"At Constance a like tragedy haunted us. Constance has been called 'the city of Huss.'

"Among the mighty ones who wended their way to the city of the lake, to attend the great Council, was a pale, thin man, in mean attire. He had been invited to the Council by the Emperor Sigismund, who promised to protect his person and his life. He was a Bohemian reformer; a follower of Wycliffe. He was graciously received, but was soon after thrown into prison on the charge of heresy.

"They led him in chains before the Council, which assembled in an old hall, which is still shown. The emperor sat upon the throne as president.

"He confessed to having read and disseminated the writings of Wycliffe.



"He was required to denounce the English reformer as one of the souls of the lost.

"'If he be lost, then I could wish my soul were with his,' he said firmly.

"This was pronounced to be heresy.

"The emperor declared that he was not obliged to keep his word to heretics, and that his promise to protect the life of the Bohemian was no longer binding.

"He was condemned to death. He was stripped of his priestly robes, and the cup of the sacrament was taken from his hands with a curse.

"'I trust I shall drink of it this day in the kingdom of heaven,' he said.

"'We devote thy soul to the devils in hell,' was the answer of the prelates.

"He was led away, guarded by eight hundred horsemen, to a meadow without the gates. Here he was burned alive, and triumphed in soul amid the flames.

"Such was the end of John Huss, the Savonarola of Constance.

"We made an excursion upon the lake. The appearance of the old city from the water is one of the most beautiful that can meet the eye. It seems more like an artist's dream than a reality,—floating towers in a crystal atmosphere.

"'Girt round with rugged mountains, The fair Lake Constance lies.'

"The lake is walled with mountains, and wears a chain of castle-like towns, like a necklace.

"It would be delightful to spend a summer there. Excursions on the steamers can be made at almost any time of the day. One can visit in this way five different old countries,—Baden, Wuertemberg, Bavaria, Austria, and Switzerland."

* * * * *

Mr. Beal's succinct account of the old city led to a discussion of the gains of civilization from martyrdoms for principle and progress. He was followed by Master Lewis, who gave the Class some account of

BISMARCK AND THE GERMAN GOVERNMENT.

In the eyes of the multitude, Bismarck is a great but unscrupulous statesman, intent upon uniting Germany and making it the leading nation of Europe. As a man, he seems hard-headed, self-willed, and iron-handed. As a ruler, he is looked upon as the incarnation of the despotic spirit,—a believer in force, an infidel as to moral suasion.

Many persons who sympathize with his policy censure the means by which he executes it. They do not consider that so long as that policy is threatened from within and without, the Chancellor must trust in force; nor do they read the lesson of the centuries,—Force must rule until Right reigns.

The fact is not apprehended by the unthinking multitude, that the work of grafting a statesman's policy into the life of a nation requires, like grafting a fruit-tree, excision, incision, pressure, and time.

But it is not of Bismarck's policy I would first speak, but of that which few credit him with possessing,—his moral convictions. Strange as it may seem to those who know only the Chancellor, Bismarck is not only a religious man, but his religion is the foundation of his policy.

Dr. Busch, one of the statesman's secretaries, in a recent book, "Bismarck in the Franco-German War," narrates incidents and reports private conversations which justify this assertion.

On the eve of his leaving Berlin to join the army, the Chancellor partook of the Lord's Supper. The solemn rite was celebrated in his own room, that it might not appear as an exhibition of official piety.



One morning Bismarck was called suddenly from his bed to see a French general. Dr. Busch, on entering the bedroom just after the chief had left it, found everything in disorder. On the floor was a book of devotion, "Daily Watchwords and Texts of the Moravian Brethren for 1870." On the table by the bed was another, "Daily Refreshment for Believing Christians."

"The Chancellor reads in them every night," said Bismarck's valet to Dr. Busch, seeing his surprise.

One day, while dining with his staff, several of whom were "free-thinkers," Bismarck turned the conversation into a serious vein. A secretary had spoken of the feeling of duty which pervaded the German army, from the private to the general.

Bismarck caught the idea and tossed it still higher. "The feeling of duty," he said, "in a man who submits to be shot dead on his post, alone, in the dark, is due to what is left of belief in our people. He knows that there is Some One who sees him when the lieutenant does not see him."

"Do you believe, Your Excellency," asked a secretary, "that they really reflect on this?"

"Reflect? no: it is a feeling, a tone, an instinct. If they reflect they lose it. Then they talk themselves out of it.

"How," Bismarck continued, "without faith in a revealed religion, in a God who wills what is good, in a Supreme Judge, and in a future life, men can live together harmoniously, each doing his duty and letting every one else do his, I do not understand."

There was a pause in the conversation, and the Chancellor then gave expression to his faith.

"If I were no longer a Christian," he said, "I would not remain for an hour at my post. If I could not count upon my God, assuredly I should not do so on earthly masters.

"Why should I," he continued, "disturb myself and work unceasingly in this world, exposing myself to all sorts of vexations, if I had not the feeling that I must do my duty for God's sake? If I did not believe in a Divine order, which has destined this German nation for something good and great, I would at once give up the business of a diplomatist. Orders and titles have no charm for me."

There was another pause, for the staff were silent before this revelation of their chief's inner life. He continued to lay bare the foundations of his statesmanship.

"I owe the firmness which I have shown for ten years against all possible absurdities only to my decided faith. Take from me this faith, and you take from me my fatherland. If I were not a believing Christian, if I had not the supernatural basis of religion, you would not have had such a Chancellor.

"I delight in country life, in the woods, and in nature," he said, in the course of the conversation. "Take from me my relation to God, and I am the man who will pack up to-morrow and be off to Varzin [his farm] to grow my oats."

The surprise with which these revelations of a statesman's inner life are read is due to their singularity. Neither history nor biography is so full of instances of statesmen confessing their faith in God and in Christianity, at a dinner-table surrounded by "free-thinkers," as to prevent the reading of these revelations from being both interesting and stimulating.

"I live among heathen," said the Chancellor, as he concluded this acknowledgment that his religion was the basis of his statesmanship. "I don't seek to make proselytes, but I am obliged to confess my faith."

Prince von Bismarck was born in 1813. His political history is similar to Emperor William's, which I related at our last meeting. The Emperor and his Chancellor, in matters of state, have been as one man. Each has aimed to secure the unity of the German empire. Each has sought to disarm, on the one hand, that branch of the Catholic party who give their allegiance to Rome rather than the government, the so-called Ultramontanes; and the Socialists, on the other hand, who would overthrow the monarchy. The two strong men have ruled with a firm hand, but with much wisdom. Germany could hardly have a more liberal government, unless she became a republic.

The stories of the evening were chiefly selected from Hoffman. They were too long and terrible to be given here. Among them were "The Painter" and "The Elementary Spirit." In introducing these stories, Mr. Beal related some touching and strange incidents of their author.

HOFFMAN.

Hoffman died in Berlin. His career as a musical artist had been associated with the Prussian-Polish provinces, where he seems to have acquired habits of dissipation in brilliant but gay musical society.

Hoffman had exquisite refinement of taste, and sensitiveness to the beautiful in nature and art, but the exhilaration of the wine-cup was to him a fatal knowledge. It made him in the end a poor, despised, inferior man.

As he lost his self-mastery, he also seemed to lose his self-respect. He mingled with the depraved, and carried the consciousness of his inferiority into all his associations with better society.

"I once saw Hoffman," says one, "in one of his night carouses. He was sitting in his glory at the head of the table, not stupidly drunk, but warmed with wine, which made him madly eloquent. There, in full tide of witty discourse, or, if silent, his hawk eye flashing beneath his matted hair, sat this unfortunate genius until the day began to dawn; then he found his way homeward.

"At such hours he used to write his wild, fantastic tales. To his excited fancy everything around him had a spectral look. The shadows of fevered thought stalked like ghosts through his soul."

This stimulated life came to a speedy conclusion. He was struck with a most strange paralysis at the age of forty-six.

His disease first paralyzed his hands and feet, then his arms and legs, then his whole body, except his brain and vital organs.

In this condition it was remarked in his presence that death was not the worst of evils. He stared wildly and exclaimed,—

"Life, life, only life,—on any condition whatsoever!"

His whole hope was centred in the gay world which had already become to him as a picture of the past.

But the hour came at last when he knew he must die. He asked his wife to fold his useless hands on his breast, and, looking at her pitifully, he said, "And we must think of God also."

Religion, in his gay years, as a provincial musician, and as a poet in the thoughtless society of the capital, had seldom occupied his thoughts.

His last thought was given to the subject which should have claimed the earliest and best efforts of his life.

"God also!" It was his farewell to the world. The demons had done their work. Life's opportunities were ended.

The words of his afterthought echo after him, and, like his own weird stories, have their lesson.

Herman Reed presented a story from a more careful writer. It is a story with an aim, and left an impressive lesson on the minds of all. If it be somewhat of an allegory, it is one whose meaning it is not hard to comprehend.

THE HEART OF STONE.

The Black Forest, from time out of mind, has abounded with stories of phantoms, demons, genii, and fairies. The dark hue of the hills, the shadowy and mysterious recesses, the lonely ways, the beautiful glens, all tend to suggest the legends that are associated with every mountain, valley, and town. The old legends have filled volumes. One of the most popular of recent stories of the Black Forest is the "Marble Heart; or, the Stone-cold Heart," by Hauff.

Wilhelm Hauff, a writer of wonderful precocity, genius, and invention, was born at Stuttgart in 1809. He was designed for the theological profession, and entered the University of Tuebingen in 1820. He had a taste for popular legends, and published many allegorical works. He died before he had completed his twenty-sixth year.

There once lived a widow in the Black Forest, whose name was Frau Barbara Munk. She had a boy, sixteen years old, named Peter, who was put to the trade of charcoal-burner, a common occupation in the Black Forest.

Now a charcoal-burner has much time for reflection; and as Peter sat at his stack, with the dark trees around him, he began to cherish a longing to become rich and powerful.

"A black, lonely charcoal-burner," he said to himself, "leads a wretched life. How much more respected are the glass-blowers, the clock-makers, and the musicians!"

The raftsmen of the forest, too, excited his envy. They passed like giants through the towns, with their silver buckles, consequential looks, and clay pipes, often a yard long. There were three of these timber-dealers that he particularly admired. One of them, called "Fat Hesekiel," seemed like a mint of gold, so freely did he use his money at the gaming-tables at the tavern. The second, called "Stout Schlurker," was both rich and dictatorial; and the third was a famous dancer.

These traders were from Holland. Peter Munk, the young coal-burner, used to think of them and their good fortune, when sitting alone in the pine forests. The Black Foresters were people rich in generous character and right principle, but very poor in purse. Peter began to look upon them and their homely occupations with contempt.

"This will do no longer," said Peter, one day. "I must thrive or die. Oh, that I were as much regarded as rich Hesekiel or powerful Schlurker, or even as the King of the Dancers! I wonder where they obtain their money!"

There were two Forest spirits, of whom Peter had heard, that were said to help those who sought them to riches and honor. One was Glassmanikin, a good little dwarf; and the other was Michael the Dutchman,—dark, dangerous, terrible, and powerful,—a giant ghost.

Peter had heard that there was a magic verse, which, were he to repeat it alone in the forest, would cause the benevolent dwarf, Glassmanikin, to appear. Three of the lines were well known,—

"O treasure-guarder, 'mid the forests green, Many, full many a century hast thou seen: Thine are the lands where rise the dusky pine—"

He did not know the last line, and, as he was but a poor poet, he was unable to make a line to fill the sense, metre, and rhyme.

He inquired of the Black Foresters about the missing line, but they only knew as much as he, else many of them would have called the fairy banker to their own service.

One day, as he was alone in the forest, he resolved to repeat, over and over, the magic lines, hoping that the fourth line would in some way occur to him.

"O treasure-guarder, 'mid the forests green, Many, full many a century hast thou seen: Thine are the regions of the dusky pine."

As he said these words he saw, to his astonishment, a little fellow peep around the trunk of a tree; but, as the fourth line did not come to him, Mr. Glassmanikin disappeared.

Peter went home, with his mind full of visions. Oh, that he were a poet! He consulted the oldest wood-cutters, but none of them could supply the missing line.

Soon after, Peter again went into the deep forest, his brain aching for a rhyme with pine. As he was hurrying along, a gigantic man, with a pole as big as a mast over his shoulder, appeared from behind the pine-trees. Peter was filled with terror, for he felt that it was none other than the giant-gnome, Michael the Dutchman.



"Peter Munk, what doest thou here?" he thundered.

"I want to pass this road on business," said Peter, in increasing alarm.

"Thou liest. Peter, you are a miserable wight, but I pity you. You want money. Accept my conditions, and I will help you. How many hundred thalers do you want?"

"Thanks, sir; but I'll have no dealings with you: I am afraid of your conditions. I have heard of you already."

Peter began to run.

The giant strode after him; but there was a magic circle in the forest that he could not pass, and, as he was near it, Peter was able to escape.

A great secret had been revealed to Peter, and he now thought he had the clew to the charm. The good dwarf, Glassmanikin, only helped people who were born on Sunday.

Possessed of this fact, Peter again ventured on into the deep forest. He found himself at last under a huge pine. He stopped there to rest, when suddenly a perfect line and rhyme occurred to him. He leaped into the air with joy, and exclaimed:—

"O treasure-guarder, 'mid the forests green, Many, full many a century hast thou seen: Thine are the regions of the dusky pine, And children born on Sabbath-days are thine."

A little old manikin arose from the earth at the foot of the pine. He wore a black jerkin, red stockings, and a peaked hat. His face had a kindly expression, and he sat down and began to smoke a blue glass pipe.

"Peter, Peter," said the fairy, "I should be sorry to think that the love of idleness has brought you hither to me."

"No; I know that with idleness vice begins. But I would like a better trade. It is a low thing to be a charcoal-burner. I would like to become a glass-blower."

"To every Sunday-child who seeks my aid, I grant three wishes. If, however, the last wish is a foolish one, I cannot grant it. Peter, Peter, what are your wishes? Let them be good and useful."

"I wish to dance better than the King of Dancers."

"One."

"Secondly, I would always have as much money in my pocket as 'Fat Hesekiel.'"

"Oh, you poor lad!" said the gnome sadly. "What despicable things to wish for! To dance well, and have money to gamble! What is your third wish?"

"I should like to own the finest glass factory in the forest."

"O stupid Charcoal Peter! you should have wished for wisdom. Wealth is useless without wisdom to use it. Here are two thousand guldens. Go."

Peter returned home. At the frolics at the inn, he surpassed the King of Dancers in dancing, and he was hailed with great admiration by the young. He began to gamble at the ale-houses, and was able to produce as much money as Fat Hesekiel himself. People wondered. He next ordered a glass factory to be built, and in a few months Peter Munk was rich and famous and envied. People said he had found a hidden treasure.

But Peter did not know how to use his money. He spent it at the alehouse; and at last, when the money in the pockets of Fat Hesekiel, for some reason, was low, he was unable to pay his debts, and the bailiffs came to take him to prison.



In his troubles he resolved to go again into the deep forest, and seek the aid of the forest gnomes.

"If the good little gnome will not help me," he said, "the big one will."

As he passed along, ashamed of his conduct in not having better deserved of the good fairy, he began to cry,—

"Michael the Dutchman! Michael the Dutchman!"

In a few moments the giant raftsman stood before him.

"You've come to me at last," he said. "Go with me to my house, and I will show you how I can be of service to you."

Peter followed the giant to some steep rocks, and down into an abyss; there was the gnome's palace.

"Your difficulties come from here," said the gnome, placing his hands over the young man's heart. "Let me have your heart, and you shall have riches."

"Give you my heart?" said Peter; "I should die."

"No; follow me."

He led Peter into a great closet, where were jars filled with liquid. In them were the hearts of many who had become rich. Among them were the hearts of the King of the Dancers and of Fat Hesekiel.

"The hinderance to wealth is feeling. I have taken, as you see, the hearts of these rich men. I have replaced them by hearts of stone. You see how they flourish. You may do the same."



"A heart of stone must feel very cold within," said Peter.

"But what is the use of a heart of feeling, with poverty? Give me your heart, and I will make you rich."

"Agreed," said Peter.

The giant gave him a drug, which caused stupor. When Peter awoke from the stupor his heart seemed cold. He put his hand on his breast: there was no motion. Then he knew that he had indeed a heart of stone.

Nothing now brought him pleasure or delight. He loved nothing; pitied no one's misfortunes. Beauty was nothing. He cared not for relatives or friends; but he had money, money. The supply never failed.

He travelled over the world, but everything seemed dead to him. Sentiment was dead within him. He lied, he cheated. He filled many homes with wretchedness and ruin.

At last he became weary of life.



"I would give all my riches," he said, "to feel once again love in my heart."

He resolved to go into the woods and consult the good fairy.

He came to the old pine-tree,—

"O treasure-guarder, 'mid the forests green, Many, full many a century thou hast seen; Thine are the regions of the dusky pine, And children born on Sabbath-days are thine."

The Glassmanikin came up again, as before. He met Peter with an injured look.

"What wouldst thou?"

"That thou shouldst give me a feeling heart."

"I cannot. I am not Michael the Dutchman."

"I can live no longer with this stone heart."

"I pity you. Take this cross, and go to Michael. Get him to give you back your heart, under some pretext, and when he demands it again show him this cross, and he will be powerless to harm you."

Peter took the cross and hurried into the deep forest. He called,—

"Michael the Dutchman! Michael the Dutchman!"

The giant appeared.

"What now, Peter Munk?"

"There is feeling in my heart. Give me another. You have been deceiving me."

"Come to my closet, and we will see."

The gnome took out the stone heart, and replaced it for a moment by the old heart from the jar. It began to beat. Peter felt joy again. How happy he was! A heart, even with poverty, seemed the greatest of blessings. He would not exchange his heart again for the world.

"Let me have it now," said the gnome.

But Peter held out the cross. The gnome shrank away, faded, and disappeared.

Peter put his hand on his breast. His heart was beating. He became a wise, thrifty, and prosperous man.



CHAPTER VI.

NIGHT SECOND.

SEVEN NIGHTS ON THE RHINE:—BASLE.—MARSHAL VON MOLTKE.—THE STORY OF THE ENCHANTED HEN.

Our second night on the Rhine was passed at Basle. Leaving Lake Constance, the Rhine, full of vivid life, starts on its way to the sea. At the Rhinefall at Schaffhausen the water scenery becomes noble and exciting. A gigantic rock, over three hundred feet wide, impedes the course of the river, and over it the waters leap and eddy and foam, and then flow calmly on amid green woods, and near villages whose windows glitter in the sun.

We rode through the so-called Forest towns. High beeches stood on each side of the river, and the waters here were as blue as the sky, and so clear we could see the gravelly bed.

The river hastened to Basle. We hastened on like the river. Basle is the first town of importance on the Rhine.

Here we obtained a fine view of the Black Forest range of hills, and beheld the distant summits of the Jura and the Vosges.



Basle was a Roman fortified town in the days of the struggles of Rome with the Barbarians. It is gray with history,—with the battles of Church and State, battles of words, and battles of deeds and blood. But the sunlight was poured upon it, and the Rhine flowed quietly by, and the palaces of peace and prosperity rose on every hand, as though the passions of men had never been excited there, or the soil reddened with blood.



We took a principal street on our arrival, and followed the uncertain way. It led to the cathedral, on high ground. At the entrance to the grand old church stood the figures of St. George and St. Martin on prancing horses. The interior was high and lofty, with an imposing organ. Here we read on one of the tombs, "Erasmus of Rotterdam."

The famous Black Forest is comprised within the lines of an isosceles triangle, which has Basle and Constance at each end of the line of base. The Rhine turns toward the north at Basle, and very nearly follows two lines of the figure. The forest covers an area of about twelve hundred square miles. It is a romantic seclusion, having Basle, Freiburg, and Baden-Baden for its cities of supply and exchange; full of pastoral richness, lonely grandeur; a land of fable and song.

The Black Forest Railway is one of the great triumphs of engineering skill. It is ninety-three miles long, and has some forty tunnels. It takes the traveller from Baden at once into the primeval solitudes. Freiburg, a very quaint town, is situated in the forest.

* * * * *

Master Lewis spoke briefly to the Club of Von Moltke, the great Prussian general.

MARSHAL VON MOLTKE.

Never was a nation more fortunate in its leaders than was Prussia when she aimed to achieve German unity. It is often the case that when some great crisis comes upon a country, men able to deal with it rise and become the guides of the people. This was never more true than it was of Prussia when, thirteen years ago, she entered upon the war with France which was to decide not only her own destiny, but that of the whole German people.

Three Prussians towered, at that time, far above the rest,—William, the wise and energetic king; Bismarck, the resolute and far-seeing statesman; and Von Moltke, the skilful and consummate soldier. It was the united action of these three, as much as the valor of the Prussian army, which not only won the victory, but gathered and garnered its fruits.

All three of these men are still living (1882-83), and still active, each in his own sphere. The hale old king, now emperor, shows, at the age of eighty-six, little lessening of his sturdy powers. Bismarck, at seventy, still sways with his strong and stubborn will the affairs of the youthful empire. Von Moltke, at eighty-two, remains the foremost military figure of Germany.

Von Moltke is a very interesting personage. From his earliest youth he has followed the profession of arms. He has always been every inch a soldier. In the course of years, he became an absolute master of his art. He had military science at his fingers' ends. In every emergency he knew just what to do.



To be sure, he has not been one of those brilliant and dashing military chiefs who, by their daring exploits and sudden triumphs, become heroes in the eyes of men. He has been a careful, studious, deliberate commander, losing sight of nothing, ready for every exigency, looking well ahead, and closely calculating upon every possibility of events.

Yet the sturdy old soldier is by no means a dull man outside of his quarters or the barracks. In a quiet way, he enjoys life in many of its phases. He has always been a great reader on a great variety of subjects. He is known as one of the most delightful letter-writers in Germany. He is fond, too, of poetry, and reads history and fiction with much delight.

There is a Roman simplicity about Von Moltke's daily life. He lives in a building which serves as the headquarters of the general staff of the army in Berlin. Promptly at seven o'clock every morning, summer and winter, he enters his study, a plain room, with a table in the centre, covered with maps, papers, and books.

There he takes his coffee, at the same time smoking a cigar. He proceeds at once to work, and keeps at it till nine, when his mail is brought to him. At eleven he takes a plain breakfast, after which he again works steadily till two, when he holds a reception of officers.

The afternoon is devoted to work. After dinner, for the first time, this man of eighty-two enjoys some rest and recreation until eleven, at which hour he retires.

In personal appearance, Von Moltke is tall, thin, and slightly stooping. On horseback, however, he straightens up, and bears himself as erect as a man of thirty. His close-shaven face is much wrinkled, and his profile somewhat reminds one of that of Julius Caesar. He never appears in any other than a military dress; and is often seen walking alone in the Thiergarten at Berlin, his hands clasped behind him and his head bent forward, after the manner of the great Napoleon.

Von Moltke married, some years ago, an English girl many years younger than himself. She died suddenly in 1868; and this event cast a shadow over all his later life. He has always since worn a sad and thoughtful face. He often visits his wife's grave in the country; and on the mausoleum which he erected to her memory, he has caused to be engraved the sentence, "Love is the fulfilling of the law."

The rest of the evening was spent in rehearsing Black Forest tales, one of the most interesting of which we give here.

SCRATCH GRAVEL; OR, THE ENCHANTED HEN.

Queer stories, as well as tragic ones, are related of the Black Forest; and one of the most popular legends of enchantment, the Hen Trench, is as absurd as it is amusing. Children like this story, for among German children the industrious and useful hen is something of a pet. Where, except in Germany, did there ever originate an heroic legend of a hen?

The main line of the Baden railway runs southward towards Freiburg, amid some of the most picturesque mountain scenery of the Black Forest. The second station is Buehl, from which a delightful excursion may be made to Forbach and the Murg Valley.

Here may be seen the extensive ruins of the old castle of Windeck, which was destroyed in the year 1561, about which a very remarkable story is told.

The old lords of Windeck were very quarrelsome people. They had feud after feud with the neighboring lords, and were continually at war with the Prince Bishops of Strasburg.



Queer times were those, and queer relations existed between the Church and State. The Lord of Windeck was at one time kidnapped by the Bishop of Strasburg, and confined in a tower three years,—a thing that would not be regarded as a very clerical or spiritual proceeding to-day. A little later the Dean of Strasburg was surprised by the retainers of the Lord of Windeck, and was in turn carried a prisoner to the gray old castle of Windeck.

The captive dean had a niece, a lovely girl, who was deeply attached to him. When she heard of his captivity she was much grieved, and set herself to devising plans for his release.

At the foot of the grim old castle, in the Black Forest, there lived an old woman. She was wiser than her neighbors, and was regarded as a witch. She was able to tell inquirers whatever they wished to know, and so was as useful as a newspaper, in her day and generation.

She was the last of her family. She lived alone, and her only society was some pure white hens, so large that the biggest of modern Shanghai fowls must have been mere pygmies to them.

The people of the region were very shy of the old woman and her strange hens. The timid never ventured past her door after dark, after her hens went to roost.

She was surprised one winter evening by a rap at her door.

She listened.

Tap, tap, tap!

"Come in."

A fair young girl lifted the latch.

"I am belated in the forest. Will you give me shelter?"

"Come in and sit down. Whence did you come?"

"I am on my way to the castle, but night has overtaken me."

"You are very near it. If it were light, I could show you its towers. But what can a dove like you be seeking in that vulture's nest?"

"My dear uncle, the Dean of Strasburg, is a prisoner there."

"I saw him when he was dragged into the castle, and very distressed and woe-begone the good man looked."

"I am going there to pray for his release."

"Umph. At that castle they don't give something for nothing. What ransom can you offer?"

"Nothing. I hope by prayers and tears to move the count's heart."

"I am wiser than you in the world's ways,—let me advise you. Cry with those pretty eyes, plead with your sweet voice, but not to the old count."

"To whom?"

"To his son."

"Will he influence his father?"

"Girl, I have taken a liking to you. You have a kind heart; I can see your disposition; I have met but few like you in the world. I will tell you what I will do. I will give you one of my white hens."

"A hen?"

"Yes. Go with the hen to the castle and inquire for Bernard, the count's son. Tell him that at daybreak the Count of Eberstein has planned an attack on the castle, and that you have come to warn him. Bid him fear nothing. Say that what he needs is a trench; and when he asks how one is to be made, tell him that you have brought him Scratch Gravel, the hen, who will immediately dig one for him."



"How will that rescue my uncle?"

"You shall see."

The maiden took the white hen, and went out into the night. The old woman pointed out to her the way to the castle.

As she drew near the castle, she heard a great noise in the highway. The count's son was returning late from the chase. As he drew near her on horseback, he accosted her politely and asked her errand.

The beautiful girl related the story the old woman had told her.

"I will take you to my father."

She related her story to the count, and showed him the white hen.

"Pooh! pooh!" said the count.

"I think her story is true," said the young man.

"Why?"

"I see truth written on her beautiful face."

"Is that so? I don't see it. Perhaps my eyes are not as good as they used to be. Well, well; let us see what the white hen will do."

They took the hen outside the castle, and put her down. Presently the gravel began to fly. It was like a storm. The air was filled with earth and stones, and the old count was filled with astonishment.

"The hen is bewitched," said the count.

"Did I not tell you that the girl is honest?"

"And handsome?"

"And handsome."

Before daybreak the white hen had dug a deep trench around the castle. The trench is shown to travellers to-day, a very remarkable proof of the truth of the story, with only one missing link in the chain of evidence.

The next morning the enemy appeared, but when he came to the trench he forbore to storm the castle.



The old count called the maiden into his presence.

"What reward do you ask for so great a service?"

"That you call the Dean of Strasburg to give thanks in the chapel."

The count called the bishop, and attended the service. When it was over, he did not remand the good man to his cell.

"I have one request to make of you," said Bernard to the maid, as they left the church.

"Name it."

"You promise to grant it?"

"Name it."

"That you make your home in the castle."

"On one condition."

"Name it."

"That the dean is released."

The young count went to his father.

"The maiden has one request to make."

"She shall have her request."

So the dean was released and went back to Strasburg. The maid became the wife of the young count, but what became of the hen the chroniclers do not tell.

But the trench remains,—the Henne-Graben,—and all that is wanting to make the evidence of the story sure is to connect the hen with the trench, after four hundred years. This may not be hard; geologists make connections in like cases after the lapse of a thousand years. Do they not?



CHAPTER VII.

EVENING THE THIRD.

STRASBURG.—A MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS.—THE STORY OF THE LOST ORGANIST.

Our third night upon the Rhine was spent at Strasburg.

"The cathedral is the wonder of the city. The excursionist thinks of but little else during his stay there. Wherever he may be, the gigantic church is always in view. He beholds it towering over all.

"Its history is that of Germany. It grew with the German empire, and has shared all its triumphs and reverses. It was founded by Clovis. It has been imperilled by lightning some fifty times, and has as often repelled the shocks of war. In the tenth century it was burned; in the eleventh, plundered; and five years after it was nearly demolished by lightning.

"It was after the last calamity that the present structure was begun. At one time a hundred thousand men were employed upon it: can we wonder that it is colossal?

"The giant grew. In 1140, 1150, and 1176 it was partly burned, but it rose from the flames always more great, lofty, and splendid.



"Indulgences were offered to donors and workmen; to contributors of all kinds. Men earned, or thought they earned, their salvation by adding their mites to the spreading magnificence. In 1303 it is said that all the peasants of Alsace might be seen drawing stone into Strasburg for the cathedral. Master builder succeeded master builder,—died,—but the great work went on. In the French Revolution the Jacobins tore from the cathedral the statues of two hundred and thirty saints; but it was still a city of saints in stone and marble. In 1870, in the Franco-Prussian war, its roof was perforated with shells, and on the 25th of August it burst into flames, and it was telegraphed over the world that the great cathedral was destroyed. But it stands to-day, majestic, regal, and beautiful, its spire piercing the sky.



"We visited the cathedral in the afternoon. We were at once filled with wonder at the windows. They burned with color, and seemed to hang in air amid the shadows of the lofty walls. They represented scriptural subjects.

"I was standing in awe, gazing upon a gorgeous circular window that seemed to blaze in the air like a planet, when Charlie touched my arm.

"'The clock?'

"'What?'

"'Can we not go up and see the fixings, and how it is all done?'

"'I am not thinking of that toy,' said I; 'you stand in a monument of art that it has taken a thousand years to build.'

"'Yes; I hope we shall be here to-morrow when the Twelve Apostles come out and the cock crows at Peter.'"

A MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS.

The soldiers of Aurelian, the Roman emperor, used to sing,—

"We have slain a thousand Franks."

* * * * *

"We have cut off the heads of a thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand. One man hath cut off the heads of a thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand; May he live a thousand years."

The Franks came out of the North, and established themselves in Gaul and Germania during the period of the early Roman emperors. Their most renowned king was Clovis, with whom began the empire of France. He was a savage and passionate man, born to command and to conquer. He was a heathen. It is related of him that once, when he had enriched himself with spoils from some of the early Christian churches, the Bishop of Rheims desired that he would return a valued vase that had been taken from the cathedral.

"Follow us to Soissons," said Clovis; "there the booty will be divided."

In the division of the booty, a high-spirited and selfish Frankish chieftain objected to the bishop's claim, and, to show his contempt for him and the Church, struck the vase with his battle-axe. Clovis was offended. He gave the bishop the vase, and soon after avenged the insult by striking the chieftain dead with his own battle-axe, saying,—

"Thus didst thou to the vase at Soissons."

His wife, Clotilde, was a Christian, and she often tried to persuade him to embrace the Christian faith.

In 496 the Allemannians, a German confederation, who had been assailing the Roman colonies on the Rhine, crossed the river, and invaded the territory of the Franks. Clovis met the invaders near Cologne. A severe battle followed. Clovis was hard pressed.



He called upon his gods, but they did not answer him. He saw he was in danger of being utterly defeated and losing his army.

He had with him a servant of the queen.

"My Lord King," said this man, "believe only on the Lord of heaven, whom the queen, my mistress, preacheth."

Clovis raised his eyes in hope towards heaven,—

"Christ Jesus, thou whom my queen Clotilde calleth the Son of God, I have called upon my own gods, and they have left me. Thee I invoke. Give me victory, and I will believe in thee, proclaim thee to my people, and be baptized in thy name."

The tide of battle now suddenly turned, the Allemannians were beaten, and their king was slain.

When his queen had learned of his vow, she sent for the Bishop of Rheims to instruct him in Christianity. He publicly renounced his gods, and his people at the same time accepted the queen's faith.



Christmas Day, 496, will be ever memorable in Christian history; it was on that day that the King of the Franks was baptized.

The occasion was one of barbaric splendor, and such as might be expected of a warlike king in those rude times. The road from the palace to the baptistery, over which the king was to pass, was curtained with silk, mottoes, and banners, like a triumphal way. The houses of Rheims were hung with festive ornaments, and the baptistery itself was sprinkled with balm and "all manner of perfume."

The procession moved from the palace like a pageant for a feast of victory. The clergy led, bearing the Gospels, standards, and cross. Hymns were chanted, as they swept along. Then came the Bishop of Rheims, leading the king; after him, the rejoicing queen; and lastly the neophytes who were to receive baptism with the king.

On the way, the king seemed impressed with the glittering pageant.

"Is this kingdom promised me?" he asked.

"No," said the bishop; "but it is the entrance to the road that leads to it."

At the baptistery the bishop said to the king,—

"Lower your head with humility; adore what thou hast burned; burn what thou hast adored."

Clovis was then solemnly baptized, and with him three thousand warriors. With the imposing rite, Christianity in France began, and with him began that great monument of the faith, Strasburg Cathedral.



Charlie Leland furnished the most interesting story on this evening. It well illustrated features of German and French musical life that are unknown in America. In Germany and in the French provinces the organist of the town is a very important person. The choice of an organist in these towns is a very interesting event, and during the last century excited more discussion than at the present time.

THE YOUNG ORGANIST: A MYSTERY.

The towns on the Rhine are all famous for their organs, and proud of the eminent organists they have had in the past. Each town points with pride to some musical legend and history.

The story I have to tell is associated with an ancient provincial town.

It is now hardly more than a small town, and possesses not above a thousand inhabitants; but in the latter part of the last century it was more than ten times its present size, and its church, now in ruins, was then one of the most beautiful ever seen in that part of the country.

This church was finished in the year 1795, and was for a long time the great object of curiosity for miles around. It was of the Gothic and Romanesque style of architecture, and was not only finely proportioned on the exterior, but had within a magnificence of decoration that astonished one more and more the longer he gazed upon it.

The church, unlike some of the older ones standing at that time, had a magnificent organ. This had been paid for by a separate subscription, raised in small sums by the common people, and, having been built by skilful workmen in Bordeaux, was at length set up in the church amid considerable enthusiasm and excitement.

But who should play this grand instrument? How should a competent organist be selected?

The people were greatly interested in the matter, and discussed it on the corner of the rues, in the brasseries or taverns; and for a period of six or eight weeks you might be sure, if you saw more than two people talking earnestly together, that they were deliberating upon the choice of an organist.

Since the people, both high and low, had so freely contributed for the purchase of the organ, it was thought very proper that they should be allowed to choose a person to play it. And, the decision being thus left to the multitude, the most feasible plan that was suggested was that all should go, on an appointed day, to the church, and should then listen to the playing of the various candidates.

There were, in all, nearly a score of aspiring musicians in and near the town; and each of these, hoping for a favorable decision for himself, gave no end of little suppers and parties, so that the influential ones among the townsmen fared sumptuously from all.

But out of the entire number there were two, between whom the choice really lay. These were Baptiste Lacombe and Raoul Tegot.

The former of these had lived in the town only five years. He had come from Bruges, so he said; and although he astonished everybody by his skill, he had not been liked from the first. He was very reserved and parsimonious, and his eye never met frankly the person with whom he talked. But no harm was known of him, and he found in Tranteigue plenty of exercise for his art.

Raoul Tegot, on the contrary, was a native of the town; and, together with his young son, Francois, was beloved by all. He had married one of the village maidens, and had been so inconsolable at her death, which occurred when Francois was a baby, that he never thought more of marriage, but devoted himself to his child and his art.

He was certainly a very able musician, and, being so universally liked, many people urged that a public performance be dispensed with, and that he be elected at once. But although Baptiste Lacombe was not liked, his skill found many admirers; and, besides, it was flattering to the worthy countryfolk to think of sitting solemnly in judgment at the great church; and so the proposed plan was adhered to.



Finally, the weeks of anticipation came to an end, the appointed day was at hand, and, according to the arrangements previously made, at nine o'clock in the forenoon the three great doors of the church were swung open, and the throng, orderly and even dignified, entered and filled the edifice.

The seats, which in French churches and cathedrals are movable, had all been taken away, and the crowd quite filled the whole space. All male inhabitants of the town who were over twenty years of age were to vote, and each, the town officials and the poorest artisans alike, had one ballot.

The great and beautiful organ took up nearly the whole of the large gallery over the entrance, and extended up and up into the clear-story until it was mingled with the supports of the roof.

In the organ-loft the candidates were crowded together in eager expectation, and the glances that passed from one to another were not the kindliest. Each of them had been allowed several hours, at some time during the past week, for practice on the instrument; and each doubtless considered himself deserving of the position.

Presently, when all was still, Monseigneur Jules Emile Gautier, a very learned gentleman of the town, who had been chosen for that purpose, ascended two steps of the stairway which curved up and around the richly carved pulpit, and announced the name of the person who was to begin.

I should not be able to give, in detail, the progress of the trial; for the history of the affair is not minute enough for that. But suffice it to say that the last name on the list was Raoul Tegot; and the name immediately preceding it was that of Baptiste Lacombe.

At length, in his turn, Monsieur Lacombe, his iron-gray hair disordered, his hands rubbing together nervously, and his eyes flashing—as was afterwards remarked upon—with a malicious fire, stepped forward and along to the organ-seat, and for a few moments arranged his stops.

Then he began lightly and delicately, creeping up through the varied registers of the noble instrument, blending the beautiful sounds into wonderful combinations, now and then working in a sweet melody, and then again upward until the grand harmonies of the full organ rolled forth. There was something mysterious and awe-inspiring in the effort. It seemed to the people that they had never heard music before.

The music ceased. The people came back to their prosaic selves again, looked in each other's faces, and said, with one breath, "Wonderful!"

Gradually they recovered their sober judgment, and then, mingled with the murmurs of admiration, were heard the remarks, "That is fine, but Raoul Tegot will make us forget it!" "Yes, wait until you hear Raoul Tegot!"

Soon Gautier ascended the two steps of the pulpit, and called the name of their kind, generous townsman.

All waited breathlessly. All eyes were turned towards the organ-loft. The musicians there looked around and at each other. But poor Raoul Tegot could not be seen.

Where was he? The people waited and wondered, but he did not come. Monsieur Baptiste Lacombe was greatly excited, and was wiping the perspiration from his heated face. "Perhaps he was afraid to come," he ventured to remark to a man near him, at the same time looking out of a window.

Several noticed his agitation; but they only said, "Ah, mon Dieu, how he did play! No wonder that he is nervous."

The disquiet and confusion in the nave and aisles increased.

A messenger had been sent to look for the missing man; but he could not be found.

What was to be done?

Finally, some friends of Monsieur Lacombe made bold to urge his immediate election, declaring that he had far surpassed all competitors; and they even hinted at cowardice on the part of Raoul Tegot.

This insinuation was indignantly denied by Tegot's friends, who were very numerous but helpless; they knew their friend too well to believe him capable of such conduct. He was, they said, probably detained somewhere by an accident.

But, wherever he was, he was not present; and when a vote was taken, hastily, by a showing of hands, Monsieur Baptiste Lacombe had ten times as many ballots as any other person, and, of course, poor Monsieur Tegot, not having competed, was not balloted for at all.

The people dispersed to their homes; some in vexation that their favorite had not appeared, others in a little alarm at his strange absence. Young Francois Tegot had not seen his father since early morning, and could not conjecture where he might be.

The next day the missing organist did not appear, and his friends began to inquire and to search for him; but they were wholly unsuccessful. A little boy said that he had seen him go into the church with Monsieur Lacombe early that morning; but Monsieur Lacombe said, very distinctly and with some vehemence, that the missing man had left the church an hour later to go to a cottage at the edge of the town, where he was to give a lesson in singing.

So the affair lay wrapped in mystery. There were many surmises, but nothing definite was known. A few expressed suspicion of the rival candidate; but the suspicion was too great to be thrown rashly upon anybody. Thus no progress in the inquiry was made. A human life did not mean so much in those stormy days after the Revolution as formerly; and the mysterious disappearance, without being in the least cleared up, gradually faded from men's minds and passed out of their conversation.

Months and years passed away, and nothing was known of the poor man. His son, now come to the years of manhood, always declared that his father would not have been absent from the trial willingly; and he firmly believed that he had met with a violent death. More than this he would not say; but sometimes when he looked towards Monsieur Baptiste Lacombe,—still the respected organist of the church,—his eyes were observed to flash meaningly.

There was to be a grand fete in the church, and great preparation was made. As the organ needed repairs, it was decided to repair it thoroughly; and one of the builders from Bordeaux was sent for.

He was to come on Thursday; but he chanced to arrive the day before, and was to begin work early the following morning. That night a light glimmered out of the darkness of the gallery of the church.

Two days passed. The repairing of the organ went on; but there was much to be done, and it might take a week. One afternoon, as Francois passed through the centre of the village, two men came hurriedly out of the town-house, and hastened away towards the church. It was the organ-builder, very much excited, and one of the officials of the town. The young man, venturing on his well-known skill as an organist, followed them; and the three entered the building. A few worshippers were at the great altar, and the sacred edifice seemed unusually quiet and peaceful.

The organ-builder seemed too agitated to answer the questions that the town official asked him, but led the way quickly to the organ-loft. "Put your foot on that pedal!" he said excitedly, pointing to a particular one of the scale.

The official was too bewildered to comply, and Francois did it for him.

"Now try the next one!" said he.

Francois did so, but no sound came; only a queer, intermittent rumbling, like a bounding and rebounding.

"It does not sound," said the organ-builder. "Follow me and I will show you why."

"It never has sounded since the great trial-day, years ago," muttered the young man. But he followed on.

They clambered up a rickety staircase, a still more rickety ladder, and came to a platform at a level with the top of the organ; and all around them, reaching up out of the dim light below, were the open pipes. Passing hurriedly around, on a narrow plank, to the back of the organ, their agitated guide paused before a row of immense pedal pipes, and, without allowing his own eyes to look, he held the light that he carried for the others.

Both looked down into the cavernous tube that he indicated, and both started back in surprise and fear.

"It is a man's legs!" gasped the frightened town official.

After the first moment of surprise had passed, they began to get back their wits; and the young man advised that they send for several strong men and lift out the pipe.



This seemed sensible, and in a half-hour the men were at hand and the pipe was drawn down to the level of the organ-loft and laid horizontally. The workmen had been informed of the nature of their work, and all were under intense excitement. The pipe was very long, and the body was at least five feet from the top. One of the workmen reached in a pole having a hook at the end, and the next minute drew forth the dead body of the sinister old organist, Baptiste Lacombe.

There was a pause of silent horror. Nobody cared particularly for the dead man, but the manner of his death was terrible.

"How did it happen?" whispered one.

"Perhaps it was suicide," answered another.

They began more closely to examine the huge tube. Francois Tegot, who, although thus far cooler than the others, now seemed unable to stand, pointed to the hand of the dead man, which was tightly clenched upon a small cord. One of the workmen approached, and with some difficulty drew out the line: and a new thrill of expectation went through the silent company when they saw, attached to the end of the line, an old leather bundle covered with dust.

Young Tegot now seemed to master himself by a great effort, and, motioning the workman back, he advanced, and, lifting the bag tenderly out into a more convenient position, he said solemnly, as if to himself, "I have long suspected something was wrong, and now I shall know."

Then he examined the bag, and at length took from his pocket a knife and carefully cut open one side.

Despite the fact that he expected the revelation that now came, he started back, for the opening revealed a piece of cloth,—a coat, which even the town official could recollect to be the coat of the long-lost organist, Raoul Tegot, Francois's father.

The young man stepped back and sank again into his seat, and the others, coming forward, laid the bag quite open, and drew forth a watch and an embroidered vest; in a pocket of the coat was found a purse. "Here is an odd treasure," said one of the workmen, holding up a locket of dull gold.

Francois seized it and opened it. The color forsook his face and his eyes filled with tears. He simply said,—

"My mother."

The town official now whispered to the surprised organ-builder, that the villanous Lacombe had killed poor Tegot on the morning of the trial, and had secreted the body in some unknown place and hidden the valuables here. Frightened by the fear of discovery, he had attempted to remove the treasures, had fallen into the pipe, and had thus met a horrible death.

"There is nothing secret," said Francois, "but shall be revealed. Sin is its own detector, and its secrets cannot rest."

The excitement among the townspeople was for many days even greater than it had been at the time of Tegot's disappearance, and many and bitter were the reproaches heaped upon the wicked organist's memory.

Francois was immediately chosen organist, and held the position during his entire life.



CHAPTER VIII.

EVENING THE FOURTH.

SEVEN NIGHTS ON THE RHINE:—HEIDELBERG.—STUDENTS.—STUDENT SONGS.—THE STORY OF LITTLE MOOK.—THE QUEER OLD LADY WHO WENT TO COLLEGE.

"Heidelberg," said Mr. Beal, "stands bright and clear beside Neckar, a branch of the Rhine, as though it loved the river. It is semicircled with blue mountain-walls, and is full of balmy air and cheerful faces. The streets have an atmosphere of hospitality. Its history dates from the Roman monuments on its hills, and is associated with the romantic times of the counts-palatine of the Rhine.

"The world-wide fame of Heidelberg arises from its university. This was founded in 1386, and is the oldest in Germany. It made Heidelberg a student-town; there art flourished and free thought grew, and it became the gem of German cities.

"The ancient Castle of Heidelberg is one of the wonders of Germany. It is like a ruined town of palaces, and historic and poetic associations are as thick as are the violets among its ruins. It is said that Michael Angelo designed it: we cannot tell. The names of the masters who upreared the pile of magnificence for centuries and peopled it with statues are lost. The ivy creeps over their conceptions in stone and marble, and the traveller exclaims in awe, 'Can it be that all this glory was created for destruction?'



"We visited the castle at noon. A ruin green with ivy rose before us. The sunlight fell through the open doorways, and the swallows flitted in and out of the window-frames into roofless chambers.

"I was dreaming of the past: of the counts-palatine of the Rhine, of stately dames, orange-gardens, and splendid festivals, when one of the boys recalled my thoughts to the present.

"'Where is the tun?'

"'What tun?'

"'The one we have come to see,—the big wine-cask. It is said to hold two hundred and thirty-six thousand bottles of wine, or did in the days of the nobles.'

"'I remember: when I was a boy my mental picture of Heidelberg was a big wine-cask.'

"'Yes; well, please, sir, I am a boy now.'"

* * * * *

Mr. Beal then gave a brief account of

GERMAN STUDENT LIFE.

The town of Heidelberg nestles in one of the loveliest valleys in Europe. The Neckar winds between a series of steep, high, thickly wooded hills.

It is amid such pleasant scenes that the famous university is situated, and that several hundred German students are gathered to pursue their studies.

One of my chief objects in visiting Heidelberg was to see the university, and to observe the curious student customs of which I had heard so much; and my journey was amply repaid by what I saw.

The university itself was far less imposing than I had imagined; compared with the picturesque and hoary old college palaces of Oxford and Cambridge, or even with our own cosey Harvard and Yale edifices and greens, it seemed very insignificant.

The buildings occupy a cheerless square in a central part of the quaint old German town. They are very plain, modest, and unpretending. The lecture-rooms are on one side of the square; in the rear are the museum and reading room, while opposite the lecture-rooms is a row of jewelry, clothing, confectionery, and other shops. I was most interested, however, in the students and their ways.

As soon as you enter the town and pass up the main street, you espy groups of the students here and there. You are at once struck with the contrast they present to American or English students. Very odd to American eyes are their dress and manners. Let me describe one to you as an example.

THE GERMAN STUDENT.

The Heidelberg student is a rather large, heavy-looking fellow, with round face, broad shoulders, and a very awkward gait. His hair is cropped close to his head, and on one side of the head, in jaunty fashion, he wears a small round cap,—too small by far to cover it, as caps generally do. It is of red or blue or green, and worked with fanciful figures of gold or silver thread.

On his feet are heavy boots, which rise, outside his trousers, nearly to the knees. His body is covered with a gay frock-coat, of green or gray or black. As he walks the street with his college mates, he puffs away on a very curious long pipe, the bowl being of porcelain, on which is painted some fanciful scene, or perhaps a view of the grand old castle. Sometimes the stem of the pipe is two or three feet long. In his hand he carries a cane, or rather stick (for it is too short to be used as a cane), with some curiously carved figure for a handle.



Many of the Heidelberg students are attended, wherever they go, by a companion who is apt to produce fear and dislike in those who are not accustomed to him. This is a small, blear-eyed, bullet-headed, bloodthirsty-looking bull-dog, with red eyes and snarling mouth. You see such dogs everywhere with the students, running close to their heels, and ready, at an instant's notice, to defend their masters.



Almost every Heidelberg student belongs to one of the social societies, of which some are called "Verbindungs," and others "Corps;" and the caps they wear designate the particular societies of which they are members.

These societies are both patriotic and social. The members devote themselves to "the glory of the Fatherland;" and they pledge themselves by oaths to defend and aid each other.

Besides the cap, the students betray to what society they belong by various colored ribbons across their breasts or hung to their watch-chains. There is a great deal of rivalry among the societies, which results in frequent difficulties.

The pastimes of the Heidelberg students are almost entirely confined to the "good times" they have in their "Verbindungs," in which they meet two nights in the week to sing, make funny speeches, and perform certain curious ceremonies.

The students often make excursions to a beautiful spot on the Neckar, called "Wolfsbrunnen," where they obtain trout fresh from a pond, and eat them, nicely cooked, on tables set out under the trees near the river-side.

Another frequent recreation is to attend the peasant fairs in the neighboring villages, and to take jaunts to the lovely Swetzingen gardens, or to the top of the Konigsthul hill, back of the castle, from which a most beautiful view of the Black Forest and Hartz Mountains, with the broad valley of the Rhine, is to be seen.

On this hill is an inn where many resort to drink whey. Many of the students are too poor to enjoy the pastimes of the others, or even to live at the university without doing something to support themselves.

These go wandering about the country in vacation time, on foot, singing in the villages, and receiving money from the kindly disposed, with which to pay the expenses of their education. As you pass through Germany you frequently meet parties of these poor students, who go about merrily; and to give them a few kreuzers is always a pleasure.

Mr. Beal gave from translations a few specimens of these German student songs. The first was

GAUDEAMUS.

Let us then rejoice, ere youth From our grasp hath hurried; After cheerful youth is past, After cheerless age, at last, In the earth we're buried.

Where are those who lived of yore, Men whose days are over? To the realms above thee go, Thence unto the shades below, An' thou wilt discover.

Short and fleeting is our life,— Swift away 'tis wearing; Swiftly, too, will death be here, Cruel, us away to tear, Naught that liveth sparing.

Long live Academia,— And our tutors clever; All our comrades long live they, And our female comrades gay, May they bloom forever.

Long live every maiden true, Who has worth and beauty; And may every matron who Kind and good is, flourish, too,— Each who does her duty.

Long may also live our state, And the king who guides us; Long may live our town, and fate Prosper each Mecaenas great, Who good things provides us.

Perish melancholy woe, Perish who derides us; Perish fiend, and perish so Every antiburschian foe Who for laughing chides us.



Mr. Beal, finding the Class interested, continued the subject by some account of one of the most popular writers of German songs.

HEINE.

The songs of Heine are unmatched in German literature, and have been translated into all European tongues. Their beauty of expression, and suggestive and evasive meanings, have made them household words in Germany, and favorite quotations in France and England.

The career of Heine was exceptionably brilliant, and he won tributes of admiration that have seldom been equalled. It is said that on the appearance of his "Reisebilder" in 1826-31, "young Germany became intoxicated with enthusiasm." His writings on republicanism not only won the heart of the people, but carried his influence into other countries.

From his youth Heine was troubled by thoughts of personal religious responsibility. There were periods when he earnestly sought to know man's true relations to God. He sought the evidence of truth, however, more from nature, philosophy, and history, than by the prayers and the faith which God's Word inculcates.

He was born a Jew, but abandoned Judaism and was baptized in the Lutheran Church. Then he became a free-thinker. He studied various philosophies and systems of belief, but was not able to arrive at any satisfactory conclusions.

In 1847 he was attacked by a strange disease. It paralyzed his body, and confined him for many years to his chair. For seven years he was propped up by pillows, and read his praises on a couch of suffering, and they made his life more sad.

"What good," he said, in despair, "does it do me to hear that my health is drunk in cups of gold, when I can only wet my lips with barley-water?"

In this condition he read "Uncle Tom's Cabin." It revealed to him the truth that religion is a matter of experience rather than philosophy, and that the humblest may receive the evidence of its truth through simple faith in Christ.

"With all my learning," he said, "the poor negro knew more about religion than I do now, and I must come to a knowledge of the truth in the same humble way as poor Uncle Tom."

He left this testimony in his will: "I have cast aside all philosophical pride, and have again felt the power of religious truth."

I will recite to you one of the songs of Heine, which is popular among the German students.

THE LORELEI.

I know not whence it rises, This thought so full of woe; But a tale of times departed Haunts me, and will not go.

The air is cool, and it darkens, And calmly flows the Rhine; The mountain-peaks are sparkling In the sunny evening-shine.

And yonder sits a maiden, The fairest of the fair; With gold is her garment glittering, And she combs her golden hair:

With a golden comb she combs it; And a wild song singeth she, That melts the heart with a wondrous And powerful melody.

The boatman feels his bosom With a nameless longing move; He sees not the gulfs before him, His gaze is fixed above,

Till over boat and boatman The Rhine's deep waters run: And this, with her magic singing, The Lorelei has done!

Among the pleasing stories related on this evening was "Little Mook," by Hauff, and a poetic account of a "Queer Old Lady who went to College."

LITTLE MOOK.

There once lived a dwarf in the town of Niceu, whom the people called Little Mook. He lived alone, and was thought to be rich. He had a very small body and a very large head, and he wore an enormous turban.

He seldom went into the streets, for the reason that ill-bred children there followed and annoyed him. They used to cry after him,—

"Little Mook, O Little Mook, Turn, oh, turn about and look! Once a month you leave your room, With your head like a balloon: Try to catch us, if you can; Turn and look, my little man."



I will tell you his history.

His father was a hard-hearted man, and treated him unkindly because he was deformed. The old man at last died, and his relatives drove the dwarf away from his home.

He wandered into the strange world with a cheerful spirit, for the strange world was more kind to him than his kin had been.

He came at last to a strange town, and looked around for some face that should seem pitiful and friendly. He saw an old house, into whose door a great number of cats were passing. "If the people here are so good to cats, they may be kind to me," he thought, and so he followed them. He was met by an old woman, who asked him what he wanted.

He told his sad story.

"I don't cook any but for my darling pussy cats," said the beldame; "but I pity your hard lot, and you may make your home with me until you can find a better."

So Little Mook was employed to look after the cats and kittens.



The kittens, I am sorry to say, used to behave very badly when the old dame went abroad; and when she came home and found the house in confusion, and bowls and vases broken, she used to berate Little Mook for what he could not help.

While in the old lady's service he discovered a secret room in which were magic articles, among them a pair of enormous slippers.

One day when the old lady was out the little dog broke a crystal vase. Little Mook knew that he would be held responsible for the accident, and he resolved to escape and try his fortune in the world again. He would need good shoes, for the journey might be long; so he put on the big slippers and ran away.

Ran? What wonderful slippers those were! He had only to say to them, "Go!" and they would impel him forward with the rapidity of the wind. They seemed to him like wings.

"I will become a courier," said Little Mook, "and so make my fortune, sure."

So Little Mook went to the palace in order to apply to the king.

He first met the messenger-in-ordinary.

"What!" said he, "you want to be the king's messenger,—you with your little feet and great slippers!"

"Will you allow me to make a trial of speed with your swiftest runner?" asked Little Mook.

The messenger-in-ordinary told the king about the little man and his application.

"We will have some fun with him," said the king. "Let him run a race with my first messenger for the sport of the court."

So it was arranged that Little Mook should try his speed with the swiftest messenger.

Now the king's runner was a very tall man. His legs were very long and slender; he had little flesh on his body. He walked with wonderful swiftness, looking like a windmill as he strode forward. He was the telegraph of his times, and the king was very proud of him.

The next day the king, who loved a jest, summoned his court to a meadow to witness the race, and to see what the bumptious pygmy could do. Everybody was on tiptoe of expectation, being sure that something amusing would follow.

When Little Mook appeared he bowed to the spectators, who laughed at him. When the signal was given for the two to start, Little Mook allowed the runner to go ahead of him for a little time, but when the latter drew near the king's seat he passed him, to the wonder of all the people, and easily won the race.

The king was delighted, the princess waved her veil, and the people all shouted, "Huzza for Little Mook!"

So Little Mook became the royal messenger, and surpassed all the runners in the world with his magic slippers.

But Little Mook's great success with his magic slippers excited envy, and made him bitter enemies, and at last the king himself came to believe the stories of his enemies, and turned against him and banished him from his kingdom.

Little Mook wandered away, sore at heart, and as friendless as when he had left home and the house of the old woman. Just beyond the confines of the kingdom he came to a grove of fig-trees full of fruit.

He stopped to rest and refresh himself with the fruit. There were two trees that bore the finest figs he had ever seen. He gathered some figs from one of them, but as he was eating them his nose and ears began to grow, and when he looked down into a clear, pure stream near by, he saw that his head had been changed into a head like a donkey.

He sat down under the other fig-tree in despair. At last he took up a fig that had fallen from this tree, and ate it. Immediately his nose and ears became smaller and smaller and resumed their natural shape. Then he perceived that the trees bore magic fruit.

"Happy thought!" said Little Mook. "I will go back to the palace and sell the fruit of the first tree to the royal household, and then I will turn doctor, and give the donkeys the fruit of the second tree as medicine. But I will not give the old king any medicine."



Little Mook gathered the two kinds of figs, and returned to the palace and sold that of the first tree to the butler.

Oh, then there was woe in the palace! The king's family were seen wandering around with donkeys' heads on their shoulders. Their noses and ears were as long as their arms. The physicians were sent for and they held a consultation. They decided on amputation; but as fast as they cut off the noses and ears of the afflicted household, these troublesome members grew out again, longer than before.

Then Little Mook appeared with the principles and remedies of homoeopathy. He gave one by one of the sufferers the figs of the second tree, and they were cured. He collected his fees, and having relieved all but the king he fled, taking his homoeopathic arts with him. The king wore the head of a donkey to his latest day.

THE QUEER OLD LADY WHO WENT TO COLLEGE.



There was a queer old lady, and she had lost her youth; She bought her a new mirror, And it told to her the truth. Did she break the truthful mirror? Oh, no, no; no, no, no, no. But she bought some stays quite rare, Some false teeth and wavy hair, Some convex-concave glasses such as men of culture wear, And then she looked again, And she said, "I am not plain,— I am not plain, 'tis plain, Not very, very plain, I did not think that primps and crimps Would change a body so. I'll take a book on Art, And press it to my heart, And I'll straightway go to college, Where I think I'll catch a beau."





II.

She made her way to college just as straight as straight could be, And she asked for the Professor of the new philosophie; He met her with a smile And said, "Pray rest awhile, And come into my parlor and take a cup of tea. We will talk of themes celestial,— Of the flowery nights in June When blow the gentle zephyrs; Of the circle round the moon; Of the causes of the causes." These college men are quite and very much polite, And when you call upon them they you straightway in invite.



III.

But the lady she was modest, And she said, "You me confuse; I have come, O man of wisdom, To get a bit of news. There's a problem of life's problems That often puzzles me: Tell me true, O man of Science, When my wedding-day will be."

IV.

Quick by the hand he seized her, He of the philosophie, And his answer greatly pleased her When they had taken tea: "'Twill be, my fair young lady, When you are twenty-three!"

V.

At her window, filled with flowers, Then she waited happy hours, Scanned the byways and the highways To see what she could see. If the postman brought a letter, It was sure to greatly fret her,— Fret her so her maid she'd frighten, If a dun it proved to be. If it came not from a lover, Sadly she her face would cover, Hide her face and say in sorrow, "Truly he will come to-morrow, For he knew, that man of science, And I'm almost twenty-three."

VI.

He deceived her, he deceived her, Oh, that too kind man deceived her,— He of compasses and lenses, He of new-found influences, He of the philosophie. Oh the chatterer, oh the flatterer, Oh the smatterer in science, To whom all things clear should be! Had he taken the old almanac, That true guide to worldly wisdom, He would have seen that there was something— Some stray figure, some lost factor, Something added the extractor— Wrong in his chronologie, In his learned chronologie.

MORAL.

There are few things, one, two, three, In the earth, the air, and sea, That the schoolmen do not know. When you're going to catch a beau, And a few like occultations, In a few things here below, Men of wisdom do not know; And to them for these few items It is never wise to go.





CHAPTER IX.

FIFTH MEETING FOR RHINE STORIES.

SEVEN NIGHTS ON THE RHINE:—WORMS.—LUTHER'S MONUMENT.—THE STORY OF SIEGFRIED AND THE DRAGON.—MAYENCE.—BOAT JOURNEY.—STORIES OF THE CASTLES ON THE MIDDLE RHINE.—THE WONDERFUL STORY OF THE LORELEI.—KERNER.

Mr. Beal continued the narrative of travel at the fifth meeting of the Club for the rehearsal of Rhine stories.

* * * * *

"We passed over a road along the right bank of the Rhine towards Worms. We journeyed amid green forests, and past fields which had heaped up harvests for a thousand years. Spires gleamed on the opposite bank, and in the flat landscape Worms came to view, the Rhine flowing calmly by.

"We stopped at Worms to see the cathedral and the Luther Monument. It is a dull town. We recalled that it was here great Caesar stood, and Attila drove his cavalry of devastation over the Rhine. Here lived the hero of German classic song,—Siegfried. The cathedral has a monumental history. In 772 war was declared in it against the Saxons. Here was held the famous Diet of Worms at which Luther appeared, and said,—

"'Here I stand; I cannot do otherwise. God help me.'

"The cathedral is of the style called Romanesque. It is lofty and gloomy. Worms itself is a shadowy and silent city as compared with the past.

"The Luther Monument is a history of Protestantism in stone and bronze. It is one of the noblest works of art of modern times, and its majesty and unity are a surprise to the traveller. Luther is of course the central figure. He stands with his Bible in his hands, and his face upturned to heaven. Around him are the figures of the great reformers before the Reformation: Wycliffe, of England; Waldo, of France; Huss, of Bohemia; and Savonarola, of Italy. The German princes who befriended and sustained the Reformer occupy conspicuous places, and the immense group presents a most impressive scene, associated with lofty character and commanding talent.



"We went to the place where Luther sat beneath a tree, when his companions sought to dissuade him from entering Worms.

"'I would go to Worms,' he said, 'were there as many devils as there are tiles upon the roofs.'

"The high pitched roofs and innumerable tiles on them everywhere met our eyes, and recalled the famous declaration.



"I should here tell you the

STORY OF SIEGFRIED AND THE NIBELUNG HEROES.

The early nations of Europe seem to have come out of the northwest of Asia. The Celts or Gauls came first; other tribes followed them. These latter tribes called themselves Deutsch, or the people. They settled between the Alps and the Baltic Sea. In time they came to be called Ger-men, or war-men. They lived in rude huts and held the lands in common. They were strong and brave and prosperous.



They worshipped the great god Woden. His day of worship was the fourth of the week; hence Woden's-day, or Wednesday.

Woden was an all-wise god. Ravens carried to him the news from earth. His temples were stone altars on desolate heaths, and human sacrifices were offered to him.

Woden had a celestial hall called Valhall, and thither he transported the souls of the brave; hence the name Valhalla.

There were supposed to be water gods in the rivers and elves throughout the forest. The heavens were peopled with minor gods, as well as the great gods, and the spirits of the unseen world could make themselves visible or invisible to men as they chose.

Most great nations have heroes of song sung by the poets, like those of Homer and Virgil. The early German hero was Siegfried, and the song or epic that celebrates his deeds is called the Nibelungen Lied. Its story is as follows.

In the Land of Mist there was a lovely river, where dwelt little people who could assume any form they wished. One of them was accustomed to change himself into an otter when he went to the river to fish. As he was fishing one day in this form he was caught by Loki, one of the great gods, who immediately despatched him and took off his skin.

When his brothers Fafner and Reginn saw what had been done, they reproved Loki severely, and demanded of him that he should fill the otter's skin with gold, and give it to them as an atonement for his great misdeed.

"I return the otter skin and give you the treasure you ask," said Loki; "but the gift shall bring you evil."

Their father took the treasure, and Fafner murdered his father to secure it to himself, and then turned into a dragon or serpent to guard it, and to keep his brother from finding it.

Reginn had a wonderful pupil, named Siegfried, a Samson among the inhabitants of the land. He was so strong that he could catch wild lions and hang them by the tail over the walls of the castle. Reginn persuaded this pupil to attack the serpent and to slay him.

Now Siegfried could understand the songs of birds; and the birds told him that Reginn intended to kill him; so he slew Reginn and himself possessed the treasure.

Serpents and dragons were called worms in Old Deutsch, and the Germans called the town where Siegfried lived Worms.

Siegfried had bathed himself in the dragon's blood, and the bath made his skin so hard that nothing could hurt him except in one spot. A leaf had fallen on this spot as he was bathing. It was between his shoulders.

Siegfried, like Samson, had a curious wife. His romances growing out of his love for this woman would fill a volume. She had learned where his one vulnerable spot lay. But she was a lovely lady, and the wedded pair lived very happily together at Worms.

At last a dispute arose between them and their relatives, and the latter sought to destroy Siegfried's life. His wife went for counsel to a supposed friend, but real enemy, named Hagen.

"Your husband is invulnerable," said Hagen.

"Yes, except in one spot."

"And you know the place?"

"Yes."

"Sew a patch on his garment over it, and I shall know how to protect him."

The poor wife had revealed a fatal secret. She sewed a patch on her husband's garment between the shoulders, and now thought him doubly secure.



There was to be a great hunting-match, and Siegfried entered into it as a champion. He rode forth in high spirits, but on his back was the fatal patch.

Hagen contrived that the wine should be left behind.

"That," he said, "will compel the hunters to lie down on their breasts to drink from the streams when they become thirsty. Then will come my opportunity."

He was right in his conjecture.

Siegfried became tired and thirsty. He rode up to a stream. He threw himself on his breast to drink, exposing his back, on which was the patch, revealing the vulnerable place.

There he was stabbed by a conspirator employed by Hagen.

They bore the dead body of the hero down the Rhine, and lamented the departed champion as the barque drifted on. The scene has been portrayed in art and song, and has left its impress on the poetic associations of the river. You will have occasion to recall this story again in connection with Drachenfels.

"Our fifth night on the Rhine was passed at Mayence, at the Hotel de Hollande, near the landing-place of the Rhine steamers. The balconies and windows of the hotel afforded fine views of the river and of the Taunus Mountains.

"Mayence is said to have arisen by magic. The sorcerer Nequam wished for a new city; he came to this point of the Rhine, spoke the word, and the city rose. It is almost as old as the Christian era. Here the Twenty-second Roman legion came, after its return from the conquest of Jerusalem, and brought Christianity with it, through some of its early converts. It was one of the grand cities of Charlemagne, who erected a palace at Lower Ingelheim, and introduced the cultivation of the vine. Here lived Bishop Hatto, of bad repute, and good Bishop Williges.

"Here rose Gutenberg, the inventor of printing, and here Thorwaldsen's statue of the great inventor announces to the traveller what a great light of civilization appeared to the world.

"At Mayence we began the most delightful zigzag we had ever made,—a boat journey on the Rhine.

"'If you would see the Rhine of castles and vineyards.' said an English friend, 'hire a boat. The most famous river scenery in the world lies between Mayence and Cologne. If you take the railroad you will merely escape it in a few hours; if a steamboat, your curiosity will be excited, but not gratified; it will all vanish like a dream: take a boat, my good American friend,—take a boat.'

"Between Mayence and Bingen the Rhine attains its greatest breadth. It is studded with a hundred islands. Its banks are continuous vineyards. Here is the famous district called the Rheingau, which extends along the right bank of the river, where the Rhine wines are produced.



"It is all a luxurious wine-garden,—the Rheingau. The grapes purple beside ruins and convents, as well as on their low artificial trellises, and everywhere drink in the sunshine and grow luscious in the mellow air.

"Castles, palaces, ruins, towers, and quaint towns all mingle with the vineyards. A dreamy light hangs over the scene; the river is calm, and the boat drifts along in an atmosphere in which the spirit of romance seems to brood, as though indeed the world's fairy tales were true.

"We came in sight of Bingen.

"'We must stop there,' said Willie Clifton.

"'Why?' I asked curiously.

"'Because—well—

"For I was born at Bingen,—at Bingen on the Rhine."'

"He then repeated slowly and in a deep, tender voice the beginning of a poem that almost every schoolboy knows:—

'A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said, "I nevermore shall see my own, my native land: Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine; For I was born at Bingen,—at Bingen on the Rhine."'

"Bingen is a town of about seven thousand inhabitants, and is engaged in the wine trade. We visited the chapel of St. Rochus, on a hill near the town, because one of our party had somewhere read that Bulwer had said that the view from St. Rochus was the finest in the world.

"Again upon the river, all the banks seemed filled with castles, villages, and ruins. Every hill had its castle, every crag its gray tower. We drifted by the famous Mouse Tower, which stands at the end of an island meadow fringed with osier twigs. It is little better than a square tower of a common village church, nor is there any truth in the story that Southey's poem has associated with it. Poor Bishop Hatto, of evil name and memory! He died in 970, and the tower was not built until the thirteenth century. For aught that is known, he was a good man; he certainly was not eaten up by rats or mice. The legend runs:—



"In the tenth century Hatto, Bishop of Fulda, was raised to the dignity of Archbishop of Mayence. He built a strong tower on the Rhine, wherein to collect tolls from the vessels that passed.

"A famine came to the Rhine countries. Hatto had vast granaries, and the people came to him for bread. He refused them, and they importuned him. He bade them go into a large granary, one day, promising them relief. When they had entered the building, he barred the doors and set it on fire, and the famishing beggars, among whom were many women and children, were consumed.

"The bishop listened to the cries of the dying for mercy as the building was burning.

"'Hark!' he said, 'hear the rats squeak.'

"When the building fell millions of rats ran from the ruins to the bishop's palace. They filled all the rooms and attacked the people. The bishop was struck with terror.

'"I'll go to my tower on the Rhine," replied he; "'Tis the safest place in Germany: The walls are high, and the shores are steep, And the stream is strong, and the water deep."

'Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away, And he crossed the Rhine without delay, And reached his tower, and barred with care All windows, doors, and loopholes there.

'He laid him down and closed his eyes; But soon a scream made him arise: He started, and saw two eyes of flame On his pillow, from whence the screaming came.

'He listened and looked; it was only the cat: But the bishop he grew more fearful for that; For she sat screaming, mad with fear At the army of rats that were drawing near.

'For they have swam over the river so deep, And they have climbed the shores so steep; And up the tower their way is bent, To do the work for which they were sent.