olden time, are more

likely to be lost in the whirl and bustle which usually silences every

thing that is not essentially matter of fact."

"Ah, yes, lieutenant," replied the baroness, smiling good-humoredly, "we

keep up old customs better in the mountains. You see that by our

furniture. People in the capital would call this sadly old-fashioned."

"That which is really good and beautiful can never appear out of date,"

rejoined Edward, courteously; "and here, if I mistake not, presides a

spirit that is ever striving after both. I must confess, baron, that

when I first entered your house, it was this very aspect of the olden

time that enchanted me beyond measure."

"That is always the effect which simplicity has on every unspoiled

mind," answered Friedenberg; "but townspeople have seldom a taste for

such things."

"I was partly educated on my father's estate," said Edward, "which was

situated in the Highlands; and it appeared to me as if, when I entered

your house, I were visiting a neighbor of my father's, for the general

aspect is quite the same here as with us."

"Yes," said the chaplain, "mountainous districts have all a family

likeness: the same necessities, the same struggles with nature, the same

seclusion, all produce the same way of life among mountaineers."

"On that account the prejudice against the number thirteen was

especially familiar to me," replied Edward. "We also dislike it; and we

retain a consideration for many supernatural, or at least inexplicable

things, which I have met with again in this neighborhood."

"Yes, here, almost more than any where else," continued the chaplain. "I

think we excel all other mountaineers in the number and variety of our

legends and ghost stories. I assure you that there is not a cave, or a

church, or, above all, a castle, for miles round about, of which we

could not relate something supernatural."

The baroness, who perceived the turn which the conversation was likely

to take, thought it better to send the children to bed; and when they

were gone, the priest continued, "Even here, in this castle--"

"Here!" inquired Edward, "in this very castle?"

"Yes, yes, lieutenant!" interposed the baron, "this house has the

reputation of being haunted; and the most extraordinary thing is, that

the matter can not be denied by the skeptical, or accounted for by the

reasonable."

"And yet," said Edward, "the castle looks so cheerful, so habitable."

"Yes, this part which we live in," answered the baron; "but it consists

of only a few apartments sufficient for my family and these gentlemen;

the other portion of the building is half in ruins, and dates from the

period when men established themselves on the mountains for greater

safety."

"There are some who maintain," said the physician, "that a part of the

walls of the eastern tower itself are of Roman origin; but that would

surely be difficult to prove."

"But, gentlemen," observed the baroness, "you are losing yourselves in

learned descriptions as to the erection of the castle, and our guest is

kept in ignorance of what he is anxious to hear."

"Indeed, madam," replied the chaplain, "this is not entirely foreign to

the subject, since in the most ancient part of the building lies the

chamber in question."

"Where apparitions have been seen?" inquired Edward, eagerly.

"Not exactly," replied the baroness; "there is nothing fearful to be

seen."

"Come, let us tell him at once," interrupted the baron. "The fact is,

that every guest who sleeps for the first time in this room (and it has

fallen to the lot of many, in turn, to do so), is visited by some

important, significant dream or vision, or whatever I ought to call it,

in which some future event is prefigured to him, or some past mystery

cleared up, which he had vainly striven to comprehend before."

"Then," interposed Edward, "it must be something like what is known in

the Highlands under the name of second sight, a privilege, as some

consider it, which several persons and several families enjoy."

"Just so," said the physician, "the cases are very similar; yet the most

mysterious part of this affair is, that it does not appear to originate

with the individual, or his organization, or his sympathy with beings of

the invisible world; no, the individual has nothing to say to it--the

locality does it all. Every one who sleeps in that room has his

mysterious dream, and the result proves its truth."

"At least in most instances," continued the baron, "when we have had an

opportunity of hearing the cases confirmed. I remember once in

particular. You may recollect, lieutenant, that when you first came in I

had the honor of telling you, you were not quite a stranger to me."

"Certainly, baron; and I have been wishing for a long time to ask an

explanation of these words."

"We have often heard your name mentioned by a particular friend of

yours--one who could never, pronounce it without emotion."

"Ah!" cried Edward, who now saw clearly why the baron's name had sounded

familiar to him also; "ah! you speak of my friend Hallberg; truly do you

say, we were indeed dear to each other."

"Were!" echoed the baron, in a faltering tone, as he observed the

sudden change in Edward's voice and countenance; "can the blooming,

vigorous youth be--"

"Dead!" exclaimed Edward; and the baron deeply regretted that he had

touched so tender a chord, as he saw the young officer's eyes fill with

tears, and a dark cloud pass over his animated features.

"Forgive me," he continued, while he leaned forward and pressed his

companion's hand; "I grieve that a thoughtless word should have awakened

such deep sorrow. I had no idea of his death; we all loved the handsome

young man, and by his description of you were already much interested in

you before we had ever seen you."

The conversation now turned entirely on Hallberg. Edward related the

particulars of his death. Every one present had something to say in his

praise; and although this sudden allusion to his dearest friend had

agitated Edward in no slight degree, yet it was a consolation to him to

listen to the tribute these worthy people paid to the memory of

Ferdinand, and to see how genuine was their regret at the tidings of his

early death. The time passed swiftly away in conversation of much

interest, and the whole, company were surprised to hear ten o'clock

strike; an unusually late hour for this quiet, regular family. The

chaplain read prayers, in which Edward devoutly joined, and then he

kissed the matron's hand, and felt almost as if he were in his father's

house. The baron offered to show his guest to his room, and the servant

preceded them with lights. The way led past the staircase, and then on

one side into a long gallery, which communicated with another wing of

the castle.

The high-vaulted ceilings, the curious carving on the ponderous

doorways, the pointed gothic windows, through many broken panes of which

a sharp night wind whistled, proved to Edward that he was in the old

part of the castle, and that the famous chamber could not be far off.

"Would it be impossible for me to be quartered there," he began, rather

timidly; "I should like it of all things."

"Really!" inquired the baron, rather surprised; "have not our ghost

stories alarmed you?"

"On the contrary," was the reply, "they have excited the most earnest

wish--"

"Then, if that be the case," said the baron, "we will return. The room

was already prepared for you, being the most comfortable and the best in

the whole wing; only I fancied, after our conversation--"

"Oh, certainly not," exclaimed Edward; "I could only long for such

dreams."

During this discourse they had arrived at the door of the famous room.

They went in. They found themselves in a lofty and spacious apartment,

so large that the two candles which the servant carried, only, shed a

glimmering twilight over it, which did not penetrate to the furthest

corner. A high-canopied bed, hung with costly but old-fashioned damask,

of a dark green, in which were swelling pillows of snowy whiteness, tied

with green bows, and a silk coverlet of the same color, looked very

inviting to the tired traveler. Sofa and chairs of faded needlework, a

carved oak commode and table, a looking-glass in heavy framework, a

prie-dieu and crucifix above it, constituted the furniture of the room,

where, above all things, cleanliness and comfort preponderated, while a

good deal of silver plate was spread out on the toilet-table.

Edward looked round. "A beautiful room!" he said. "Answer me one

question, baron, if you please. Did he ever sleep here?"

"Certainly," replied Friedenberg; "it was his usual room when he was

here, and he had a most curious dream in that bed, which, as he assured

us, made a great impression on him."

"And what was it?" inquired Edward, eagerly.

"He never told us, for, as you well know, he was reserved by nature; but

we gathered from some words that he let slip, that an early and sudden

death was foretold. Alas! your narrative has confirmed the truth of the

prediction."

"Wonderful! He always had a similar foreboding, and many a time has he

grieved me by alluding to it," said Edward; "yet it never made him

gloomy or discontented. He went on his way firmly and calmly, and looked

forward with joy, I might almost say, to another life."

"He was a superior man," answered the baron, "whose memory will ever be

dear to us. But now I will detain you no longer. Good-night. Here is the

bell," he showed him the cord in between the curtains; "and your servant

sleeps in the next room."

"Oh, you are too careful of me," said Edward, smiling; "I am used to

sleep by myself."

"Still," replied the baron, "every precaution should be taken. Now, once

more, good night."

He shook him by the hand, and, followed by the servant, left the room.