Madelaine was going to explain, but the little girl had joined her companions. She felt much grieved, and longed to be able to tell all to her teacher; she looked up anxiously at the high windows which were now lighting up brilliantly. Numbers of people were arriving on foot, and in carriages, hastening in to witness the happy scene. She only, with her poor blind brother, was rudely pushed back by the guards. Poor Raphael began to feel the cold painfully, and Madelaine perceiving that his hands were benumbed, untied her apron, and rolled them up in it.

Seeing this, a poor fruit woman, whose stall was near, said, "You are almost frozen, my poor children; why are you not at the school fete? This poor boy has no warm socks; come here, my child, warm yourself at my stove."

Madelaine thanked her, and led her brother to the stall. The woman was struck by this, and asked, "Can he not see plainly?"

"He cannot see at all," answered Madelaine, sighing, "he is blind."

"Unfortunate child," said the fruit-woman, and looking around her for something to please him, (for the compassion of the poor is often active and thoughtful,) she put a hot baked apple into each of his hands, "this is good both for cold and hunger," she added, "may God give you a happy Christmas." Madelaine received a similar present, and the two children went away, after having thanked the kind woman cordially.

The numerous lights suspended across the windows of the school, continued to illuminate the dark street. Presently the sound of several hundred young voices was heard, at first very softly, then swelling louder and louder, as they joined in singing the praises of their Heavenly Father, who, by the gift of his Son, has offered salvation to the children of men. Then the eyes of the blind boy filled with tears of joy, and he raised his heart in gratitude and praise to the Saviour of sinners. "Listen," said he, in a low voice, as if afraid of disturbing the sound, "listen, Madelaine, is it not like angels singing their hallelujahs around the throne of God? Oh, that I could fly to heaven, far, far, above this earth!"

"And leave mother and me here below," replied Madelaine, reproachfully.

"No, no," said Raphael, quickly, "I should come back very often to see you and mother."

"But she will be uneasy about us now," said Madelaine, "so come, let us return home, and think no more of flying. The children have done singing." They returned home, and related to their mother all that had passed. Raphael dreamed only of angels singing, and being in heaven. Thus he was happy at least in his sleep.



CHAPTER V.

HAPPINESS DESTROYED.

Early the following morning, which was the day before Christmas-day, Madelaine went to Master Teuzer's to assist in carrying his wares to the fair. She had already made several turns from the warehouse to the marketplace, when Teuzer's apprentice said to her, with a malignant joy which he could ill conceal, "Hark, a policeman is coming to seek you." Madelaine was greatly frightened, she thought of her absence from school, and of what her school-fellow had said to her. "To ask for me?" she stammered, turning pale.

"Yes," replied the boy, "and he said he would be sure to find you."

And this proved but too true, for the next time that Madelaine arrived with her basket full at Teuzer's stall, she found a policeman waiting for her. "Put that down" he said gravely, "and follow me."

Madelaine trembled so violently that she was unable to obey, and the woman who kept the stall for Master Teuzer, and the policeman, were obliged to support her. "But," asked the former, "what has the poor child done to be arrested?"

"She will soon know," replied the other, as he led Madelaine away. She walked beside him in silence, her head hanging down, for she felt too much ashamed to raise her eyes; but she became still paler, and a torrent of burning tears ran down her cheeks when she heard harsh voices saying, "She is a thief: so young and already a thief." Even the policeman now felt pity for her grief, and to turn her attention from the remarks of the passers by, he said to her, "Your teacher has reported you for being absent from school six days without leave. Is it your mother's fault? for in that case you are free, and I must arrest her."

"My mother is entirely innocent," answered Madelaine firmly, and looking up, for she felt some comfort in the thought, that her poor mother would be spared punishment. Madelaine had not even mentioned to her being absent from school. The policeman brought her to a lockup house, where she was put into a large room, already crowded with females, waiting to be examined for their various offences. Madelaine's heart sunk, when she looked around upon those into whose society she was thus thrust. Some were intoxicated, others were gambling, quarrelling, and using profane and dreadful language. Mixed among these miserable women were several children, seeing and hearing all this wickedness.

How deeply responsible are those, who instead of trying to reclaim young offenders, place them in situations were they must inevitably become worse!

Poor Madelaine, like a timid bird, crouched into a corner, where covering her head with her apron she wept bitterly. "How my mother is grieving about me," she thought, "and poor Raphael, who will make their soup to-day? Mother cannot even cut bread, or light the fire, and it is so cold, they must stay in bed all day. If I could even send them the six shillings which Master Teuzer paid me to-day, it is of no use here, and mother would be so glad to have the money to give the landlord, lest he should turn them into the street, if he does not get any of his rent."

Thus uneasiness tormented Madelaine, the people she was among inspired her with disgust, she wished to be deaf that she might not hear their dreadful words. She thought of her teacher who had brought her to this, she could not have believed him capable of such harshness, she felt sure the apprentice must have shamefully calumniated her. And so indeed he had, for feeling jealous of the praise which his master bestowed upon this modest and industrious young girl, he took this means of removing her, envious at the idea of her sharing in the Christmas presents, which his master intended to distribute.

The hours which always flew so rapidly when Madelaine was engaged in her work, now appeared insupportably long. "How many little cups and plates could I have painted!" she said to herself. "How many rows of my stocking I could have knitted. Yes, work is a real blessing, for all the world I would not be a sluggard."

At noon, large dishes of soup, vegetables, and bread, were brought in, but although the food was far better than Madelaine was accustomed to, she could not eat.

The afternoon passed wearily away, at last Madelaine took courage and approached the barred window which looked into a street, she saw many people passing, taking home different things intended for Christmas presents. Pastry-cooks carrying baskets and trays full of sugar plums, cakes, and all kinds of sweetmeats. Others bearing Christmas trees—boxes of playthings—rocking-horses—dolls' houses— hoops—skipping-ropes, and numbers of other delights of children.

As the evening closed in, Madelaine could see the lights burning on the Christmas trees in the neighboring houses, and could hear the distant cries of joy of the children as they received their gifts, and as she thought sadly that she might also have enjoyed the same pleasure at Master Teuzer's, her tears flowed afresh, and she sunk back into her corner, where at last sleep, that friend of the poor and afflicted, came and closed those red and swollen eyes.



CHAPTER VI.

NEW MISFORTUNES.

Before six on the following morning, the firing of cannon, which announced Christmas-day, awoke Madelaine from her agitated sleep. At the same time all the church-bells rang a merry peal. Madelaine alone was awake; but as she looked around upon her wretched companions, she felt all the misery of her situation—she thought again of her mother and brother—of their anguish on her account—and falling upon her knees, she poured out all her grief to her Father in heaven, and felt comforted as she remembered that He has said, "Call upon me in the day of trouble, and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me."

At eight o'clock the jailer's wife brought in breakfast. Madelaine took courage to address her, and begged for some employment.

This request surprised the woman; she looked pleased at Madelaine, and said, "Work? yes, I have plenty; if you will promise not to run away, and to be very industrious, you can help me scour the coppers." Madelaine promised readily, and following the woman into the yard, felt less miserable when she found herself in the open air. The jailor's wife silently observed her for some time as she worked, and then coming to her with a large piece of white bread and butter, she said, "One can easily see that this is not the first time you have done this work; you might well engage yourself as a servant. Stay, eat a little, and rest yourself."

Just as Madelaine was thanking her for this kindness, a crowd of people hurried into the court, speaking loudly.

"He ought to be punished," cried one, angrily.

"Severely," exclaimed several others.

"Another child run over," said one man to the constable on guard.

"But who is this boy who has ventured all alone into the street, blind as he is?" asked another.

These words struck Madelaine to the heart. She threw down her bread and rushed into the crowd, which opened before her, and let her see the blind Raphael carried by two men, pale as a corse, his right arm hanging down, and the broken bone showing through the skin.

"Oh, Raphael! my Raphael!" cried Madelaine in agony.

At this well-known voice, a ray of pleasure brightened the face of the boy; he stretched out his left arm to draw her towards him, and hiding his face in her bosom, he said, sobbing, "Mother is dying, and Jacot—and I—dying of grief."

"But," said Madelaine, "how have you come here? How were you run over?"

"Mother was so unhappy, and never ceased crying about you; she would have come to look for you but she was too weak. Since yesterday, Jacot has had no seed; we gave him a few crumbs, but he does not sing, and mother said he sits quite still upon his perch, and that he will die. In my grief I came out to search for you, and to beg some seed for Jacot. I walked along by the houses for some time very well, but when I was crossing a street, a carriage came past at full gallop, threw me down, and the wheel went over my arm."

Madelaine shuddered as she looked at the arm, and said, "poor Raphael! you are in great pain."

"Yes," he replied, "but if you will only come home, and if Jacot does not die, then I can bear the pain."

"His arm must be set without delay," said one of the spectators, "it is swelling."

"The boy must be taken to the hospital," observed another.

"No, oh no!" cried Raphael in agony, and holding his sister firmly, "I will stay with Madelaine, with my mother, and Jacot."

"Compose yourself," said Madelaine, "I will stay with you."

"That cannot be," interrupted the jailor, "you have not yet been examined, but your brother will not remain long here." Saying these words, he tried to disengage Madelaine from her brother. Raphael screamed, and tried with all his strength to hold her.

There was a murmur among the crowd; threatening words were spoken against the police. At this moment a gentleman came forward, and addressing Raphael in a kind voice, said, "Do not torment yourself, my child, you are only going to the hospital to have your arm set. If you do not like to remain there, you can return home. In a few hours your sister will be at liberty, and then she can remain with you; and I will go immediately to your mother and tell her all that has happened."

"But my bird?" said Raphael.

"I will take him a large bag of canary-seed," replied this good man.

Raphael's heart was relieved of a great burden; his features became calm, and in a voice of deep feeling, he said, "A thousand thanks, dear, good gentleman."

Madelaine and the people joined in thanking and blessing this benevolent man, who went directly to do as he had promised. In the meantime, a litter had been brought, Madelaine helped to place her brother upon it, then kissing him tenderly, she returned weeping to her work.



CHAPTER VII.

TROUBLE INCREASES.

Madame Tube had already shed many bitter tears for her daughter—she shed many more when she heard of Raphael's misfortune. When the unknown gentlemen told her of it, anguish prevented her speaking; but looking about the room she at last found the handle of an old broom, which she held as a support between her trembling hands, and set off for the hospital.

Thus, the stranger was obliged to feed the bird, and shutting up the house, he gave the key to the landlord; then he ran after Madame Tube, who could get on but slowly with her swelled feet. The people who passed saluted this gentleman, and named him the king's minister. Notwithstanding, he did not appear the least ashamed to give his arm to this poor woman, and to accompany her to the hospital, where, thanks to his presence, admittance was soon granted to her. Raphael was already there, waiting for the surgeon, who had not yet arrived, and looked delighted to hear his mother's voice, and receive her tender caresses.

When the surgeon came, he cut away the sleeve of Raphael's jacket and shirt, and then called some men to assist him while he set the bone. The pain was dreadful—every cry of her child pierced the heart of Madame Tube, who fainted during these cruel moments. At last the arm was set and bandaged; the severest pain was over, and Raphael was laid upon a bed, where his mother watched him through the night. He soon became restless—the fever was very high, and he was with difficulty prevented from turning and injuring his broken arm again. Towards morning the fever abated a little. Madame Tube had not slept for an instant—she had not thought of eating or drinking—and now feeling quite exhausted, she determined to return home and take a few hours repose. On her way thither she remembered having left her door open, and feared that all her little property might have been stolen. She was re-assured on finding the door locked, and thinking the landlord had done her this kindness, she went to him for the key.

On seeing her, he appeared astonished, and said, that as she had stayed away so long, he had let the room to a fruiterer, who wanted to put fruit there, and had already taken possession, he added, that he had seized her goods to be sold by auction for the rent she owed him.

Madame Tube clasped her hands in despair, praying to be supported under this new trial, she turned from the hard-hearted man, and with difficulty retraced her steps to the hospital. There she found Madelaine released, and nursing her brother. Madame Tube obtained permission to occupy one of the beds until her son could be removed; and Madelaine felt thankful to be able to go out and purchase a little food for her mother with the money she had earned at Master Teuzer's; she also hired a little room instead of their former one, but she was obliged to pay a month's rent in advance, which left her but a few pence.



CHAPTER VIII.

THE SALE.

"Lot 47," cried the auctioneer, "a padlock and key."

"Gentlemen, will you make an offer, the padlock is still very good, and no doubt cost at least a shilling. Who will bid?"

"Two-pence," answered a voice.

"Two-pence," repeated the auctioneer, "once. Two-pence, twice. Will no one bid higher? It is going for nothing, the key is worth more. Have you all done?"

While the auctioneer continued to invite the bystanders to offer more, the door opened, and Madame Tube entered, with Madelaine and Raphael, who held his arm in a sling. They stopped timidly at the entrance, when Raphael entreated his sister to lead him once more to Jacot. "Let me take leave of him," he said. They made their way through the crowd to where the cage was placed.

"Jacot," spoke Madelaine, in a low voice, as she raised a corner of the handkerchief which covered the cage. The bird chirped at the sound of the well-known voice.

"Do not touch that cage," said a constable, roughly, and Madelaine let fall the handkerchief. At this moment, "Lot 42. A canary and cage," was called, "a charming little bird," continued the auctioneer, "yellow as gold, and sings like a nightingale. How much for the canary?"

Raphael's heart beat violently, Madelaine hastened to count the money she had left. "Courage," she whispered to Raphael, "make an offer stoutly, you can go to ten-pence, and perhaps they will let you have it out of compassion."

"Six-pence to begin with," said the constable.

"Seven-pence," cried another voice.

"Eight-pence," stammered poor Raphael.

"Nine-pence," replied the other.

"Ten-pence," said Raphael, gasping for breath.

The attention of those around was attracted to the poor boy, who with his arm in a sling, and pale as death, had his blind eyes turned towards the auctioneer, his countenance expressing intense anxiety.

A short but profound silence succeeded, then a number of questions were asked, the history of the poor child was told, every one felt moved with compassion, and no one would bid again for the bird, which was knocked down to Raphael for ten-pence.

Madelaine placed the cage in his hand, her eyes beaming with joy; he pressed it closely as a treasure without price, then quite overcome, he sobbed aloud.

As soon as the poor family had quitted the room, the sale of the other miserable articles continued, and last of all the old picture which used to serve to stop up the window, was sold at a high price to an artist, it having been discovered to be a painting of considerable value.



CHAPTER IX.

"WHEN DISTRESS IS GREATEST, HELP IS NEAREST."

By prayers and entreaties, Madame Tube had obtained her bed and some indispensable articles from the constable; but in their new habitation they had neither table, chair, bread, wood, or candle—neither had they any clothing but what they wore—and yet they felt happy—happy at being together again; they seemed to love each other more than ever, and felt thankful that although so very poor, they had the comfort of not being obliged to live with strangers, or with the wicked. Raphael was delighted to have his bird, and his mother and sister rejoiced at his happiness; but the question now was, What to do? How to live? The bird was there, it is true, but there was no seed for him. This caused Madame Tube to say, "After all we have been foolish to give our last ten-pence for Jacot—we shall suffer for want of it, and in the end the bird will die of hunger. Yes, my Raphael, it is not well to attach our hearts so much to any earthly thing—sooner or later it is taken from us, and then we are miserable. Let us then set our affections on things above, and not on those of the earth."

Thus spoke Madame Tube, while Raphael caressed his bird.

Then Madelaine jumping up suddenly, exclaimed, "I must go immediately to my teacher—I cannot bear that he should think so ill of me." She ran off, and in about half-an-hour returned. "Mother, mother," she cried, "all is right, and I am quite happy. The teacher is so grieved that he should have listened to the falsehoods which that wicked apprentice told of me; and see, dear mother, the beautiful present he has given me." So saying, she took from her apron a large parcel, containing a new Bible nicely bound. Her eyes sparkled with joy as she said, "Now, Raphael, I can read so many beautiful stories to you."

"May the blessing of God enter our house, with his Word!" said Madame Tube, solemnly.

They were all silent for a few moments, when Madelaine spoke, "I ought also to go to good Master Teuzer, mother—I am sure he will employ me again."

She went, and after a considerable time returned, knocked at the door, and called to her mother to open it—she entered quite loaded. Her mother looked on in astonishment as she spread before her a large cake, apples, nuts, oranges, several pairs of warm stockings, a knitted jacket, and four shillings. "All these are given by kind Master Teuzer," said Madelaine, "he has been from home, and did not hear any thing of our distress, but he kept all these Christmas presents for me, and I am to work with him as often as I can, and the wicked apprentice is sent away:" and pulling Raphael along with her, she danced about the room.

The sun had set, and it was already almost dark, when several gentle knocks were heard at the door, the children were frightened lest some new misfortune was coming, but it was not so. Five children, three girls and two boys, between the ages of four and thirteen, entered timidly. They remained standing silently, and looking at the door as if they expected some one. Madame Tube and her children were much astonished at such an unexpected arrival, but in a few minutes a servant entered, carrying two heavy baskets. "Well?" she cried to the children, as she put down her heavy load. Upon this the two boys advanced towards Raphael, and leading him into a corner, dressed him in a suit of their own clothes, which although they had been worn, were still strong and good; they also gave him a new pair of strong boots and cloth cap. In the meantime their sisters had given Madame Tube and Madelaine warm gowns, flannel petticoats, and shoes. All this was done in silence—on the one side from timidity—on the other from astonishment.

At last the servant said, "It is as dark as a dungeon here—where Christmas presents are giving, there should be light to see them;" and taking from one of her baskets a large parcel of candles, a match, and two candlesticks, she soon illuminated the little chamber. Then the young visitors began to empty the baskets, and with delighted looks spread before the poor family a large loaf of bread, a piece of beef ready cooked, a cheese, butter, coffee, sugar, rice, salt, some plates, knives and forks, cups and saucers, a coffee-pot, saucepans, and a kettle.

Madame Tube was overwhelmed. She said, "You must be mistaken, these things are not intended for us, they are for some other people."

The children smiled at each other, but the servant answered, "All are really for you, Madame Tube; the children have thought of nothing else but the pleasure of giving them to you—they have talked of it day and night."

"May we come in?" asked a voice at the door. It opened, and a gentleman entered; a sweet-looking lady was leaning on his arm. "May we also see the gifts?" he said.

"Papa, mama," exclaimed the children, joyously, as they surrounded their beloved parents.

"And how are you, Madame Tube?" inquired the gentleman; "do you feel better? Christmas week has been a sad one for you, we will hope that the new year is about to open more brightly."

The gentleman's face was not unknown to Madame Tube; she reflected a moment, and then recollected it was the king's minister, who had accompanied her to the hospital. Madelaine also recognised the benevolent man, and the blind boy knew his voice the moment he spoke. They all surrounded their noble benefactor and thanked him with tears of gratitude; but he stopped them by saying, "My children wished to have this pleasure—it is they who have collected all these little things—and is it not true," he continued, turning to his children, "that there is more happiness in giving than in receiving?"

"Oh, yes, yes," they replied eagerly, "never in our lives before have we felt so happy."

Their father smiled, and added, turning to Madame Tube, "To-morrow a load of wood will arrive for you—I have mentioned your sad story to some of our town's people, and have already received much help, which I will lay out to the best advantage for your most pressing wants. And now I am sure Madame Tube has need of repose, so we will wish her good night, and a happy New Year."

Thus in the midst of thanks on one side, and good wishes on the other, they separated.

Shortly afterwards, a young man entered, and advancing to Madame Tube, said, "The auctioneer has sent me to inform you that your old oil painting sold for eight pounds, and he sends you seven pounds which remain for you after paying Mr. Duller his rent." He handed her the money, and wishing her good night, left the room.

So many unexpected events were almost too much for Madame Tube, she felt overcome, but falling on her knees, "Come, my children," she said, "let us thank God, for he is good, and his mercy endureth for ever. He hears the young ravens when they cry to him for food, and he has heard our cry and has helped us." The children joined in her heartfelt thanksgivings, and the Lord made his face to shine upon them and gave them peace. The children soon fell asleep with these happy feelings, but before Madame Tube lay down, she gazed long at her children. Never had she seen her Raphael look so well, a delicate red tinged his cheek, and a happy smile played around his mouth; and kissing him gently she thought how willingly she would give up all else to restore to him his sight.

In the midst of the silence of the night, the cathedral clock struck twelve, the old year with its griefs and sorrows had disappeared. The New Year had commenced, bringing with it joy and hope. "Cast all thy care upon him who careth for thee," murmured Madame Tube, as she laid her head on her pillow, and slept in peace.



CHAPTER X.

THE WONDERS OF THE EYE.

Madame Tube had been relieved from great suffering, she was now comparatively at her ease; but it was not in the power of her benevolent friends to relieve her from bodily suffering, nor to restore Raphael's sight. What an inestimable blessing is health, and how seldom is its value acknowledged until it is lost.

As for Madelaine, she enjoyed perfect health, which she chiefly owed to her habits of early rising, cleanliness, and activity. She left nothing undone to comfort her mother in her suffering, and to cheer her brother; and for this she had a constant resource in her Bible, the magnificent promises and heavenly consolations of which, soothed and comforted her mother, while Raphael was edified and delighted by the beautiful histories and parables that were read to him.

One day, when she had just finished reading the miracle of the blind man receiving sight, she said, "Ah! Raphael, I would go to the end of the earth, if I could obtain that blessing for you."

"But I would not let you go," he replied, "you must never leave us again, and besides I cannot fancy that sight is such a very precious thing—describe to me what it is."

"I will explain it as well as I can," answered a stranger, who had entered unperceived, with the king's minister. Raphael was going to run behind the stove, but the minister prevented him. "Stay, my dear boy," he said, kindly, "this gentleman is the king's physician, and he wishes to be of use to you and your mother, it is with that view he has come here."

"You wish to know what sight is, my boy," said the doctor. "The wisest men cannot tell exactly, but I will try to explain it to you in some degree. The eye is most wonderfully formed, it resembles a round mirror, on which, all objects, whether near or distant, are reflected—this mirror is called the crystal, and is scarcely so large as a cherry stone, and yet the largest objects as well as the smallest, are exactly reflected on it; for example, our cathedral, with its fine towers, its doors, and windows; how impossible would it be for the most skillful painter to represent these on so small a space as the pupil of the eye; but God has so formed that wonderful organ, that it can receive the reflection of the whole in an instant."

"How wonderful!" exclaimed both mother and daughter, who had listened with much greater interest than Raphael, who could not understand what was said in the least.

"But why is it," asked Madelaine, taking courage, "that my brother cannot see? Why are not objects reflected upon his eyes as they are upon ours?"

"My child," replied the doctor, "light is a necessary condition for sight, and this is what your brother's eyes want, because there is a thick skin formed over them, which excludes all light." The physician then examined Raphael's eyes carefully, and found the cataract (as this skin is called) nearly ripe.

"My advice," he said to Madame Tube, "is, that you and your son should go, as soon as the weather is warm enough, to Toeplitz for the benefit of the baths, which will be of much service to you both; and I shall see you there in the course of the summer."

The poor family warmly thanked the physician, and the king's minister, who then took leave, the latter promising to provide means for the proposed journey.



CHAPTER XI.

THE JOURNEY AND THE BATHS.

As soon as summer had arrived, the minister sent a comfortable char-a-banc a sort of jaunting car, to convey Madame Tube and her children to Toeplitz; he also sent her a present of money for her expenses.

Madame Tube and Madelaine were delighted with the beautiful scenery through which they passed. When they had reached the top of the Saxon Erzgebirge, and had descended on the Bohemian side, they were charmed with all they saw. Blue mountains, across which light clouds floated, surround the flowery valley in which Toeplitz is situated. Rocks peeped out from amidst the dark pines on the wooded declivity of the mountain, inviting the traveller to enjoy the magnificent view. On the other side (gloomy as was the age in which it was built,) rose proudly the ruined towers of the strong-hold of some warrior chief. From the valley rose the blue smoke of the huts of a little hamlet, while the sweet chimes of the village church floated through the pure, sweet morning air. Passing under a green arch of lime-trees, they reached the pretty town of Toeplitz, where they soon engaged a little apartment. Having rested for some hours, they went out to view the wonderful waters which God in his goodness has provided for the relief of suffering humanity. Great was their astonishment to see in several places the springs bubbling up boiling out of the earth, and this astonishment was increased, when they remembered that from time immemorial without interruption, in winter as in summer, these health-restoring waters flow always equally abundant, and hot; prepared in the bosom of the earth. Here thousands come in search of health, arriving on crutches, or carried by their attendants to the baths; at the end of a few weeks they are able to walk without support. Madame Tube soon found benefit, each bath strengthened her, and relieved the pain from which she had so long suffered.

Madelaine led Raphael daily to the spring for the eyes, where much sympathy was excited for the children among the visitors, who observed their neat, although poor dress, and their modest behavior. One day, as Madelaine was applying the water to her brother's eyes, and looking at him with the deepest anxiety, a gentleman stopped and asked if the little boy had weak eyes.

Madelaine's soft eyes filled with tears as she answered, "My brother is quite blind, sir."

"In that case, these waters will be of no use to him, but something else may be done," he added; then asking Madelaine's name and address, he left them. They then returned home, and related to their mother what had passed.

In about an hour after, their kind friend the physician from Dresden, entered the room, accompanied by the unknown gentleman, who proved to be the Prince Royal of Wurtemberg, who had just arrived with his physician at Toeplitz.

The doctor having examined Raphael's eyes once more, fixed the following Thursday for the operation. The Prince spoke kindly to Madame Tube, and promising to see her again, left the room, followed by the doctor.



CHAPTER XII.

THE OPERATION.

Thursday was come—before the sun had risen from behind the mountains, Madelaine was up, hope and anxiety had kept both her and her mother awake nearly the whole night.

Madelaine arranged the little room with the greatest care and neatness. She then washed and dressed herself. Gladly would she have done the same for her brother, but the doctor had forbidden anything which would cause him the least excitement. Nine o'clock was the hour fixed for the operation: at six Madelaine was ready. She then joined with her mother (for Raphael still slept) in earnest prayer, for God's blessing on the work about to be done. After these fervent supplications, Madelaine asked her mother's permission to go to the fields to gather a bouquet of wild flowers. She returned some time before the doctor arrived. He entered the room as the clock struck nine, accompanied by an assistant, their appearance produced some agitation in the family; but the doctor entered into conversation on indifferent subjects for a while, before he spoke of the object of his visit.

He then said, "My dear friends, I do not know whether I can entirely fulfil my promise of operating on this little boy's eyes to-day. I must first try whether he will remain still when the instrument touches his eyes. Come then, my little fellow, be firm." He led Raphael to the window, and desiring him to open his eyes wide, asked, "Does that hurt you?" as he passed the instrument across his eye.

"Not at all," replied Raphael.

"That is well," rejoined the doctor. Then calling his assistant to him, they commenced the operation; after a considerable time, during which Madame Tube and Madelaine suffered intense anxiety, Raphael suddenly cried out. "Why did you cry out?" asked the doctor calmly, as he covered the eye, "it is impossible that could hurt you."

"It did not exactly hurt me," answered Raphael, in a trembling voice, "but it felt in my eye as if—" He stopped and tried in vain to express what he felt. "I understand," said the doctor, "and I am satisfied by this that the operation will succeed. We will now leave you to rest until to-morrow." Then giving strict orders to Madame Tube that the covering should not be removed from the eye, the doctor took his leave, expressing at the same time every hope of the happy termination of the operation.

At the appointed hour next day the doctor arrived, and completed the operation; then having the room very much darkened, he permitted the covering to be removed, when Raphael exclaimed in delight, "Oh! I see many things, many things."

The impression which these words produced on his mother and sister, was inexpressible. With cries of joy they rushed towards him, saying, "God be praised! God be praised!"

"My son, my son, thou art doubly given to me," ejaculated his mother, sobbing.

"Are you my dearest mother?" asked Raphael, as she folded him in her arms. "Now at last I shall learn to know your dear features."

"Raphael, Raphael," said Madelaine, sadly, "have you quite forgotten me? let me at least see your eyes that are no longer dead." He turned quickly towards her, and both wept for joy in each other's arms.

"Now, it is enough," said the doctor, "it is only by degrees that he can become accustomed to the light, and for this reason, my boy, you must remain blind for a few days longer;" he replaced the bandage and added, "whenever this is taken off, the room must be darkened, as the light must be admitted only by degrees, until his eyes are accustomed to it. Neglect of this precaution would deprive him of sight for ever."

Madame Tube promised to be careful, then seizing the doctor's hand, "Permit me," she said, "to kiss the hand which has, with God's blessing, restored sight to my child. I cannot reward you for this noble action. May God give you his choicest blessings!"

"Oh! good, kind gentleman," broke in Madelaine, "how happy you have made us all; if I could but express all I feel; but I am too ignorant, I can only thank you a thousand times."

"And I," said Raphael, "I can only thank you now, but I will pray for you, my benefactor. When I rise in the morning, when I lie down at night,—when I look around me on this beautiful world, I will always think of you, and ask God to bless you."

"It is enough, enough," said the doctor, "I am very happy that I have been successful." As he spoke, his countenance beamed with benevolence, and doubtless the heartfelt thanks and prayers of the poor family, and the consciousness of having performed a kind action, gave him most sincere pleasure. He quitted the little room, followed by silent blessings.



CHAPTER XIII.

THE ENJOYMENT OF SIGHT.

A new world was now open to Raphael—hearing and taste were before his greatest pleasures, but now he forgot every thing in the enjoyment of sight. The first time the bandage was removed from his eyes, he amused his mother and sister by trying to reach the bouquet of forget-me-nots, which was at the further side of the room. He was quite astonished to find his hand did not reach it. His mother, who had remarked this said, laughing, "My dear Raphael, you are like a little infant who stretches out its hands towards every object it sees, whether near or distant."

When the thick curtain was withdrawn, Raphael would have put his head through the window, had not his mother prevented him and when shown the glass, he was all amazement.

One day he said to Madelaine, "There is some one looking at us through that little window there; who is it that lives so very near us?"

Madelaine looked at him, and laughed with all her heart. "It is the looking-glass," she answered, "and that person is no other than yourself."

But Raphael would not believe her until his mother took down the looking-glass to convince him. He looked behind it, expecting to find some one there. "Ah," said his mother to Madelaine, "we shall have many curious questions to answer our Raphael, before he becomes acquainted with the world in which he lives."

After sunset, Madame Tube prepared to take a walk with her children. She turned to the road which led to the nearest hill. They proceeded but slowly, for Raphael stopped continually to ask the meaning of something new to him. The smoke from the chimneys—the water at the springs—the trees with their thick trunks and delicately formed leaves—all were to him new wonders. His mother must tell him the name of every little fly—of the commonest weed—and even of each stone; but when he came in sight of the majestic mountains, his astonishment knew no bounds. "What an immense time it must have taken to make such mountains!" he exclaimed.

"The most powerful king," replied his mother, "were he to employ millions and millions of men, could not raise such; but God is the All-powerful King, who is wonderful in all his works, from the least to the greatest—from the smallest flower to the glorious sun which is just setting. Look, Raphael, what a magnificent bed he has—those purple clouds with their splendid border, like a fringe of gold."

"Is the sun very far from us?" inquired Raphael.

"Very far," replied his mother; "millions and millions of miles are between us and the sun."

"Turn round," said Madelaine, laughing, to her brother, "you will see a beautiful balloon rising." Raphael turned quickly, and beheld a large silver ball rising slowly and majestically above the mountains. It was a beautiful spectacle!

Raphael was enchanted; at last he said, "What is it? who has made such a beautiful thing? But the people do not appear to be aware of it—they are walking quietly along as if they did not see it."

"They see it very well," said his mother, but they have seen it so often they do not care for it."

"Not care for it," cried Raphael, "I should never be tired of such a glorious sight; and I should prefer remaining here, where I can see it, to going home to Dresden."

"Be comforted," said his mother, "you will see it rise many times every month at home as well as here; for that which you consider so extraordinary an object, is the moon."

Raphael shook his head, "When I was still blind," he replied, "I have several times walked out with you and Madelaine in the evening, and I have often heard you say the moon is rising, but in quite an indifferent tone, as if the moon were but a farthing candle; therefore I can scarcely believe that this wonderful ball is the moon."

"He is right," said his mother, "habit renders us almost ungrateful for the blessings which surround us. Look still higher, my son," she continued, "contemplate the innumerable stars and the Milky Way, with its millions of worlds."

Raphael raised his head and looked, and looked until his eyes filled with tears of emotion and delight; then falling on his mother's neck, he murmured, "How good, and great, and glorious, is God!"

Soon after they turned towards the town; but Raphael was led by his mother and sister, for he still kept his eyes fixed on the heavens; and when it was time for him to go to bed, he went to the window to look once more at the silver moon, saying, "Now for the first time I understand this blessing: 'The Lord make his face to shine upon us, and be gracious unto us. Amen'"



CHAPTER XIV.

CONCLUSION.

Some days after this, as Madame Tube and her children were walking in the gardens of the palace, they met the Prince Royal, accompanied by the good physician, whose name was Wundel. Raphael ran joyously up to them, and kissing Dr. Wundel's hand, said, "How happy you have made me."

The Prince answered Raphael, "You are happy, indeed, to have recovered your sight; but have you nothing more to desire?"

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

"Good boy," said the Prince, "let me do it in your place." He drew from his finger a brilliant ring, which he presented to Dr. Wundel "I thank you in the name of this child," he added, "and beg of you to wear this ring in remembrance of him." Then giving ten guineas to Madame Tube, he turned again to Dr. Wundel, observing, "I can give them but a few pieces of gold, but you have been the means of restoring sight."

After the Prince and Dr. Wundel had left them, Madame Tube said to her children, "How many benevolent men we have met with! Master Teuzer; the king's minister; Dr. Wundel, and the Prince Royal—and only two who sought to injure us—our landlord, and Teuzer's apprentice."

"Mother, mother," cried Madelaine, much excited, and pointing to the road; "there he is, there he is."

"Who, where?" asked her mother.

"Teuzer's apprentice; that wicked Robert."

It was he indeed, handcuffed, and accompanied by several repulsive-looking men, also handcuffed, and guarded by armed police.

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

"They are smugglers," he replied, "and when taken, they fought desperately, and have wounded several of the police. They are now going to prison."

"Remark," said Madame Tube to her children, "how true it is, that sooner or later, all evil is punished. But how did Robert happen to join the smugglers?"

"Master Teuzer sent him away at Christmas," replied Madelaine, "in consequence of the shameful falsehoods he spread—his next master discovered that he sold his goods and retained the money—after leaving him, I suppose, he joined the smugglers."

Madame Tube was now so much recovered, that she wished to return to Dresden. Raphael longed to see his Jacot, which had been left in Master Teuzer's charge; and Madelaine felt anxious to return to school, and to her occupation of painting. Consequently, early in the following week was fixed for their departure. On the appointed day the char-a-banc came to convey Madame Tube and her children back to Dresden; how greatly her enjoyment was enhanced by Raphael's delight at all he saw during the journey. They were warmly welcomed by their kind friends at Dresden, who had, during their absence, fitted up their little apartments comfortably.

Madelaine returned to school, and had the happiness of taking her brother with her there. Some years after, Raphael devoted his recovered sight to painting, for which he showed great talent. When he had arrived at a great degree of perfection in this beautiful art, he painted a picture of Christ Restoring the Blind to Sight. Large sums were offered him for this chef-d'oeuvre, but he rejected them all, and sent the picture to Dr. Wundel, who showed his beautiful present to the Prince Royal. Raphael's gratitude pleased the Prince even more than the picture; he immediately named him his painter, and allowed him a considerable salary, which Raphael had the inexpressible happiness of sharing with his beloved mothers and no less beloved and fondly cherished Madelaine.



THE BOY AND THE BOOK or HANS GENSFLEISCH, The Little Printer



PART I.

THE BOY.

Can English boys and girls living now in the nineteenth century, carry their minds back so far in time as to the period when our Henry the Fourth was reigning in England, and can they travel in thought so far distant as to the country called Germany, and picture to themselves the life of a little boy at that time and in that country? If so, we will tell them something of the life of Hans Gensfleisch, the only son of a poor widow, who lived about the beginning of the fifteenth century, not far from Mainz, or Mayence, a city built on the banks of the river Rhine, about half-way between its source and the sea. The father of Hans had been a dyer, and had at one time carried on rather a thriving business in Mainz; but after his death Frau[1] Gensfleisch had gone with her son to live at a little village called Steinheim, about three miles from the city walls, where, on a few acres of land, bought with her husband's savings, and laid out partly as garden, and partly as field and vineyard, she contrived to live with this, her only child. Hans and his mother cultivated the little garden, sowed their own crops of barley and flax in their little fields, and tended and trained the vines in their small vineyard. Strong and active, and fond of employment, the life of the little Hans was one long course of busy industry, from the sowing of seeds in Spring to the gathering in of their small vintage late in the Autumn. And in the long winter nights, there was always too much to do within the cottage walls, by the light of their pine wood fire, for him ever to find the time hang heavy on his hands. One night he would be busy helping his mother to comb and hackle her little store of flax; on another he would mend the net, with which he at times contrived to catch his mother a river fish or two for supper; and it would be play to him when nothing else was wanting his help, to go on with the making of a cross-bow and arrows with which he intended some day to bring down many a wild duck or wood-pigeon.

The principal occupation of Hans was, however, to assist his mother in carrying on some part of her husband's former trade; she having become acquainted with many of the secrets of the art by which colors could be extracted from plants and mineral substances, so as to give to wool, flax, and silk, bright and unchanging colors. In those days such operations, instead of being carried on in large factories and workshops, and by wholesale as it were for the manufacturer of the material, were often done just as people wanted any one particular article of dress to be of a particular color. For instance, a woman who had fashioned for her husband a rudely knitted vest of wool of her own spinning; would bring the rather dingy garment to Frau Gensfleisch to have it made red or blue, so that, worn under his brown leather jerkin, it might look smart and gay;—or the young hunter, on going to the chase, would come to her to have the tassels of his bow or horn made scarlet or yellow;—or the knight equipping himself for war would send to her the soiled plume of his helmet, to be made of a brilliant crimson—to say nothing of the knight's lady, who, as she sat at home in her dismal castle, with little else to amuse her but the embroidery frame, would be forever sending down her maidens and serving-men into the valley with skeins of wool and silk, to be dipped into Frau Gensfleisch's dye-pots, and brought back to her of every color of the rainbow. In this way Hans' mother continued to make a comfortable living, and Hans himself was a very important help to her, in the carrying on of her little art.

It was Hans' business to collect the numerous herbs and plants that his mother required for the different colors. He not only knew well which plants would produce certain colors, but knew where they could be found, and at what seasons they were fit for use. Of some he carefully collected the blossoms when fully expanded in the mid-day sun—of others the leaves and stalks—while in many the coloring matter was to be extracted from the roots, which Hans would carefully dig up, knowing well by the forms of the leaves above ground, the kind of root that grew beneath the soil.

This kind of knowledge which Hans had been picking up ever since he was a very young child, made him at twelve years old a most useful little personage, and although he had never learned to read or write, or even been in a school, yet he could not by any means, be called ignorant, for he not only observed and remembered all that came in his way, but he turned his knowledge to the best account, by making it of use to himself and others.

We say that Hans could neither read nor write, but it must not therefore be thought that such acquirements were not valued in those days; on the contrary, it was considered at that time one of the very best and most desirable things in the whole world to be able to read, and one of the cleverest things in the world to be able to write; while he who was so happy as to be the possessor of a book, was esteemed one of the most fortunate of human beings.

This may seem strange to you little girls and boys, my readers, who ever since you were born have been surrounded with books of all sizes and shapes, and on all sorts of subjects, from the books of grown-up people that you could not understand, down to your most favorite story book that you do understand and like so well as to read again and again.

We must, however, remind you, that books in those days were very different things from what they are now, and their great value arose from the fact that they were all written with pen and ink upon parchment; for although a kind of paper had been made at that time, it was not commonly used; and it was only after weeks and months of careful labor, that one of these written books could be produced, so that it is no wonder that a great value was set upon them. A book too was so prized, that people liked to ornament it as much as possible, and many of these written or manuscript books, which means written by hand, had not only beautiful pictures in them, but were bound in rich bindings, sometimes silk embroidered with gold and silver thread, and sometimes even the backs were of beautifully carved ivory, or adorned with filagree work, and pearls, and precious stones.

We value books in our time, but we do not ornament them so very much, because we would rather have twenty interesting books on our shelves to read by turns, than one precious volume locked up with clasps, and kept in a box only to be taken out on particular occasions; and instead of a man spending half his life over the writing of such a book, letter by letter, word by word, and page by page, a man who in the course of a little time has set the small metal letters together, which we call printing types, so as to form a number of pages, can print those pages if he likes on ten thousand sheets of paper, which will form a part of ten thousand books of the same kind, and which when finished can be read by ten times ten thousand human beings!

But we will return to little Hans. We have said that he lived not far from the town of Mainz, in Germany, and we must mention that one of the most pleasant things he had to do in his little life was to pay a visit occasionally to this great town and see all the busy and wonderful things that were going on there. Mainz was a rich and important town at that time, and was governed by an Archbishop, who was called an Elector, because he was one of those who had the right of choosing an Emperor for Germany, when one was wanted. Many Princes had also this right, but the Archbishop of Mainz had the particular privilege of setting the crown on the new Emperor's head, when he was crowned in the neighboring city of Frankfort. Besides seeing all that was going on at Mainz, and purchasing the different things that his mother wanted in the market, Hans' great delight was to pay a visit to an uncle, who lived in the monastery of St. Gothard, near the great cathedral.

This uncle was a monk, and called Father Gottlieb, and was considered at that time a very learned man. He was good as well as learned, and full of kindness to his little nephew Hans, who, from having so early lost his own parent, looked up to Uncle Gottlieb as a real father, and loved him as one.



A monastery, I must tell you, was a place where a number of men lived together away from the rest of the world, in order, as they thought, to devote themselves more to the service of God, than if they were mixed up with the business and pleasure of life. Whether they were right or wrong in so doing, we will not now stop to inquire, but we must point out that this custom had at that time a great many advantages, and certainly enabled these monks to do a great deal of service to their fellow-creatures. One of the most important of these services was with regard to the making of books, such as we have before described. It was in these monasteries, or houses of monks, that nearly all the books of those times were written or transcribed, and a number of the monks were always employed, if not in writing books, at all events in making copies of those which had been written before. A room called the Scriptorium, or writing-room, was to be found in every monastery, and most of the monks could either write or read, and were looked upon in consequence as very learned and wise. This made the visits of little Hans to his uncle very pleasant. There was nothing he thought so great a treat as to have something read to him out of one of Father Gottlieb's books, for he possessed two of these precious volumes. One was a copy of the book of Genesis, the first book in the Bible, you know, and the other was a history of the lives of some of the holy men that have been called saints by the Catholics. Seated on a low stool at his uncle's knee, Hans could have listened for hours to stories of the patriarchs Abraham, and Jacob, and Joseph, which Father Gottlieb slowly read from the pale written volume; but the duties of the convent allowed him only short portions of time, in which, shut up in his own little room or cell, he could entertain his dearly loved nephew; and often when both were so engaged he had to jump up at the sound of a bell calling him to prayers, and then, hastily locking up the precious volume, he would kindly stroke the boy's curly head, and with a message to his mother, bid him farewell. At other times he would take Hans into the beautiful chapel belonging to the monastery, and show him its gaily adorned altars, and curious images; and once or twice Hans got a peep into the Scriptorium, or writing-room, were the monks were at work over their sheets of parchment, writing so carefully one after another the curiously formed letters which were then in use, and which are still used in the printed books of Germany. Being read to, and finding what pleasure arose from being able to read, and seeing so much of book-making and writing, made little Hans wish very much to be able to read and write. A few years before, he had thought that nothing could be so grand or nice as to be a knight and go to the wars, and he would make himself a helmet of rushes, and with a long willow wand in his hand for a spear, and his cross-bow slung at his back, he would try to fancy himself a warrior, and set off in pretence to the Holy Land, to fight against the Turks; but latterly he had begun to think that he should like nothing so well as to be able to read and write like Father Gottlieb, and the rest of the monks, and it was a great delight to him, when his uncle allowed him to take in his own hands one of the precious volumes to pick out the different letters and learn their names.

What brought Hans at this time very often to the monastery, was, that his uncle, whose turn it was to be purveyor or provider for the convent, had employed his mother to make what they called writing color or dye, for the copyist. This was, of course, something the same as what we call ink and it so happened that Frau Gensfleisch was in possession of a secret by which a black dye could be made, which would not turn brown with time, as that of many of the manuscripts. Every ten days or fortnight, therefore, it was Hans' business to take to the convent a small flask of the valuable fluid, which his mother had carefully prepared, from certain mineral and vegetable substances, and it was no fault of his, if he did not on each occasion, somehow or other, add to his own stock of knowledge; getting at one time perhaps a verse or two read by his uncle, which finished the history of Joseph, or puzzling out for himself the difference between the shape of a C and a G, till he could quite distinguish them; or being told by his uncle some wonderful legend or history connected with the paintings and carvings on the walls of the convent; so that it may be said that the education of little Hans was slowly proceeding in those matters, which at that time was considered learning and science. In the midst of all his other employments which did not require thought, Hans' mind would be occupied with this new knowledge; and as he worked in the garden, or weeded and dressed the vines in their little vineyard, the remembrance of the stories Uncle Gottlieb had read to him or told him, would come into his mind, and the pictures he had shown him appear as it were before his eyes. At night too, as he sat by his mother's spinning-wheel, he would try to trace on the sanded floor the letters he had learned from the books, or begging a drop of black dye, he made attempts with a pointed stick to mark them on the wooden table. Wherever he was, in fact, and whatever he was about, letters would dance before his eyes, and his former hopes of being a famous hunter or warrior when he grew up were all lost in the one great hope, which now filled his mind, of one day becoming a learned copyist or scribe. Such was the change that had taken place in the mind of little Hans, when, on visiting the convent one day, he found to his great dismay that his good uncle had gone on a journey to the city of Frankfort, which lay some thirty or forty miles off, upon the banks of the same river Maine, which just by Mainz empties its waters into the Rhine. It was the time of the great Frankfort Market or Fair, and Father Gottlieb had gone there to purchase for the convent all that was wanted for the next year. He had gone up the river in a boat with a party of monks and merchants, and was not expected to return until the next week, as he would wait to bring with him all the merchandise he purchased. It was a great trial to Hans to have another whole week to wait before he saw his dear uncle again, but then what a pleasure had he in his next visit to the convent; not only Uncle Gottlieb to see, but all the beautiful and wonderful things which he had brought back from the Frankfort Fair, and his own present to receive too, which the kind uncle had not forgotten amid all his bustle and business. This was no less than a knife—the first that Hans had ever possessed of his own. It had a pretty stag's-horn handle and a green leather sheath, so that, stuck in his girdle, it looked quite like that of a real woodsman or hunter, and made Hans not a little proud.

Then what wonderful things had not his uncle to relate of the large and rich city of Frankfort. Of all the beautiful works in gold and silver with which the shops were filled; of the grand old hall where the Emperors were elected and the chapel in which they were crowned; and then of the curious people called Jews, who live in such numbers in one part of the city, who did not worship Christ or the virgin, and were the same people whom he had heard about in the stories of Jacob and Joseph. Long after his usual time did Hans stay listening to all these matters, and it was nightfall ere he got back again to his mother's cottage with his present to her of a piece of fine cloth for a new head coif, which Father Gottlieb sent her.

For many days Hans could think of nothing but his new knife, and well pleased was he to show it to his young companions, many of whom had never before seen so polished a piece of iron. In his herb-gatherings for his mother, too, how useful it was to him in cutting through the tough stalks of some of the plants and in digging up the roots; and what fine things it enabled him to cut and carve for his mother,—new comb for her flax amongst other things, and a spoon to stir her pots of dye.

He grew very expert in using his knife, and cutting and carving with it almost put out of his head his dearly beloved letters that he had taken such pains to learn.

It happened, however, one day, that after having been some hours out on the hills, behind his mother's cottage, collecting a quantity of acorns and oak-galls, which his mother required to make her black dye or ink, a very violent storm came on, which obliged him to take shelter under a large spreading beech tree, behind whose trunk he crept while the wind and hail beat fiercely down. The storm lasted long, and to amuse himself Hans began to exercise his carving powers upon the smooth bark of the beech tree which sheltered him.

He carved some letters upon it; cutting away the bark of the beech and leaving the letters white. Some he cut deep into the wood in sharp furrows like the letters on a seal. Then he tried cutting away the bark and leaving the letters stand out in relief as it is called, from the tree, like the letters on the impression of a seal. This was the prettiest way of all, and he began to carve the letters of his own name. The word Hans he could manage very well, for he knew well the letters which formed it, and he got on very well with the rest of his other name as far as Gens,—but here, alas! he was stopped, for he did not know how to make an F. He had learned how his name was spelt, but it had never occurred to him before to write it; but it did not matter—he was going the very next day to the convent, and he would learn how an F was made, and then too he could also make himself sure of the C, which he had always a difficulty in distinguishing from G, as he had never learnt the alphabet in proper order. The next day accordingly, on visiting the convent, after delivering his flask of ink, he asked his uncle to show him once more the different letters which he did not yet know perfectly; and his uncle not only did this, but on a strip of old parchment he kindly wrote down all the letters from A to Z, so that at any time Hans could use it as a copy when he wanted to put letters together so as to make words.

Hans was greatly delighted. It seemed to him now as if he had got possession of a key which locked up a great deal of valuable knowledge, for his alphabet would not only help him to write but to read also. He could not rest that evening, even before he had taken the bowl of milk and piece of black bread that his mother had left for his supper, till he had climbed the hill to the great beech tree, and carved upon it the other letters of his name. When finished, his name reached half round the tree, and each letter was nicely formed and neatly cut. All the lines were straight, and the little points were all sharp and clear. Written in those (to us) old-fashioned letters it looked perhaps something like this:—



Hans wished his mother could but see it!

"Do mother, I pray thee, come up the hill as far as the great beech tree," said he one evening as he thought of his nice piece of writing; "I want to show thee how strangely the elves have marked the bark." This he said in jest, hoping to entice his mother to see the wonder.

"Nay, child," said she, "my old bones are too stiff for climbing now-a-days, and nought that the elves can do can make me wonder, seeing, as I do, all the strange new things that are coming every day into the world." And it was In vain that Hans tried to persuade her.

Some days after this, however, Hans on paying a visit to the tree and finding that the white wood of the beech, from which he had peeled away the bark, was becoming brown, so that the letters no longer looked out plain and distinct, the thought came into his head of cutting each of these raised letters away from the tree and taking them home. He did so—slicing them carefully off, so that they were not split or broken, and he was thus able to carry home to his mother, as she would not come to see them, this first specimen of his own writing.

We shall see how the carrying home of those letters was afterwards to influence the fate of Hans Gensfleisch—and of the whole world!

Proud was Hans that evening, when after his frugal supper was over, he swept away the crumbs from off their little table, and arranged side by side the letters of his name before his astonished mother—so that when she compared them with his name upon the slip of parchment which was the register of his birth, she could see that it was really and truly her son's name that the curious signs signified. She thought her Hans very clever, and she was pleased. We are not sure that Hans did not think himself very clever too!

Hans put his letters carefully away in an old leather pouch which had once belonged to his father, and often after his day's work was done would he pull them out and arrange them on the table or on the hearth before the fire. He soon found out that besides making his own name, he could put together several other words which he had learned to spell. Out of the letters which formed Hans Gensfleisch, for instance, he could make the word fisch which is the German for fish—lang, long—schein, shine; and it was a great delight to his mother as well as to himself, when he found too that he could put together the letters of her name, Lischen, just as they were also written on the parchment register of his birth.

But he had other discoveries still to make with regard to his letters; for one evening it so happened that as his mother was busy over a boiling of ink that he was to take the next day to Mainz, and had put some of it out in a sort of saucer or bowl upon the table to cool, Hans in playing with his letters let one of them fall into the black color, and pulling it hastily out again he popped it on to the first thing that lay near, which happened to be a piece of chamois leather which was stretched out after being cleaned ready for dyeing.

Scarcely had the letter laid an instant on the white leather than Frau Gensfleisch, turning round, saw with dismay the mischief that was done;—a large h was marked upon the chamois skin!

"Ah Hanschen! Hanschen!" cried she, "what art thou about—thou hast ruined thy poor mother. See, lackaday! the lady of Dolberg's beautiful chamois skin that was to be dyed of a delicate green for her ladyship's slippers. See the ugly black marks that thou hast made upon it! This comes of all thy letter making and spelling of words and names. Away with the useless—things! Thou canst do better with thy knife and thy time than to be bringing thy mother thus into trouble." And in her anger the Frau Gensfleisch swept the precious letters off the table and threw them into the fire.

Hans started forward in dismay to save them but it was too late. One g alone remained of his treasured letters, but it was enough. He had his knife and he could make others—and more than that, there was left with him a valuable thought. The impression left on the white chamois skin by the blackened letter had caused a new idea to flash into his mind—the idea of Printing. On that evening, and in that little cottage, in fact, the invention of Printing took place.

It was something to have a lucky thought come into one's mind, but it is quite another thing to have patience and industry and perseverance enough to put that thought into action as it were, and make it turn to profit and use. Luckily for Hans and for the world, he had these good qualities even when thus a little boy, and from that time he made it the business of his life to turn the thought to good account. We do not say that the little boy Hans Gensfleisch could at that time foresee any but a very small part of the good which might arise out of the invention of printing. He could not possibly tell before-hand, how through its means, knowledge would be spread all over the face of the earth, nor that that book which was then only to be found in convents and monasteries—locked up and rarely opened—read by a few learned monks, and seldom or ever read to the people;—that this book, or the Bible, would through the invention of Printing, be distributed all over the world, and that rich and poor, wise and simple, young and old, would be able to possess it, and read it, and learn from it the Word of God:—he did not foresee this; but he saw that there might be an easier and a quicker way of making books, and this he felt would be a good and useful thing to bring about, and he resolved that he would do it. He saw that instead of spending so much time in shaping over and over again the same letters, that it would be a great saving of trouble, if letters were to be carved out of wood or any other hard substance, and then blackened with ink and pressed or imprinted on the parchment, for then the same letters could be used many times in making different words in different books.

Hans saw this plainly. He was sure of it, and he was almost sure that no one had ever thought of it before. With a very natural feeling, and certainly not a wrong one, he determined that it should be himself who should bring about this new method of writing. He would keep it secret from every one until he could prove that it was a great and useful discovery.

In the meantime, however, he had much to do. First, he must learn to read and spell, and then he must also be able to write well, so as to shape all the letters correctly when he carved them. From that time Hans lost no more time in play. His cross-bow was laid aside, and he seldom or never joined the other boys of the village in their games of running and wrestling, nor did he follow the hunters to the chase on the hills as he had been accustomed to do, or spend time in loitering with his net along the river side. Instead of all this, he would go on every possible pretext into the town and to the monastery to visit his uncle and get all the knowledge he could. And after some time he told his uncle of his great wish to learn to read and to become a scribe, and begged him to persuade his mother to let him follow out his wish.

Father Gottlieb was pleased with the boy's earnest desire. He was good and pious, and when he saw how full of this high hope was the mind of the young boy, he said, "It is the will of God. He makes the humblest of us tools for the furtherance of his wise designs. His will be done!" And he talked to the Frau Gensfleisch upon the matter, and though he did not think it right to tell her that her son might one day become a great and learned man, yet he persuaded her that it would be wrong to oppose the earnest wishes of Hans who had always been a good, and dutiful, and loving son; and so it was settled between them that henceforth a part of the widow's savings were to pay for the labor which was required for the field and garden, and that Hans was to come to the convent every day to be taught by the monks to read and write.

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



PART II.

THE BOOK.

We must pass quickly over several years of the time during which Hans Gensfleisch was going through the tedious operation of learning to read and write. We can all of us remember it to be tedious, but in those days it was so even more than now; since there were no such things as spelling books, and children's story books to help on the young scholar, and the letters were not as plainly written, nor of such a simple form as our English letters. Hans' reading and spelling book was, perhaps, some musty old parchment manuscript, discolored by age; and he had to pore over it whole hours and days, before he could make out the meaning of a simple page. The monks who had to teach him, too, were not all of them so patient and kind as Father Gottlieb, his uncle, whose duties in the convent did not often allow him to be his young nephew's instructor; and there were hours and days when Hans grew sadly wearied of the task he had undertaken, and his resolution would waver and falter. Instead of being shut up in that close cell in the convent, where the small and high window allowed only a tiny piece of sky to be seen, and where fresh air scarcely ever entered; how much pleasanter would it be, he often thought, to be out and away on the hills with his bow, or armed with his knife herb-gathering for his mother. His bright vision of being the one who should make books in a new and quick method grew dim in his mind, and other ways of living seemed better and happier. But then again, at such times it would perhaps happen that his uncle would send for him to his own cell, and would make him read to him that he might see his improvement, and would praise him for his progress, and encourage him to go on; so that Hans' very heart would glow within him, and fresh zeal and courage come to him again, and he would go back to his work refreshed, and pleased, and hopeful as before.

At times, too, it would happen that he had something given him to read to the monks, which interested him very much; some portion of the history of a saint, perhaps, or a curious legend, so that no trouble was too great in deciphering the crabbed writing, provided that he could only get to the end of it, and make out all the sense; and he would carry home the story in his head, and entertain his mother with it over their evening meal. Then all this time, too, was he busy carving with his knife, out of the hardest wood he could find, a stock of letters, with which, when an occasion offered, he meant to make trial of imprinting whole sentences with ink. He did this secretly. He feared to vex his mother, and run the risk of his letters being burned as before, and he feared, too, that some one might find out his plan, and make use of it before he was ready prepared to show it as his own.

All this kept him silent and reserved, and he nourished within his mind many thoughts and hopes that no one knew of or suspected. To his mother he was ever kind and good, and as of old, he would in all his leisure hours gladly help her in her little household affairs, and in the preparation of her dye, and while doing the latter, he would also make trial of different kinds of ink that might be better for his letter imprinting than the thin ink used by the copyist. He saw that a thicker and more sticky kind of ink would be wanting for this purpose, and he endeavored to find some substance that would produce this stickiness and thickness. And thus was he ever preparing himself for the time when he could bring everything to bear on the great plan which he cherished in his mind; and in the meanwhile he grew up to be a man.

No longer a boy, at the age of eighteen Hans had not only learned to read and write well his native language, but had also learned the Latin tongue, which it was at that time quite necessary for him to know, seeing that many of the books then written were in that language. He came to be looked upon as a most learned youth, and the monks who had taught him, thinking that he would be a credit to their convent, were anxious that he should join them and become a monk like themselves, devoting the rest of his life to copying manuscripts and writing books. But this would not have suited at all with the purpose of Hans, and he knew that he could be much more useful when out in the world than shut up all his life writing in the convent. It grieved him to disappoint his good uncle, who had always hoped that he would become a monk, but he knew that he was right in refusing, and this made him strong and firm.

Hans was not always faithful, however, at this time to his good purposes, and we must confess the acquaintanceship of some gay young companions led him into some difficulties and dangers. He had one very favorite friend, who, like himself, had been a scholar in the convent, and this Conrad, for so he was called, being the son of a rich burgher in the town, Hans was led into companionship with many gay and thoughtless youths, who spent much of their time in feasting and pleasure taking, and who were not like Hans accustomed to labor from morning till night, and live on simple fare. And not only did Hans, through the means of his friend Conrad, fall in the way of pleasure taking, as we have said, but was also brought into a good many quarrels and disputes, which otherwise he would not have been exposed to. At this time it happened that there was in most towns two classes of people, who were more distinct from each other than they are now-a-days. These were the nobles or gentlemen, and the burghers or trades-people. Instead of living peacefully together, and serving one another, these people were continually quarrelling; the nobles trying to oppress the burghers, and the burghers in their turn ever trying to resent the oppressions of the nobles. With the youths, especially in the town of Mainz, a continual warfare was always going on. The sons of the rich nobles being proud, and not liking to hold companionship with the sons of the burghers; and seeking on every occasion to vex and annoy them; and the latter, since they were rich, thinking that they had a right to the same pleasures and privileges as those of nobler birth, and being determined to stand up for them; so that their disputes would not unfrequently end in fighting and bloodshed.

It would have been easy for Hans, who was only the son of a poor and humbler cottager, to have kept out of the way of these noble youths, and he was far from being of a quarrelsome disposition; but it so happened that he was often mixed up in the quarrels of his friend Conrad, who being very generous and kind to him, Hans thought himself obliged to take his part and defend him when any strife arose.

All this turned out very unfortunately for Hans Gensfleisch, as it was the occasion at last of his being obliged to leave his native city, and be absent for many years from his poor mother.

One evening, it happened that a party of youths were entertaining themselves in a place called the Tennis-court, where a particular game of ball was played, which was a favorite amusement among the youths of that time. The greater number of the players on this occasion were burghers' sons, and among them Hans and Conrad, who were very expert at the game. Presently a party of nobles came up, who were vexed to find the place so occupied. They accordingly placed themselves so as to observe the game, and amused themselves with making rude remarks on the burgher youths and with laughing at their gestures and dress.

"See the fine gentlemen," said they, "how daintily they handle the ball! Better for them to keep to measuring silk or dealing out spices in their fathers' shops, than try their skill here." "And the learned scholars, too," said another, "they ought to stick to their musty parchments and books, and not amuse themselves with such idle games as these."

Then one of them, on observing Hans, exclaimed, "See, too, the dyer's son, with his rusty black jerkin. 'Tis a pity he does not dip it in one of his old mother's dye-pots, if he would have himself pass for a gentleman."

Conrad overheard this last remark and was very angry. A scornful allusion to his friend was almost more than he could bear. It was his turn to throw the ball, and scarce knowing what he did, he threw it with force in the direction of the group of young nobles, and it struck one of them on the temple. The youth drew his sword, (for at that time it was common for the sons of nobles to wear them as ornaments), and ran fiercely at him. Hans sprang forward to defend his friend and placed himself before him. He had no weapon but his knife, and in defending his friend with this, it so happened that he wounded the youth severely in the side.



A cry arose of "To prison with the assassin!" and it was with difficulty that Hans could make his escape from out of the crowd which ran up from all sides to see what was passing and take part in the affray. He succeeded, however, in getting to the house of his friend, which was near at hand, and here he was soon followed by Conrad, who was in great distress. He said that the wound of the young man being found to be dangerous, the officers of justice were already in search of Hans. He advised him to leave the town immediately and to make the best of his way to Worms, which is a town also on the banks of the Rhine, south of Mainz. Here lived friends of his father, who would, he said, be ready to receive him, and he furnished him with money for the journey. It was nightfall, and wrapped in a cloak which was lent to him by Conrad, Hans crept through the darkest and most retired streets until he reached the convent, in order that he might relate his unfortunate adventure to his uncle and take leave of him.

Not without much shame and sorrow had Hans to acknowledge to the good father how he had neglected his oft-repeated cautions and advice, and it was indeed a grief to his uncle to find into what dangers and difficulties Hans had fallen, which would thus oblige him to leave his friends and protectors and suddenly go forth alone into the world. He reproached him severely for having gone into the company of riotous and quarrelsome youths, and pointed out to him that as a monk he would have been saved from all such dangers and temptations. He recommended him, however, to repair immediately to a convent of monks in the town of Worms, of which the superior, or chief monk, was known to him, and giving him a letter of recommendation, he hoped that he might by this means get employment as a scribe. With much good advice, and many prayers for his safety, Father Gottlieb bade him farewell, laying his hands on his head and bestowing on him his parting blessing. Hans had now to take leave of his poor mother, and he turned his steps with a heavy heart towards her cottage. Grieved was he indeed to tell her all that had befallen;—how that he had shed the blood of a fellow creature, and that he must leave her, when to return he knew not.

Frau Gensfleisch wept long and sore. She knew not what she should do without her Hans. It was like tearing the life from out her body, she said. Old as she was, who could tell that she should ever see him again. Where would his wanderings end? What would become of him in the strange, wide world into which he was thus thrown without guide or guard? While she lamented, however, she hastily made a number of little preparations with motherly care, to preserve him from want and to secure his comfort. A bundle of clothes put together, a knapsack with bread and pieces of dried meat and cheese, and a purse with all the money that she possessed in the world, which she insisted on his taking.

"I will come back to thee, mother," said Hans, in a tone of more cheerfulness than he really felt. "I will come back to thee again, and see if I shall not one day become rich and great,—see if thou wilt not have reason to be proud of thy Hanschen."

His mother shook her head. She could then only feel that she was losing his daily care and presence, and that the future was all uncertain. But she was at the same time pleased to see him of good cheer, and that his courage and spirit did not forsake him. She promised to find out if the young man whom he had wounded recovered, and to discover some means of sending him word when he might return in safety; and with many embraces and blessings, and parting words of love he went away.

Hans had not gone far, however, before turning his thoughts to the future, and thinking of what had been his former hopes and intentions, he all at once remembered the little bag of letters which he had some years before carved out of wood, and which hung in the back room of the cottage. He called to mind all the schemes and visions which of old he had formed over these letters, and he thought to himself that now, perhaps, was come the right time for turning them and all his acquired knowledge to account. He determined to go back and fetch his letters; and he thought it best to do so unknown to his mother, so that he might not renew in her the sorrow of parting; retracing then his steps, he got over the hedge which divided his mother's little garden from the road, and softly opening the door that led to the little room in which he had been accustomed to sleep, and where he had kept his treasured letters, he took the little pouch from the nail on which it hung, and was hastening away—when the sound of his mother's voice struck his ear. She was weeping—but in the midst of her tears was she also praying for her son. "Oh, good Lord," she said, "protect my child from the dangers of the world. Let him not again sin against thy laws. Be thou to him a shield, a fortress of defence, and let him love thy word and law. Preserve him, I pray thee, to me good and pure, and let my eyes behold my child again, ere they are closed in death."

Hans was deeply moved by these words of his poor forsaken mother, and he also prayed. He prayed that her hopes might be fulfilled; and that he might be a comfort and a blessing to her old age; and he said to himself, that he would henceforth lead a life of usefulness and peace; and so he went forth, strong in purpose, yet full of tenderness and love.

After this parting, many years passed over Frau Gensfleisch's head ere she beheld her son again; and few and far between were the tidings of him that reached her cottage. Long and weary years were they to her; and the hope so long deferred of seeing him again made, indeed, her heart grow sick. Many and many a time would she go on foot into the town to make inquiries of Father Gottlieb as to whether aught had been heard of the absent one; and if by chance she was told of some traveller who had come into the town from the south, she would go there though ever so weak and weary, and never rest until she had found the stranger out, to question him herself about all the youths whom he might have fallen in with, in the hope that her Hans might have been one of them.

Through Father Gottlieb she heard of his safe arrival at Worms; and these tidings came written on a slip of parchment by Hans himself, and was brought by a travelling monk who was going about to collect alms, and who called at the convent of St. Gothard in Mainz. In return, Frau Gensfleisch got one of the monks to write for her a letter, in which she told Hans of the recovery of the youth whom he had wounded, and begged him to return to her. This letter was given into the charge of the same monk, who, after visiting several other cities, was likely to return to Worms; but as it did not bring Hans home again, no one felt sure that it had ever reached him.

Several years passed without any more tidings of her son reaching Frau Gensfleisch, until there called at her cottage one day a pilgrim who was returning from the Holy Land, and was on his way to the city of Treves, to which he was taking some holy relics. He brought to Frau Gensfleisch a small bag of silver coin, as much in value as the money she had given to Hans at his departure. The pilgrim told her it was sent by a youth in the town of Strasburg, who sent with it love and greeting, and directed him where to find her cottage. The pilgrim had forgotten the name of the youth, he said, but that he had marked the little bag with a mark that he was sure his mother would know; and sure enough she did; for there on the leather had been imprinted the very same letter g which Hans had saved from the fire, when his other letters were burnt. Frau Gensfleisch knew by this that the money came from Hans, and her heart beat for joy at the knowledge that he was well and rich, and above all that he had not forgotten her.

Years rolled on, and the mother and son had never met again; when one summer evening of the year 1438, a traveller, who had that morning arrived in the town of Mainz, passed out of it towards the little village of Steinheim. He was weary and way-worn; his clothes soiled and dusty with long travel, and his cheeks tanned from long exposure to the sun. Upon his back he bore a knapsack, and under his arm he carried a large and carefully wrapped packet. As he reached the little hill at the foot of which the village lay, he paused to look around him; and he looked not as one who beholds for the first time a beautiful view, taking in at a glance the whole picture which was spread before him; but seeking out rather each well remembered object that was connected with the past years of youth and childhood. Stretching from the north, and far away to the west, was a long and wavy chain of hills, behind which the sun was setting in a bright blaze of gold and red. How often had the traveller seen such a sunset behind the blue summits of those hills before! Flowing yet nearer to him was the noble river Rhine, winding onward to the north, and bearing on its bosom many a little skiff which scudded quickly before the evening breeze, or raft of timber which floated slowly down its stream. How often had the stranger sailed in such little barks upon its surface, or bathed and fished in its waters! At his feet lay the little cluster of cottages which formed the village of Steinheim; and amid its clustering trees and vineyards, it was not fancy, perhaps, that led the traveller to think that he could distinguish one roof from all the rest, and one patch of vines from out the other larger vineyards. He passed on with quickened steps; but as he approached the cottages, he found—not like the distant mountains or the wide river—that much was new and changed. Houses and cottages had sprung up where fields of barley and flax had grown, and a new church stood where once a barn had been. He sought out the little cottage that once he had known so well. Alas! it was strangely changed. A stone wall supplied the place of the old briar-hedge, and shrubs had grown up into trees, shadowing the door and window, whilst moss and ivy covered the walls and roof. With a trembling hand he knocked at the lowly door. The lattice was opened, and a strange face came to answer his inquiries.

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

"The Frau Gensfleisch," said the woman; "nay, my good friend, the Frau Gensfleisch has left our village this many a day. Maybe she lives now in the town, or maybe she is dead; I cannot tell thee which."

The traveller turned away.

Frau Gensfleisch, however, was not dead. Finding that the care of her little fields and vineyard was more than she was able to manage in her declining years, she sold her cottage and land, and returned into the town of Mainz to live, so that she might be near the Father Gottlieb, who was now the only relation she had left besides her absent son. To the good Father she could at least talk about Hans, and he was able sometimes to cheer her fading hopes, by telling her that the day might yet come when Hans would return to spend the rest of his life with her. She lived in a dark and narrow street, and seldom went from home except on certain days, when, as of old, she would take a flask of her ink to the convent for the use of the monks, who were still, as during the childhood of Hans Gensfleisch, busied over their endless copying and writing. It was on the morning of the day on which the traveller we have spoken of above had inquired after her at her old cottage, that a message came to her from Father Gottlieb to say that she must come to the convent with all speed, to hear some tidings of her son, which had been brought by a traveller from the south. With a beating heart she went, and from the Father Gottlieb she heard that a learned scribe had come that day into the town who had known her son in the city of Strasburg. This scribe had brought with him a most wonderful book, and all the town was filled with surprise and curiosity to hear that this volume, which was a copy of the Bible, had been written by one man—the traveller himself—and that in its production he had used neither pen, nor style,[2] nor reed, but had imprinted it with ink in some unknown way, which had caused the writing to be more regular and even, and plainer to read than that of any manuscript which had ever been seen or heard of. The whole town was talking of the book, and the wonder of the people was even greater still when the traveller said that he could at will produce many such books as this, and that each should be so much alike the other, that not one letter—not one jot or one tittle of a letter should be different. Frau Gensfleisch listened in wonder,—but wonder was lost in hope, for she said to herself, "This man has known my Hans, for he too could imprint letters;" and she eagerly inquired his name.