'They are not to be told by the dozen or score; By thousands they come, and by myriads and more: Such numbers had never been heard of before, Such a judgment had never been witnessed of yore.

'Down on his knees the bishop fell, And faster and faster his beads did tell, As, louder and louder drawing near, The gnawing of their teeth he could hear.

'And in at the windows, and in at the door, And through the walls, helter-skelter they pour, And down from the ceiling, and up through the floor, From the right and the left, from behind and before, From within and without, from above and below, And all at once to the bishop they go.

'They have whetted their teeth against the stones; And now they pick the bishop's bones: They gnawed the flesh from every limb; For they were sent to do judgment on him!'

"We passed ruin after ruin which the boatman said were 'robber castles.'

"'And what do you mean by robber castles?' asked Herman.

"'The old lords of the Rhine used to collect tolls from the vessels that passed their estates. The tax was regarded as unjust, and hence the lords were themselves called robbers, and their castles robber castles.'

"One of these castles, called the Pfalzgrafenstein, is said to resemble a stone ship at anchor in the river. It was formerly a rock, with one little hut upon it, and it was associated with a touching incident of history.

"Louis le Debonnaire, the son of Charlemagne, became weary of state-craft and the crown. He felt that his end was near. He desired to die where he could hear the waves of the Rhine. He was taken to this rock, and there with the ebb of the river his troubled life ebbed away.

"Most of the old castles are built on the narrows of the river. These narrows are between high rocks and rocky hills. They are in the Middle Rhine, or between Mayence and Bonn. The Middle Rhine has some thirty conspicuous castles on its banks. It is sometimes called the Castellated Rhine, and its narrows are termed the Castellated Rhine Pass.



"On, on we drifted. Every high rock seemed a gateway to some new scene of beauty; wonder followed wonder.

"And now the water seemed agitated. Dark rocks projected into the river; the view was intercepted.

"The boatman conversed in an animated way with me, and I looked up to a high rock with an interested expression and an incredulous smile.

"He turned to us quietly and said,—

"'This is the Lorelei Pass.'

"He presently added,—

"'That is the Lorelei.'



THE WONDERFUL STORY OF THE LORELEI.

Who has not heard it, repeated it in verse, echoed it in song?

It is the best known of the Rhine tales, not because it is the most interesting, but because it is associated with the noblest scenery of the river, with poetry and music. It is hardly equal to such legends as the "Drachenfels" and the "Two Brothers," but it is lifted into historic prominence by its associations.

Still the story is richer in incident than the mere song would indicate. The origin and development of the popular legend is as follows:—

In the shadowy days of the Palatines of the Rhine,—shadowy because of ignorance and superstition,—the boatmen among the rocks above St. Goar on the Rhine used to fancy that they could see at night the form of a beautiful nymph on the "Lei," or high rock of the river. Her limbs were moulded of air; a veil of mist and gems covered her face; her hair was long and golden, and her eyes shone like the stars. Her robe was blue and glimmering like the waves, decked with water flowers and zoned with crystals. She was most distinctly seen by pale moonlight.

They called this recurring vision of mist and gems Lore, the enchantress. They believed that her favor brought good luck, but her ill will destruction.

Nothing could be more natural than for the simple fishermen to think that they saw a form of mist, very bright and lovely, above the rocks at night, when once the story had been told them.

In the days of superstition such a story was sure to grow.

It was said that this Undine of the Rhine, the enchantress Lore, had a most melodious and seductive voice. When she sang those who heard her listened spellbound. If the boatmen displeased her, she entranced them by her song, and drew them into the whirlpools under the rocks, where they disappeared forever. To the landsmen who offended her, she made the river appear like a road, and led them to fall over the rocks to destruction. With all her beauty and charms, she was the evil genius of the place.

Herman, the only son of the last Palatine, a youth of some fifteen summers, was delicate in health. Instead of devoting himself to chivalrous exercises, he gave his attention to music and song.

One night he and his father were descending the Rhine, when he felt an inspiration come over him to sing. His voice was silvery and flute-like, and breathed the emotional sentiment of the heart of youth. As the boat drew near the Lei, Lore, the enchantress, heard the song, and she herself became spellbound by the sentiment and deep feeling expressed in the mellifluent music.

She tried to answer him, but her voice failed.

As Herman grew to manhood his ill health disappeared, and his character changed. He became rugged and manly, and abandoned the arts for the chase, horsemanship, and the preparations for martial contests.

He became a renowned hunter. He rode the wildest steeds, and ventured into places and merrily blew his horn where no huntsman dared follow him.

The enchantress Lore, from the time she had heard his song, disappeared from the rocks. The change that came over his person and character seemed like enchantment: was the siren invisibly following him?

And now a strange thing began to startle him by its mystery. When alone, crossing a wild mountain or a ravine, he would seek to keep up a communication by shouting through his hands,—

"Hillo-ho-o-o-o!"

Immediately a sweet voice would answer,—

"Ho-o-o-o!"

He would follow the sound.

"Hillo-ho-o-o-o!"

"Ho-o-o-o!"

It always led him towards the Lei.

He became alarmed at this occurrence. He believed that he was followed by a spirit, and that a spell was upon him, which boded destruction. He resolved to abandon the chase and devote himself to the arts again.

He was sitting by the window of the castle on a summer evening. A purple mist lay on the forests and river, and the moon poured her light over it, making all things appear like an enchanted realm.

He heard a nightingale singing in the woods. Did ever a bird sing like that? He listened. There was a witchery in the song. He rose and went into the woods. The song filled the air like a shower of golden notes. He followed it. It retreated. He went on. But the song, more and more enchanting and alluring, floated into the shadowy distance. He found himself at last on the Lei.

He beheld there a dazzling grotto, full of stalactites, and a nymph of wondrous beauty on a coral throne. He felt his being thrill with love. He was about to enter the grotto, when, oh thought of darkness and horror! the recollection of the enchantress came to him, and he crossed his bosom and broke the spell. He hurried home with a beating heart.

But the temptation and vision had proved fatal to him. He was never himself again. He dreamed constantly of Lore. All his longings were for her.

At eve he would hear the same nightingale singing. He would long to follow the voice. It inflamed his love. His will, his senses, all that made life desirable, were yielding to the fatal passion.

He went to a good priest for advice.

"Father Walter, what shall I do?"

"Shake off the spell, or it will end in your ruin."

One day Herman and the priest went fishing on the Rhine. The boat drifted near the Lei. The moon rose in full splendor in the clear sky, strewing the water with countless gems.

Herman took a lute and filled the air with music.

It was answered from the Lei. Oh, how wonderful! The air seemed entranced with the spiritual melody. Herman was beside himself with delight. The priest also heard it.

"The Lore! In the name of the Virgin, let us make for the shore!"



Herman's eyes were fixed on the rock. There she sat, the siren!

The priest plied the oar, to turn the boat back.

But nearer, nearer drifted the boat to the rock.

Nearer and nearer!

The moon poured her white light upon the crags.

Nearer and nearer!

There was a shock.

The boat was shivered like glass.

Walter crossed himself, and floated on the waves to the shore.

But Herman—he was never seen again!

Mr. Beal's narrative nearly filled the evening. A few stories were told by other members of the Club, but they were chiefly from Grimm, and hence are somewhat familiar.

Charlie Leland closed the meeting with a free translation of a poem from Kerner.

Justinus Kerner was born in Ludwigsburg, in 1786. He was a physician and a poet. He belonged to the spiritualistic school of poets, and his illustrations of the power of mind over matter, in both prose and poetry, are often very forcible. The following poem will give you a view of his estimate of physical as compared with mental power:—

IN THE OLD CATHEDRAL.

In the vaults of the dim cathedral, In the gloaming, weird and cold, Are the coffins of old King Ottmar, And a poet, renowned of old.

The king once sat in power, Enthroned in pomp and pride, And his crown still rests upon him, And his falchion rusts beside.

And near to the king the poet Has slumbered in darkness long, But he holds in his hands, as an emblem, The harp of immortal song.

Hark! 'tis the castles falling! Hark! 'tis the war-cry dread! But the monarch's sword is not lifted, There, in the vaults of the dead!

List to the vernal breezes! List to the minstrels' strain! 'Tis the poet's song they are singing, And the poet lives again.



CHAPTER X.

NIGHT THE SIXTH.

THE BEAUTIFUL RHINE.—COBLENTZ.—A ZIGZAG TO WEIMAR.—GOETHE AND SCHILLER.—THE STRANGE STORY OF FAUST.—FAUST IN ART.—THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS.—THE DRACHENFELS.—THE STORY OF THE DRAGON.—STORIES OF FREDERICK THE GREAT.—THE UNNERVED HUSSAR.

Mr. Beal occupied much of the time this evening. He thus continued the narrative of travel:—

* * * * *

"From St. Goar to Boppard, two stations at which the Rhine boats call, is about an hour's run; but the journey is an unfailing memory. The rocky walls of the river, the continuous villages, the quaint churches amid the vineyards and cherry orchards, the mossy meadows about the mountains, the white-kerchiefed villagers, present so many varied and delightful objects, that the eye feasts on beauty, and wonders expectantly at what the next turn of the river will reveal. The rock shadows in the water contrast with the bright scenes above the river, and add an impression of grandeur to the effect of the whole, like shadows on the cathedral walls that heighten the effect of the rose-colored windows. Beautiful, beautiful, is the Rhine.

"Grand castles, perched on high cliffs and mountain walls, surprise us, delight us, and vanish behind us, as the boat moves on;—the Brother Castles, Marksburg, the mountain palace Solzenfels, with their lofty, gloomy, and barbaric grandeur, reminding one always of times whose loss the mind does not regret.

"And now a beautiful city comes in view, nestled at the foot of the hills, and protected by a stupendous fortress on the opposite side of the river. The fortress is Ehrenbreitstein, the Gibraltar of the Rhine, capable of holding an army of men. It is a great arsenal now, well garrisoned in peace as in war; in short, it may be called the watch on the Rhine.



"The lovely city under its guns, on the opposite side of the river, is Coblentz. It is a gusset of houses, a V-shaped city, at the confluence of the Rhine and Moselle. The Romans called it the city of the Confluence, or Confluentia; hence, corrupted, it is known as Coblentz.



"It is the half-way city between Cologne and Mayence, and a favorite resting place of tourists. The summer residence of the King of Germany is here.

"From Coblentz we made a detour into the heart of Germany, going by rail to Weimar, once called the Athens of the North. It was once the literary centre of Germany. Here lived Goethe, Schiller, Wieland, and Herder. What the English Lake District, in the days of Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, Christopher North, and De Quincey was once to England, what Cambridge and Concord have been to America in the best days of its authors and poets, Weimar was to Germany at the beginning of the present century. We went there to visit the tombs and statues of Goethe, and to gain a better knowledge of the works of these poets from the associations of their composition.

"Weimar is a quaint provincial-looking town on the river Ilm. It has some sixteen thousand inhabitants, and is the residence of the Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar. The grounds of the palace are wonderfully beautiful. They extend along the river, and communicate with a summer palace called Belvedere.

"We visited the tombs of the two great poets. They are found beneath a small chapel in the Grand Ducal burial vault. The Grand Duke Charles Augustus desired that the bodies of the two poets should be interred one on each side of him: but this was forbidden by the usages of the court.

"In the old Stadtkirche, built in 1400, are the tombs of the ancient dukes, now forgotten. Among them is that of Duke Bernard, who died in 1639. He was the friend of Gustavus Adolphus, and one of the most powerful of the leaders of the Reformation.

"Goethe, the most gifted of the German poets, and the most accomplished man of his age, was born at Frankfort-on-the-Main, in 1749. In 1775 he made the intimate acquaintance of Charles Augustus, Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar, who induced him to take up his residence at Weimar, the capital. Here he held many public offices, and at last became minister of state. He died at the age of eighty-four.

"Goethe's most popular work is a novel called The Sorrows of Werther, but his great and enduring work is Faust, a dramatic poem, in which his great genius struggles with the problems of good and evil.

"His life was full of beautiful friendships. In 1787 Schiller, the second in rank of great German poets, was invited to reside at Weimar. Goethe became most warmly attached to him, and the two pursued their high literary callings together. The literary circle now consisted of Goethe, Schiller, Wieland, Herder, and the Grand Duke. It was the golden age of German literature.

THE STRANGE STORY OF FAUST.

No myth of the Middle Ages has had so large a growth and so long a life as this.

It has been made the subject of books, pamphlets, and articles almost without number. The Faust literature in Germany would fill a library.

In painting, especially of the Holland school, the dark subject as prominently appears. It is also embodied in sculpture.

But it is in poetry and music that it found a place that carried it over the world. It was made the subject of Marlowe's drama, of Goethe's greatest poem, and it is sung in three of the greatest operas of modern times.

But to the legend.

About the year 1490 there was born at Roda, in the Duchy of Saxe-Weimar, a child whose fame was destined to fill the world of superstition, fable, and song. He was named John Faustus, or Faust.

He studied medicine, became an alchemist, and was possessed with a consuming desire to learn the secrets of life and of the spiritual world.

He studied magic, and his thirst for knowledge of the occult sciences grew. He wished to know how to prolong life, to change base metals to gold, to do things at once by the power of the will.

One night, as he was studying, the Evil One appeared before him.

"I will reveal to you all the secrets you are seeking, and will enable you to do anything you wish by the power of the will alone—"

Dr. Faustus was filled with an almost insane delight.

"—On one condition."

"Name it."

"That I shall have your soul in return."

"When?"

"At the end of twenty-four years—at this time of night—midnight."

"I shall have pleasure?"



"Pleasure."

"Gold?"

"Gold."

"I shall know the secrets of nature?"

"The secrets of nature."

"I may do what I like at will?"

"At will."

"I will sign the compact."

"Sign!"

Faust signed his name to a compact that was to give the Evil One his soul for twenty-four years of pleasure, gold, and knowledge, that were to come to an end at midnight.

"I will give you an attendant," said the Evil One, "to help you."

He caused a dark but very elegant gentleman to appear, whom he presented to Faust as Mephistopheles.

Dr. Faustus and Mephistopheles now began to travel into all lands, performing wonders to the amazement of all people wherever they went.

In a wine-cellar at Leipsig, where he and Mephistopheles were drinking, some gay fellows said,—

"Faust, make grapes grow on a vine on this table."

"Be silent."

There was dead silence.



A vine began to grow from the table, and presently it bore a bunch of grapes for each of the revellers.

"Take your knives and cut a cluster for each."

There was an explosion. Faust and Mephistopheles were seen flying out of the window; the window is still shown in Leipsig. The vine had disappeared, and each of the revellers found himself with his knife over his nose, about to cut it off, supposing it to be a cluster of grapes.

The wonders that it is claimed that Dr. Faustus did in the twenty-four years fill volumes. The Faust marvels have gathered to themselves the fables of centuries.

The twenty-four years came to an end at last. Faust became gloomy, and retired to Rimlich, at the inn, among his old friends.

The fatal night came.

"Should you hear noises in my chamber to-night, do not disturb me," he said, on parting from his companions to go to his room.

Near midnight a tempest arose,—a wild, strange tempest. The winds were like demons. It thundered and the air was full of tongues of lightning.

At midnight there was heard a fearful shriek in Faust's chamber.

The next morning the room was found bespattered with blood, and the body of Faust was missing. The broken remains of the alchemist were discovered at last in a back yard on a heap of earth.

This was the village story. It grew as such a dark myth would grow in the superstitious times in which it started. Goethe created the character of Marguerite and added it to the fable. The transformation of Faust from extreme old age to youth was also added. The opera makers have greatly enlarged even the narrative of Goethe; in the latest evolution, Mephistopheles is summoned into the courts of heaven and sent forth to tempt Faust, and Faust is shown visions of the Greek vale of Tempe and Helen of Troy.

Faust has come to be a synonym of the great problem of Good and Evil; the contest between virtue and vice, temptation and ruin, temptation and moral triumph. It is not a good story in any of its evolutions, but it is one that to know is almost essential to intelligence.

"Returning to Coblentz, we passed our sixth night on the Rhine. We there hired a boatman to take us to Bonn. Between Coblentz and Andernach we passed what are termed the Rhine Plains. These are some ten miles long, and are semicircled by volcanic mountains, whose fires have long been dead.

"We now approached the Seven Mountains, among which is the Drachenfels, famous in fable and song. These are called: Lohrberg, 1,355 feet; Neiderstromberg, 1,066 feet; Oelberg, 1,429 feet; Wolkenberg, 1,001 feet; Drachenfels, 1,056 feet; Petenberg, 1,030 feet; Lowenberg, 1,414 feet.

"The Drachenfels is made picturesque by an ancient ruin, and it is these ancient ruins, and associations of old history, that make the Rhine the most interesting river in the world. Apart from its castles and traditions, it is not more beautiful than the Hudson, the Upper Ohio, or the Mississippi between St. Paul and Winona. But the Rhine displays the ruined arts of two thousand years.

"The Drachenfels has its wonderful story. It is said that Siegfried killed the Dragon there. The so-called Dragon Cave or Rock is there, and of this particular dragon many curious tales are told.

"In the early days of Christianity the cross was regarded as something more than a mere emblem of faith. It was believed to possess miracle-working power.

"In a rocky cavern of the Drachenfels, in ancient times, there lived a Dragon of most hideous form. He had a hundred teeth, and his head was so large that he could swallow several victims at a time. His body was of enormous length, and in form like an alligator's, and he had a tail like a serpent.

"The pagans of the Rhine worshipped this monster and offered to him human sacrifices.

"In one of the old wars between rival princes, a Christian girl was taken captive, and the pagan priest commanded that she should be made an offering to the Dragon.

"It was the custom of the pagans to bind their sacrifices to the Dragon alive to a tree near his cave at night. At sunrise he would come out and devour them.

"They led the lovely Christian maiden to a spot near the cave, and bound her to a tree.

"It was starlight. Priests and warriors with torches had conducted the maiden to the fatal spot, and stood at a little distance from the victim, waiting for the sunrise.



"The priests chanted their wild hymns, and the light at last began to break and to crown the mountains and be scattered over the blue river.

"The roar of the monster was heard. The rocks trembled, and he appeared. He approached the maiden, bound to an oak.

"Her eyes were raised in prayer towards heaven.

"As the Dragon approached the victim, she drew from her bosom a crucifix, and held it up before him.

"As soon as he saw it, he began to tremble. He fell to the earth as if smitten. He lost all power and rolled down the rocks, a shapeless mass, into the Rhine.

"The pagans released the girl.

"'By what power have you done this?' they asked.

"'By this,' said the maiden, stretching out the cross in her hand. 'I am a Christian.'

"'Then we will become Christians,' said the pagans, and they led the lovely apostle away to be their teacher. Her first convert was one of the rival princes, whom she married. Their descendants were among the most eminent of the early Christian families of the Seven Mountains of the Rhine.

"Such is the fable as told by the monks of old. The figure of the power of the cross over the serpent, employed in early Christian writings, undoubtedly was its origin, but how it became associated with the story of the captive maiden it would be hard to tell."

* * * * *

Master Lewis introduced the story-telling of the evening by anecdote pictures of

FREDERICK THE GREAT.

Frederick the Great, King of Prussia, was born in 1712. He was a wilful youth, and his father subjected him to such severe discipline that he revolted against it, and, like other boys not of royal blood, formed a plan of running away from home. His father discovered the plot, and caused his son's most intimate friend, who had assisted him in it, to be put to death, and made the execution as terrible as possible. He early came to hate his father, his father's religion, and everything that the old king most liked. His father was indeed a hard, stern man, of colorless character; but he managed the affairs of state so prudently that he left his undutiful son a powerful army and a full treasury, and to these as much as to any noble qualities of mind or soul the latter owed the resources by which he gained the title THE GREAT.

His mother was a daughter of George I. Frederick loved her, and from her he inherited a taste for music and literature, like many of the family of the Georges. He formed an intimate friendship with Voltaire, the French infidel writer, and interested himself in the French infidelity of the period, which was a reaction against the corrupt and degenerate French church.

He entered the field as a soldier in 1741, and was victorious again and again in the two Silesian wars. The Seven Years' War, begun in 1756, gained for him a position of great influence among the rulers of Europe. He was prudent, like his father; his government was wise, well ordered, and liberal, and he left to his successor a full treasury, a great and famous army, enlarged territory, and the prestige of a great name.

The family affairs of kings during the last century were in rather a queer state, as the following story of Frederick's marriage will show.

The prince was told that his father was studying the characters of the young ladies of the courts of Europe in order to select a suitable wife for him. He admired talent, brilliancy, wit, and he said in substance to the Minister of State,—

"Influence my father if you can to obtain for me a gifted and elegant princess. Of all things in the world I would hate to have a dull and commonplace wife."

His father made choice of the Princess Elizabeth Christine of Brunswick, a girl famous for her awkwardness and stupidity.

The prince did everything in his power to prevent the marriage. But the old king declared that he should marry her, and the wedding ceremony was arranged, Frederick in the mean time protesting that he held the bride in utter detestation.

Frederick had a sister whom he dearly loved, Wilhelmina. Two days after his marriage, he introduced the bride to her, and said,—

"This is a sister whom I adore. She has had the goodness to promise that she will take care of you and give you good advice. I wish you to do nothing without her consent. Do you understand?"



The young bride, scarcely eighteen, was speechless. She expected "care" and "advice" from her husband, and not from his sister.

Wilhelmina embraced her tenderly.

Frederick waited for an answer to his question. But she stood dumb.

"Plague take the blockhead!" he at last exclaimed, and with this compliment began the long and sorrowful story of her wedded life.

She was a good woman and bore her husband's neglect with patience. Strangely enough, in his old age Frederick came to love her; for he discovered, after a prejudice of years, that she had a noble soul.

Frederick died in 1786. In his will he made a most liberal allowance for his wife, and bore testimony to her excellent character, saying that she never had caused him the least discontent, and her incorruptible virtue was worthy of love and consideration.

She survived the king eleven years.

Willie Clifton related a true story.

THE UNNERVED HUSSAR.

A man once entered the vaults of a church by night, to rob a corpse of a valuable ring. In replacing the lid he nailed the tail of his coat to the coffin, and when he started up to leave, the coffin clung to him and moved towards him.

Supposing the movement to be the work of invisible hands, his nervous system received such a shock that he fell in a fit, and was found where he fell, by the sexton, on the following morning.

Now, had the fellow been honestly engaged, it is not likely that the blunder would have happened; and even had it occurred, he doubtless would have discovered at once the cause.

But very worthy people are sometimes affected by superstitious fear, and run counter to the dictates of good sense and sound judgment.

A magnificent banquet was once given by a lord, in a very ancient castle, on the confines of Germany. Among the guests was an officer of hussars, distinguished for great self-possession and bravery.

Many of the guests were to remain in the castle during the night; and the gallant hussar was informed that one of them must occupy a room reputed to be haunted, and was asked if he had any objections to accepting the room for himself.

He declared that he had none whatever, and thanked his host for the honor conferred upon him by the offer. He, however, expressed a wish that no trick might be played upon him, saying that such an act might be followed by very serious consequences, as he should use his pistols against whatever disturbed the peace of the room.

He retired after midnight, leaving his lamp burning; and, wearied by the festivities, soon fell asleep. He was presently awakened by the sound of music, and, looking about the apartment, saw at the opposite end, three phantom ladies, grotesquely attired, singing a mournful dirge.

The music was artistic, rich, and soothing, and the hussar listened for a time, highly entertained. The piece was one of unvarying sadness, and, however seductive at first, after a time lost its charm.



The officer, addressing the musical damsels, remarked that the music had become rather monotonous, and asked them to change the tune. The singing continued in the same mournful cadences. He became impatient, and exclaimed,—

"Ladies, this is an impertinent trick, for the purpose of frightening me. I shall take rough means to stop it, if it gives me any further trouble."

He seized his pistols in a manner that indicated his purpose. But the mysterious ladies remained, and the requiem went on.

"Ladies," said the officer, "I will wait five minutes, and then shall fire, unless you leave the room."

The figures remained, and the music continued. At the expiration of the time, the officer counted twenty in a loud, measured voice, and then, taking deliberate aim, discharged both of his pistols.

The ladies were unharmed, and the music was uninterrupted. The unexpected result of his violence threw him into a state of high nervous excitement, and, although his courage had withstood the shock of battle, it now yielded to his superstitious fears. His strength was prostrated, and a severe illness of some weeks' continuance followed.

Had the hussar held stoutly to his own sensible philosophy, that he had no occasion to fear the spirits of the invisible world, nothing serious would have ensued. The damsels sung in another apartment, and their figures were made to appear in the room occupied by the hussar, by the effect of a mirror. The whole was a trick, carefully planned, to test the effect of superstitious fear on one of the bravest of men.

In no case should a person be alarmed at what he suspects to be supernatural. A cool investigation will show, in most cases, that the supposed phenomenon may be easily explained. It might prove a serious thing for one to be frightened by a nightcap on a bedpost, for a fright affects unfavorably the nervous system, but a nightcap on a bedpost is in itself a very harmless thing.

The sixth evening closed with an original poem by Mr. Beal.



CHAPTER XI.

COLOGNE.

BONN.—HOLY COLOGNE.—THE STORY OF THE MYSTERIOUS ARCHITECT.—"UNFINISHED AND UNKNOWN."—VISIT TO COLOGNE CATHEDRAL.—THE TOMB OF THE MAGI.—THE CHURCH OF SKULLS.—QUEER RELICS.—THE STORY AND LEGEND OF CHARLEMAGNE.—THE STORY AND LEGEND OF BARBAROSSA.

"We emerged from the majestic circle of the Seven Mountains, the most beautiful part of the Rhine scenery, and broad plains again met our view. The river ran smoothly, the Middle Rhine was passed, Bonn was in view, and there we dismissed our boatman.

"We stopped in Bonn only a short time. We went to the Market-place and walked past the University, which was once a palace.

"We took the train at Bonn for Cologne, in order to pass rapidly over a part of the Rhine scenery said to be comparatively uninteresting.

"Holy Cologne!

"The Rome of the Northern Empire! The ecclesiastical capital of the ancient German church!

"The unfinished cathedral towers over the city like a mountain. 'Unfinished?' Everything has a legend here, and a marvellous one, and the unfinished cathedral stands like a witness to such a tale.



"Above Cologne the river runs broad, a blue-green mirror amid dumpy willows and lanky poplars, and the windmills on its banks throw their arms about like giants at play. The steamers swarm in the bright waters; at evening their lights are like will-o'-the-wisps. The long bridge of boats opens; a steamer passes, followed by a crowd of boats; it closes, and the waiting crowd upon it hurry over. The Rhine at night here presents a most animated scene.

"The river seems alive, but the city looks dead. There is a faded glory on everything. There are steeples and steeples, towers and towers. Cologne is said to have had at one time as many churches as there are days in the year. But life has gone out of them; they are like deserted houses. They belonged to the religious period of evolution, and are like geologic formations now,—history that has had its day, and left its tombstone.

"Cologne is as old as Rome in her glory,—older than the Christian era. She was the second great city of the Church in the Middle Ages.

"Cologne is full of wonders in stone and marble, wonders in legend and story as well; and among these the cathedral holds the first place, in both art and fable.

THE MYSTERIOUS ARCHITECT.

In the thirteenth century—so the story goes—Archbishop Conrad determined to erect a cathedral that should surpass any Christian temple in the world.

Who should be the architect?

He must be a man of great genius, and his name would become immortal.

There was a wonderful builder in Cologne, and the Archbishop went to him with his purpose, and asked him to attempt the design.

"It must not only surpass anything in the past, but anything that may arise in the future."

The architect was awed in view of such a stupendous undertaking.

"It will carry my name down the ages," he thought; "I will sacrifice everything to success."

He dreamed; he fasted and prayed.

He made sketch after sketch and plan after plan, but they all proved unworthy of a temple that should be one of the grandest monuments of the piety of the time, and one of the glories of future ages.

In his dreams an exquisite image of a temple rose dimly before him. When he awoke, he could vaguely recall it, but could not reproduce it. The ideal haunted him and yet eluded him.

He became disheartened. He wandered in the fields, absorbed in thought. The beautiful apparition of the temple would suddenly fill him with delight; then it would vanish, as if it were a mockery.

One day he was wandering along the Rhine, absorbed in thought.

"Oh," he said, "that the phantom temple would appear to me, and linger but for a moment, that I could grasp the design."

He sat down on the shore, and began to draw a plan with a stick on the sand.

"That is it," he cried with joy.

"Yes, that is it, indeed," said a mocking voice behind him.

He looked around, and beheld an old man.

"That is it," the stranger hissed; "that is the Cathedral of Strasburg."

He was shocked. He effaced the design on the sand.

He began again.

"There it is," he again exclaimed with delight.

"Yes," chuckled the old man. "That is the Cathedral of Amiens."

The architect effaced the picture on the sand, and produced another.

"Metz," said the old man.

He made yet another effort.

"Antwerp!"

"O my master," said the despairing architect, "you mock me. Produce a design for me yourself."

"On one condition."

"Name it."

"You shall give me yourself, soul and body!"

The affrighted architect began to say his prayers, and the old man suddenly disappeared.

The next day he wandered into a forest of the Seven Mountains, still thinking of his plan. He chanced to look up the mountain side, when he beheld the queer old man again; he was now leaning on a staff on a rocky wall.

He lifted his staff and began to draw a picture on a rock behind him. The lines were of fire.

Oh, how beautiful, how grand, how glorious, it all was!



Fretwork, spandrels, and steeples. It was—it was the very design that had haunted the poor architect, that flitted across his mind in dreams but left no memory.

"Will you have my plan?" asked the old man.

"I will do all you ask."

"Meet me at the city gate to-morrow at midnight."

The architect returned to Cologne, the image of the marvellous temple glowing in his mind.

"I shall be immortal," he said; "my name will never die. But," he added, "it is the price of my soul. No masses can help me, doomed, doomed forever!"

He told his strange story to his old nurse on his return home.

She went to consult the priest.

"Tell him," said the priest to the old woman, "to secure the design before he signs the contract. As soon as he gets the plan into his hand let him present to the old man, who is a demon, the relics of the martyrs and the sign of the cross."

At midnight he appeared at the gate. There stood the little old man.

"Here is your design," said the latter, handing him a roll of parchment. "Now you shall sign the bond that gives me yourself in payment."

The architect grasped the plan.

"Satan, begone!" he thundered; "in the name of this cross, and of St. Ursula, begone!"

"Thou hast foiled me," said the old man, his eyes glowing in the darkness like fire. "But I will have my revenge. Your church shall never be completed, and your name shall never be known in the future to mankind."

"The Cathedral of Cologne is unfinished, and its architect's name is unknown. It may harm the story, but it is but just to say that many of the old cathedrals of Europe are in these respects like that of Cologne.

"We were impatient to visit the cathedral on our arrival at Cologne. The structure stood as it were over the city, like its presiding genius; and so it was. Wherever we went the great roofs loomed above us in the air.

"The interior did not disappoint us, even after all we had seen in other cathedral towns. It was like a forest: the columns were like tree stems of a vast open woodland, the groined arches appearing like interweaving boughs. The gorgeous windows were like a sunset through the trees. The air was dusky in the arches, but near the lofty windows vivid with color.

"It was Sunday. The service had begun. It was like a pageant, an opera. The organ was pouring a solemn chant through the far arches, like fall winds among the trees. There was a flute-like gush of music, far off and mysterious, like birds. It came from the boy-choristers. Priests in glittering garments were kneeling before the cupola-crowned altar; there rose a cloud of incense from silver censers, and the organ thundered again, like the storm gathering over the woods. At the side of the altar stood the archiepiscopal throne, half in shadow amid the tall lights, red and gold; amid the piles of barbaric splendor, canopies, carvings, emblems.

"We visited the chapels on the following day. In one of them a Latin inscription tells the visitor,—

"'HERE REPOSE THE THREE BODIES OF THE HOLY MAGI.'

"The guide said,—

"'This is the tomb of the Three Kings of Cologne.'

"'The Wise Men of the East who came to worship at the cradle at Bethlehem.'

"'Ask him how he got them,' said Willie.

"'The Empress Helena, mother of Constantine, recovered them and sent them to Milan. When Frederick Barbarossa took the city of Milan, he received them among the spoils and sent them to Cologne. The names of the Magi were Gaspar, Melchior, Balthazar.'

"'Do you believe the legend?' asked Willie.

"'I do not know; we shall find things harder than this to believe, I fancy, as we go on.'

"And we did.



"Leaving the tomb,—a pile of jewels,—we went out, and near the outskirts of the city found the famous Church of Skulls,—a gilded ossuary, associated with a mediaeval legend. It was full of cabinets of bones, said to be those of eleven thousand virgins slain for their faith by the Huns.

"Here we were shown—

"A part of the rod with which the Saviour was scourged.

"A thorn from the crown of thorns,—the Spicula.

"The pitcher in which Jesus turned water into wine.

"'The Mediaeval Church,' said our English-speaking guide, who had little faith in the genuineness of the relics, 'has exhibited some relics from time to time that would repay a long and arduous pilgrimage if they were what they purported to be; as, for instance, a feather of the angel Gabriel, the snout of a seraph, a ray from the star of Bethlehem, two skulls of the same saint,—one taken when the departed saint was somewhat younger, as flippantly explained to an astonished tourist, who found in two cities the same consecrated cranium.

"'But of all the relics of which we ever read, some Germans who visited Italy in search of these precious mementos received the most remarkable.

"'One of these gentlemen, having applied to an ecclesiastic for some memento of Scripture history which he could take back to Germany, was both astonished and delighted by receiving a carefully prepared package, which he was assured contained a veritable leg of the ass on which was made the triumphal entry into Jerusalem, when the people strewed palm branches in the way and shouted hosannas.

"'He was enjoined to keep the treasure a secret until he reached home, which injunction he scrupulously obeyed.

"'Arriving in Germany, he disclosed to his four companions the wonderful relic. They were much surprised, for each had been secretly intrusted with the same remarkable treasure. So it appeared that the ass had five legs, which, of itself, would have been something of a miracle.

"'Whether these wiseacres ever visited the Latin kingdom in search of relics again I am not apprised.'

"Cologne is full of relics. The people regard them with reverence; they serve the purpose of scriptural object-teaching to them. But they only shock the tourist who has been educated to believe that religion is a spiritual life, and that Christ's kingdom is a spiritual kingdom, and not of this world."

* * * * *

Several of the stories related by the boys this evening were historical.

THE STORY AND LEGEND OF CHARLEMAGNE.

Charles the Great, or Charlemagne, King of the Franks and Roman Emperor, was born, probably at Aix-la-Chapelle, in 742. His empire at first embraced the larger part of what is now France and Germany, but it extended under his wars until at last it nearly filled Europe, and he wore the crown of Rome and the West. Napoleon, at the height of his power, governed nearly the whole territory that was once ruled by the mighty Charlemagne.

He was one of the greatest and wisest men in the history of the world. He encouraged learning, and opened a school in his palace; he maintained morality and aimed to spread Christianity throughout the world.

The Saxons were heathens. They honored a great idol called the Irmansaul. They were opposed to Charlemagne, and constantly threatened his frontiers.

Charlemagne invaded their country, overthrew the great image, and after many struggles reduced the people to submission. In accordance with the rude customs of the time, he compelled them to accept Christianity and receive baptism. He is said to have baptized the prisoners of war with his own hand. He divided Saxony into eight bishoprics, and supported the bishops with guards of soldiers. We should look upon such missionary work as this as very questionable to-day, although enlightened nations of this age have sometimes adopted a policy in dealing with other countries that is as open to criticism and censure.

The Pope of Rome became involved in troubles with the Lombards. He appealed for help to the victorious King of the Franks, the recognized champion of the Church. Charlemagne crossed the Alps, conquered Lombardy, and crowned himself with the iron crown of the ancient Lombard kings.



He then repaired to Rome and entered the city in triumph. As he came to St. Peter's he stooped to kiss the steps in memory of the illustrious men that had trodden it before him. The Pope there received him in great ceremony, and the choir chanted, "Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord."

He now became the most powerful monarch in the world. He gained great victories over the Moors in Spain, and it was in one of the mountain passes there that the chivalrous young Roland, of heroic song, perished. His lands stretched from the Baltic Sea to the Mediterranean.

In the year 800 he went to Rome. It was Christmas Day. He entered the basilica of St. Peter's to attend Mass. He approached the altar, and bowed to pray. The Pope secretly uplifted the crown of the world and placed it upon his head.

The people shouted, "Long live Charles Augustus, crowned of God, Emperor of the Romans!"

From this time Charlemagne was the Kaiser, or Caesar, of the Holy Roman Empire on the Tiber and the Rhine.

The Rhine was loved by Charlemagne. He lived much on its borders, and he was buried near it, in a church that he had founded, at Aix-la-Chapelle.

"I'd dwell where Charlemagne looked down, And, turning to his peers, Exclaimed: 'Behold, for this fair land I've prayed and fought for years.' Then all the Rhine towers shook to hear The earthquake of their cheers.

"That day the tide ran crimson red (But not with Rhenish wine); Not with those vintage streams that through The green leaves gush and shine: 'Twas blood that from the Lombard ranks Rushed down into the Rhine.

"'Twas here the German soldiers flocked, Burning with love and pride, And threw their muskets down to kiss The soil with French blood dyed. 'The Rhine, dear Rhine!' ten thousand men, Kneeling together, cried."

THORNBURY.

There is a beautiful legend that Charlemagne visits the Rhine yearly and blesses the vintage. He comes in a golden robe, and crosses the river on a golden bridge, and the bells of heaven chime above him as he fulfils his peaceful mission. The fine superstition is celebrated in music and verse.

"By the Rhine, the emerald river, How softly glows the night! The vine-clad hills are lying In the moonbeams' golden light.

"And on the hillside walketh A kingly shadow down, With sword and purple mantle, And heavy golden crown.

"'Tis Charlemagne, the emperor, Who, with a powerful hand, For many a hundred years Hath ruled in German land.

"From out his grave in Aachen He hath arisen there, To bless once more his vineyards, And breathe their fragrant air.

"By Rudesheim, on the water, The moon doth brightly shine, And buildeth a bridge of gold Across the emerald Rhine.

"The emperor walketh over, And all along the tide Bestows his benediction On the vineyards far and wide.

"Then turns he back to Aachen In his grave-sleep to remain, Till the New Year's fragrant clusters Shall call him forth again."

EMANUEL GEIBEL.

THE STORY AND LEGEND OF BARBAROSSA.

Frederick of Germany was a very handsome man. There was a tinge of red in his beard, and for that reason he came to be called Frederick Barbarossa. He was an ambitious man, and he went to Rome to be crowned.



It was a time of rival popes, and Barbarossa entered into the long controversy, which would make a history of itself. He captured Milan, and levelled the city. The sacred relics in the churches were sent to enrich the churches of Germany. Among these were the reputed bodies of the three Wise Men of the East; these were sent to Cologne, and are still exhibited there amid heaps of jewels.

Barbarossa was constantly at war with popes and kings: he gained victories and suffered reverses; but his career was theatrical and popular in those rude times, and he was regarded as a very good monarch as kings went.



He once held a great peace festival at Mentz, to which came forty thousand knights. A camp of tents of silk and gold was set up by the Rhine, and musicians, called minnesingers, delighted the nobles and ladies with songs of heroes and knights. The songs and ballads then sung became famous, and this festival may be said to be the beginning of musical art in music-loving Germany.

Europe was now startled with the news that the Saracens under Saladin had taken Jerusalem. Barbarossa was about inaugurating a new war with the Pope; but when this news came he and the Pope became reconciled, and he resolved to go on a crusade.

He was an old man now, but he entered into the crusade with the fiery spirit of youth. His war-cry was,—

"Christ reigns! Christ conquers!"

He won a great victory at Iconium.

There was a swift, cold river near the battle-field, called Kaly Kadmus. A few days after the victory, Barbarossa went into it to bathe. He was struck by a chill and sank into the rapid current, and was drowned. He was seventy years of age. His body was found and interred at Antioch.

Of course the Germans attached to Barbarossa a legend, as they do to everything. They said that he was not dead, but had fallen a victim to enchantment. He and his knights had been put to sleep in the Kyffhauser cave in Thuringia. They sat around a stone table, waiting for release. His once red, but now white, beard was growing through the stone.

They also said that the spell that bound Barbarossa and his knights would some day be broken, and that they would come back to Germany. This would occur when the country should be in sore distress, and need a champion for its cause.

Ravens flew continually about the cave where the monarch and his knights were held enchanted. When they should cease to circle about it, the spell would be broken, and the grand old monarch would return to the Rhine.

They looked for him in days of calamity; but centuries passed, and he did not return.

The legend is thus told in song:—

"The ancient Barbarossa By magic spell is bound,— Old Frederick the Kaiser, In castle underground.

"The Kaiser hath not perished, He sleeps an iron sleep; For, in the castle hidden, He's sunk in slumber deep.

"With him the chiefest treasures Of empire hath he ta'en, Wherewith, in fitting season, He shall appear again.

"The Kaiser he is sitting Upon an ivory throne; Of marble is the table His head he resteth on.

"His beard it is not flaxen; Like living fire it shines, And groweth through the table Whereon his chin reclines.

"As in a dream he noddeth, Then wakes he, heavy-eyed, And calls, with lifted finger, A stripling to his side.

"'Dwarf, get thee to the gateway, And tidings bring, if still Their course the ancient ravens Are wheeling round the hill.

"'For if the ancient ravens Are flying still around, A hundred years to slumber By magic spell I'm bound.'"

FRIEDRICH RUeCKERT.

The seven evenings with historic places on the Rhine had proved a source of profitable entertainment to the Club. It was proposed to continue the plan, and to follow Mr. Beal's and the boys' journey to the North.

"Let us add to these entertainments," said Charlie Leland,—

"(1) A Night in Northern Germany. We will call it a Hamburg Night.

"(2) A Night in Denmark.

"(3) A Night in Sweden and Norway."

The proposal was adopted, and Master Beal was asked to continue the narrative of travel, and all the members of the Club were requested to collect stories that illustrate the history, traditions, manners, and customs of these countries.



CHAPTER XII.

HAMBURG.

HAMBURG.—BERLIN.—POTSDAM.—PALACE OF SANS-SOUCI.—STORY OF THE STRUGGLES AND TRIUMPHS OF HANDEL.—STORY OF PETER THE WILD BOY.

"Hamburg, the fine old city of the Elbe, is almost as large as was Boston before the annexation; it is familiar by name to American ears, for it is from Hamburg, as a port, that the yearly army of German emigrants come.

"I looked sadly upon Hamburg as I thought how many eyes filled with tears had turned back upon her spires and towers, her receding harbor, and seen the Germany of their ancestors, and the old city of Charlemagne, with its historic associations of a thousand years, fade forever from view. Down the Elbe go the steamers, and the emigrants with their eyes fixed on the shores! Then westward, ho, for the prairie territories of the great empire of the New World!

"More than six thousand vessels enter the harbor of Hamburg in a year. The flags of all nations float there, but the British red is everywhere seen.

"We visited the church of St. Michael, and ascended the steeple, which is four hundred and thirty-two feet high, or one hundred feet higher than the spire of St. Paul's in London. We looked down on the city, the harbor, the canals. Our eye followed the Elbe on its way to the sea. On the north was Holstein; on the south, Hanover.



"From Hamburg we made a zigzag to Berlin and Potsdam. The railroad between the great German port and the brilliant capital is across a level country, the distance being about one hundred and seventy-five miles, or seven hours' ride.

"Berlin, capital of Prussia and of the German Empire, the residence of the German Emperor, is situated in the midst of a vast plain; 'an oasis of stone and brick in a Sahara of sand.' It is about the size of New York, and it greatly resembles an American city, for the reason that everything there seems new.

"It has been called a city of palaces, and so it is, for many of the private residences would be fitting abodes for kings. The architecture is everywhere beautiful; all the elegances of Greek art meet the eye wherever it may turn. Ruins there are none; old quarters, none; quaint Gothic or mediaeval buildings, none. The streets are so regular, the public squares so artistic, and the buildings such models of art, that the whole becomes monotonous.

"'This is America over again,' said an American traveller, who had joined our party. 'Let us return.'

"Many of the buildings might remind one of the hanging gardens of old, so full are the balconies of flowers. The fronts of some of the private residences are flower gardens from the ground to the roofs.

"The emperor's palace is the crowning architectural glory of the city. It is four hundred feet long.

"We visited the Zoological Gardens and the National Gallery of Pictures, the entrance to which makes a beautiful picture.

"We rode to Potsdam, a distance of some twenty miles. Potsdam is the Versailles of Germany. The road to Potsdam is a continuous avenue of trees, like the roads near Boston.

"Of course our object in visiting the town was to see the palace and gardens of Sans-Souci, the favorite residence of Frederick the Great.



"Frederick loved everything that was French in art. The French expression is seen on everything at Sans-Souci. The approach to the palace is by an avenue through gardens laid out in the Louis Quatorze style, with alleys, hedges, statues, and fountains.

"The famous palace stands on the top flight of a series of broad terraces, fronted with glass. Beneath these terraces grow vines, olives, and orange-trees. In the rear of the palace is a colonnade. There Frederick used to pace to and fro in the sunshine, when failing health and old age admonished him that death was near. As his religious hopes were few, his reflections must have been rather lonely when death's winter came stealing on.



"The room where Frederick studied, and the adjoining apartment where he died, are shown. The former contains a library consisting wholly of books in French.

"We returned to Hamburg.

"We were in old Danish territory already. We stopped but one night at Hamburg on our return; then we made our way to the steamer which was to take us to the Denmark of to-day, Copenhagen."

* * * * *

Among the stories on the Hamburg Night was one by a music-loving student of Yule, which he called

THE CITY OF HANDEL'S YOUTH.

The composer of the "Messiah," George Frederick Handel, was born at Halle, Germany, Feb. 23, 1685. He sang before he could talk plainly. His father, a physician, was alarmed, for he had a poor opinion of music and musicians. As the child grew, nature asserted that he would be a musician; the father declared he should be a lawyer.

Little George was kept from the public school, because the gamut was there taught. He might go to no place where music would be heard, and no musical instrument was permitted in the house.

But nature, aided by the wiser mother, triumphed. In those days musical nuns played upon a dumb spinet, that they might not disturb the quiet of their convents. It was a sort of piano, and the strings were muffled with cloth. One of these spinets was smuggled into the garret of Dr. Handel's house. At night, George would steal up to the attic and practise upon it. But not a tinkle could the watchful father hear. Before the child was seven years of age he had taught himself to play upon the dumb instrument.

One day Dr. Handel started to visit a son in the service of a German duke. George begged to go, as he wished to hear the organ in the duke's chapel. But not until he ran after the coach did the father consent.

They arrived at the palace as a chapel service was going on. The boy stole away to the organ-loft, and, after service, began playing. The duke, recognizing that it was not his organist's style, sent a servant to learn who was playing. The man returned with the trembling boy.

Dr. Handel was both amazed and enraged. But the duke, patting the child on the head, drew out his story. "You are stifling a genius," he said to the angry father; "this boy must not be snubbed." The doctor, more subservient to a prince than to nature, consented that his son should study music.



During three years the boy studied with Zachau, the organist of the Halle Cathedral. They were years of hard work. One day his teacher said to George, "I can teach you no longer; you already know more than I do. You must go and study in Berlin." Berlin was at once attracted to the youthful musician by his playing on the harpsichord and the organ. But the death of his father compelled him to earn his daily bread. Willing to descend, that he might rise, he became a violin player of minor parts at the Hamburg Opera House. The homage he had received prompted his vanity to create a surprise. He played badly, and acted as a verdant youth. The members of the orchestra sneeringly informed him that he would never earn his salt. Handel, however, waited his opportunity. One day the harpsichordist, the principal person in the orchestra, was absent. The band, thinking it would be a good joke, persuaded Handel to take his place. Laying aside his violin, he seated himself at the harpsichord, amid the smiles of the musicians. As he touched the keys the smiles gave place to looks of wonder. He played on, and the whole orchestra broke into loud applause. From that day until he left Hamburg, the youth of nineteen led the band.

Handel's extraordinary skill as a performer was not wholly due to genius. He practised incessantly, so that every key of his harpsichord was hollowed like a spoon.

Handel's greatest triumphs, as a composer, were won in England. But the music-loving Irish of Dublin had the honor of first welcoming his masterpiece, the "Messiah." Such was the enthusiasm it created that ladies left their hoops at home, in order to get one hundred more listeners into the room.

A German poet calls the "Messiah" "a Christian epic in musical sounds." The expression is a felicitous description of its theme and style. It celebrates the grandest of events with the sublimest strains that music may utter. The great composer commanded, and all the powers of music hastened with song and instrument to praise the life, death, and triumph of the Christ. No human composition ever voiced, in poetry or prose or music, such a masterly conception of the Virgin's Son as that uttered by this magnificent oratorio.

The sacred Scriptures furnish the words. The seer's prophecies, the Psalmist's strains, the evangelist's narrative, the angels' song, the anthem of the redeemed, are transferred to aria, recitative, and chorus. The sentiment is as majestic as the music is grand. He who sought out the fitting words had studied his Bible, and he who joined to them musical sounds dwelt in the region of the sublime.

All the emotions are touched by the oratorio. Words and music quiver with fear, utter sorrow, plead with pathos, or exult in the joy of triumph. A symphony so paints a pastoral scene that the shepherds of Bethlehem are seen watching their flocks. One air, "He was despised," suggests that its birth was amid tears. It was; for Handel sobbed aloud while composing it. It is the threnody of the oratorio.

The grandeur of the "Messiah" finds its highest expression in the "Hallelujah Chorus." "I did think," said Handel, describing, in imperfect English, his thought at the moment of composition,—"I did think I did see all heaven before me, and the great God himself."

When the oratorio was first performed in London, the audience were transported at the words, "The Lord God omnipotent reigneth." They all, with George II., who happened to be present, started to their feet and remained standing until the chorus was ended. This act of homage has become the custom with all English-speaking audiences.

"You have given the audience an excellent entertainment," said a patronizing nobleman to Handel, at the close of the first performance of the "Messiah" in London.

"My lord," replied the grand old composer, with dignity, "I should be very sorry if I only entertained them; I wish to make them better."

A few years before his death Handel was smitten with blindness. He continued, however, to preside at his oratorios, being led by a lad to the organ, which, as leader, he played. One day, while conducting his oratorio of "Samson," the old man turned pale and trembled with emotion, as the bass sung the blind giant's lament: "Total eclipse! no sun, no moon!" As the audience saw the sightless eyes turned towards them, they were affected to tears.

Seized by a mortal illness, Handel expressed a wish that he might die on Good Friday, "in hope of meeting his good God, his sweet Lord and Saviour, on the day of his resurrection." This consolation, it seems, was not denied him. For on his monument, standing in the Poets' Corner of Westminster Abbey, is inscribed: "Died on Good Friday, April 14, 1759."

Another story, which is associated with the woods of Hanover, near Hamburg, was entitled

PETER THE WILD BOY.

In the year 1725, a few years after the capture of Marie le Blanc, a celebrated wild girl in France, there was seen in the woods, some twenty-five miles from Hanover, an object in form like a boy, yet running on his hands and feet, and eating grass and moss, like a beast.

The remarkable creature was captured, and was taken to Hanover by the superintendent of the House of Correction at Zell. It proved to be a boy evidently about thirteen years of age, yet possessing the habits and appetites of a mere animal. He was presented to King George I., at a state dinner at Hanover, and, the curiosity of the king being greatly excited, he became his patron.

In about a year after his capture he was taken to England, and exhibited to the court. While in that country he received the name of Peter the Wild Boy, by which ever after he was known.

Marie le Blanc, after proper training, became a lively, brilliant girl, and related to her friends and patrons the history of her early life; but Peter the Wild Boy seems to have been mentally deficient.



Dr. Arbuthnot, at whose house he resided for a time in his youth, spared no pains to teach him to talk; but his efforts met with but little success.

Peter seemed to comprehend the language and signs of beasts and birds far better than those of human beings, and to have more sympathy with the brute creation than with mankind. He, however, at last was taught to articulate the name of his royal patron, his own name, and some other words.

It was a long time before he became accustomed to the habits of civilization. He had evidently been used to sleeping on the boughs of trees, as a security from wild beasts, and when put to bed would tear the clothes, and hopping up take his naps in the corner of the room.

He regarded clothing with aversion, and when fully dressed was as uneasy as a culprit in prison. He was, however, generally docile, and submitted to discipline, and by degrees became more fit for human society.

He was attracted by beauty, and fond of finery, and it is related of him that he attempted to kiss the young and dashing Lady Walpole, in the circle at court. The manner in which the lovely woman received his attentions may be fancied.

Finding that he was incapable of education, his royal patron placed him in charge of a farmer, where he lived many years. Here he was visited by Lord Monboddo, a speculative English writer, who, in a metaphysical work, gives the following interesting account:—

"It was in the beginning of June, 1782, that I saw him in a farmhouse called Broadway, about a mile from Berkhamstead, kept there on a pension of thirty pounds, which the king pays. He is but of low stature, not exceeding five feet three inches, and though he must now be about seventy years of age, he has a fresh, healthy look. He wears his beard; his face is not at all ugly or disagreeable, and he has a look that may be called sensible or sagacious for a savage.

"About twenty years ago he used to elope, and once, as I was told, he wandered as far as Norfolk; but of late he has become quite tame, and either keeps the house or saunters about the farm. He has been, during the last thirteen years, where he lives at present, and before that he was twelve years with another farmer, whom I saw and conversed with.

"This farmer told me he had been put to school somewhere in Hertfordshire, but had only learned to articulate his own name, Peter, and the name of King George, both which I heard him pronounce very distinctly. But the woman of the house where he now is—for the man happened not to be home—told me he understood everything that was said to him concerning the common affairs of life, and I saw that he readily understood several things she said to him while I was present. Among other things she desired him to sing 'Nancy Dawson,' which he accordingly did, and another tune that she named. He was never mischievous, but had that gentleness of manners which I hold to be characteristic of our nature, at least till we become carnivorous, and hunters, or warriors. He feeds at present as the farmer and his wife do; but, as I was told by an old woman who remembered to have seen him when he first came to Hertfordshire, which she computed to be about fifty-five years before, he then fed much on leaves, particularly of cabbage, which she saw him eat raw. He was then, as she thought, about fifteen years of age, walked upright, but could climb trees like a squirrel. At present he not only eats flesh, but has acquired a taste for beer, and even for spirits, of which he inclines to drink more than he can get.

"The old farmer with whom he lived before he came to his present situation informed me that Peter had that taste before he came to him. He has also become very fond of fire, but has not acquired a liking for money; for though he takes it he does not keep it, but gives it to his landlord or landlady, which I suppose is a lesson they have taught him. He retains so much of his natural instinct that he has a fore-feeling of bad weather, growling, and howling, and showing great disorder before it comes on."

Another philosopher, who made him a visit, obtained the following luminous information:—

"Who is your father?"

"King George."

"What is your name?"

"Pe-ter."

"What is that?" (pointing to a dog.)

"Bow-wow."

"What are you?"

"Wild man."

"Where were you found?"

"Hanover."

"Who found you?"

"King George."

About the year 1746 he ran away, and, entering Scotland, was arrested as an English spy. His captors endeavored to force from him some terrible disclosure, but could obtain nothing, not even an answer, and it was something of a puzzle to them to determine exactly what they had captured.

They at last resolved to inflict punishment upon him for his obstinacy, but were deterred by a lady who recognized him and disclosed his history.

In his latter years he made himself useful to the farmer with whom he lived, but he required constant watchfulness, else he would make grave blunders. An amusing anecdote is told of his manner of working when left to himself.

He was required, during the absence of his guardian, to fill a cart with compost, which he did; but, having filled the cart in the usual way, and finding himself out of employment, he directly shovelled the compost out again, and when the farmer returned the cart was empty.

But poor Peter, with all his dulness, possessed some remarkable characteristics. He was very strong of arm, and wonderfully swift of foot, and his senses were acute. His musical gifts were most marvellous. He would reproduce, in his humming way, the notes of a tune that he had heard but once,—a thing that might have baffled an amateur.

He also had a lively sense of the beautiful and the sublime. He would stand at night gazing on the stars as though transfixed by the splendors blazing above. His whole being was thrilled with joy on the approach of spring. He would sing all the day as the atmosphere became warm and balmy, and would often prolong his melodies far into the beautiful nights.

He died aged about seventy years.



CHAPTER XIII.

THE BELLS OF THE RHINE.

LEGENDS OF THE BELLS OF BASEL AND SPEYER.—STORY OF THE HARMONY CHIME.—THE BELL-FOUNDER OF BRESLAU.

One evening, after the story-telling entertainments, Mr. Beal was speaking to the Class of the great bell of Cologne which has been cast from the French cannon captured in the last war.

"It seems a beautiful thing," he said, "that the guns of war should be made to ring out the notes of peace."

"There is one subject that we did not treat at our meetings," said Charlie Leland,—"the bells of the Rhine."

"True," said Mr. Beal. "A volume might be written on the subject. Almost every belfry on the Rhine has its legend, and many of them are associated with thrilling events of history. The raftmen, as they drift down the river on the Sabbath, associate almost every bell they hear with a story. The bells of Basle (Basel), Strasburg, Speyer, Heidelberg, Worms, Frankfort, Mayence, Bingen, and Bonn all ring out a meaning to the German student that the ordinary traveller does not comprehend. Bell land is one of mystery.

"For example, the clocks of Basel. The American traveller arrives at Basel, and hurries out of his hotel, and along the beautiful public gardens, to the terrace overlooking the Rhine. He looks down on the picturesque banks of the winding river; then far away his eye seeks the peaks of the Jura.

"The bells strike. The music to his ears has no history.

"The German and French students hear them with different ears. The old struggles of Alsace and Romaine come back to memory. They recall the fact that the city was once saved by a heroic watchman, who confused the enemy by causing the bells to strike the wrong hour. To continue the memory of this event, the great bell of Basel during the Middle Ages was made to strike the hour of one at noonday.

"The bells of Speyer have an interesting legend. Henry IV. was one of the most unfortunate men who ever sat upon a throne. His own son, afterward Henry V., conspired against him, and the Pope declared him an outlaw.

"Deserted by every one, he went into exile, and made his home at Ingleheim, on the Rhine. One old servant, Kurt, followed his changing fortunes. He died at Liege.

"Misfortune followed the once mighty emperor even after death. The Pope would not allow his body to be buried for several years. Kurt watched by the coffin, like Rizpah by the bodies of her sons. He made it his shrine: he prayed by it daily.

"At last the Pope consented that the remains of the emperor should rest in the earth. The body was brought to Speyer. Kurt followed it. It was buried with great pomp, and tollings of bells.

"Some months after the ceremonious event Kurt died. As his breath was passing, say the legendary writers, all the bells began to toll. The bellmen ran to the belfries; no one was there, but the bells tolled on, swayed, it was believed, by unseen hands.

"Henry V. died in the same town. He was despised by the people, and he suffered terrible agonies in his last hours. As his last moments came the bells began to toll again. It was not the usual announcement of the death of the good, but the sharp notes that proclaim that a criminal is being led to justice; at least, so the people came to believe.



"One of the most beautiful stories of bells that I ever met is associated with a once famous factory that cast some of the most melodious bells in Holland and the towns of the Rhine. I will tell it to you.

THE HARMONY CHIME.

Many years ago, in a large iron foundry in the city of Ghent, was found a young workman by the name of Otto Holstein. He was not nineteen years of age, but none of the workmen could equal him in his special department,—bell casting or moulding. Far and near the fame of Otto's bells extended,—the clearest and sweetest, people said, that were ever heard.



Of course the great establishment of Von Erlangen, in which Otto worked, got the credit of his labors; but Von Erlangen and Otto himself knew very well to whom the superior tone of the bells was due. The master did not pay him higher wages than the others, but by degrees he grew to be general superintendent in his department in spite of his extreme youth.

"Yes, my bells are good," he said to a friend one day, who was commenting upon their merits; "but they do not make the music I will yet strike from them. They ring alike for all things. To be sure, when they toll for a funeral the slow measure makes them seem mournful, but then the notes are really the same as in a wedding peal. I shall make a chime of bells that will sound at will every chord in the human soul."

"Then wilt thou deal in magic," said his friend, laughing; "and the Holy Inquisition will have somewhat to do with thee. No human power can turn a bell into a musical instrument."

"But I can," he answered briefly; "and, Inquisition or not, I will do it."

He turned abruptly from his friend and sauntered, lost in thought, down the narrow street which led to his home. It was an humble, red-tiled cottage, of only two rooms, that he had inherited from his grandfather. There he lived alone with his widowed mother. She was a mild, pleasant-faced woman, and her eyes brightened as her son bent his tall head under the low doorway, as he entered the little room. "Thou art late, Otto," she said, "and in trouble, too," as she caught sight of his grave, sad face.

"Yes," he answered. "When I asked Herr Erlangen for an increase of salary, for my work grows harder every day, he refused it. Nay, he told me if I was not satisfied, I could leave, for there were fifty men ready to take my place. Ready! yes, I warrant they're ready enough, but to be able is a different thing."

His mother sighed deeply.

"Thou wilt not leave Herr Erlangen's, surely. It is little we get, but it keeps us in food."

"I must leave," he answered. "Nay, do not cry out, mother! I have other plans, and thou wilt not starve. Monsieur Dayrolles, the rich Frenchman, who lives in the Linden-Strasse, has often asked me why I do not set up a foundry of my own. Of course I laughed,—I, who never have a thaler to spend; but he told me he and several other rich friends of his would advance the means to start me in business. He is a great deal of his time at Erlangen's, and is an enthusiast about fine bells. Ah! we are great friends, and I am going to him after supper."

"People say he is crazy," said his mother.

"Crazy!" indignantly. "People say that of everybody who has ideas they can't understand. They say I am crazy when I talk of my chime of bells. If I stay with Erlangen, he gets the credit of my work; but my chime must be mine,—mine alone, mother." His eyes lighted with a kind of wild enthusiasm whenever he talked on this subject.

His mother's cheerful face grew sad, as she laid her hand on his shoulder.

"Why, Otto, thou art not thyself when thou speakest of those bells."

"More my real self, mother, than at any other time!" he cried. "I only truly live when I think of how my idea is to be carried out. It is to be my life's work; I know it, I feel it. It is upon me that my fate is woven inextricably in that ideal chime. It is God-sent. No great work, but the maker is possessed wholly by it. Don't shake your head, mother. Wait till my 'Harmony Chime' sounds from the great cathedral belfry, and then shake it if you can."

His mother smiled faintly.

"Thou art a boy,—a mere child, Otto, though a wonderful genius, I must confess. Thy hopes delude thee, for it would take a lifetime to carry out thine idea."

"Then let it take a lifetime!" he cried out vehemently. "Let me accomplish it when I am too old to hear it distinctly, and I will be content that its first sounds toll my dirge. I must go now to Monsieur Dayrolles. Wish me good luck, dearest mother." And he stooped and kissed her tenderly.

Otto did not fail. The strange old man in his visits to the foundry had noticed the germs of genius in the boy, and grown very fond of him. He was so frank, so honest, so devoted to his work, and had accomplished so much at his early age, that Monsieur Dayrolles saw a brilliant future before him. Besides, the old gentleman, with a Frenchman's vanity, felt that if the "Harmony Chime" could be made, the name of the munificent patron would go down to posterity with that of the maker. He believed firmly that the boy would some day accomplish his purpose. So, although the revolt of the Netherlands had begun and he was preparing to return to his own country, he advanced the necessary funds, and saw Otto established in business before he quitted Ghent.

In a very short time work poured in upon Otto. During that long and terrible war the manufacture of cannon alone made the fortunes of the workers in iron. So five years from the time he left Von Erlangen we find Otto Holstein a rich man at twenty-four years of age. But the idea for which he labored had never for a moment left his mind. Sleeping or waking, toiling or resting, his thoughts were busy perfecting the details of the great work.

"Thou art twenty-four to-day, Otto," said his good mother, "and rich beyond our hopes. When wilt thou bring Gertrude home to me? Thou hast been betrothed now for three years, and I want a daughter to comfort my declining years. Thou doest thy betrothed maiden a grievous wrong to delay without cause. The gossips are talking already."

"Let them talk," laughed Otto. "Little do Gertrude or I care for their silly tongues. She and I have agreed that the 'Harmony Chime' is to usher in our marriage-day. Why, good mother, no man can serve two mistresses, and my chime has the oldest claim. Let me accomplish it, and then the remainder of my life belongs to Gertrude, and thou, too, best of mothers."

"Still that dream! still that dream!" sighed his mother. "Thou hast cast bell after bell, and until to-day I have heard nothing more of the wild idea."

"No, because I needed money. I needed time, and thought, too, to make experiments. All is matured now. I have received an order to make a new set of bells for the great cathedral that was sacked last week by the 'Iconoclasts,' and I begin to-morrow."



As Otto had said, his life's work began the next day. He loved his mother, but he seemed now to forget her in the feverish eagerness with which he threw himself into his labors. He had been a devoted lover to Gertrude, but he now never had a spare moment to give to her,—in fact, he only seemed to remember her existence in connection with the peal which would ring in their wedding-day. His labors were prolonged far over the appointed time, and meanwhile the internal war raged more furiously, and the Netherlands were one vast battle-field. No interest did Otto seem to take in the stirring events around him. The bells held his whole existence captive.



At last the moulds were broken, and the bells came out of their husks perfect in form, and shining as stars in Otto's happy eyes. They were mounted in the great belfry, and for the test-chime Otto had employed the best bell-ringers in the city.

It was a lovely May morning; and, almost crazed with excitement and anxiety, Otto, accompanied by a few chosen friends, waited outside the city for the first notes of the Harmony Chime. At some distance he thought he could better judge of the merits of his work.

At last the first notes were struck, clear, sonorous, and so melodious that his friends cried aloud with delight. But with finger upraised for silence, and eyes full of ecstatic delight, Otto stood like a statue until the last note died away. Then his friends caught him as he fell forward in a swoon,—a swoon so like death that no one thought he would recover.

But it was not death, and he came out of it with a look of serene peace on his face that it had not worn since boyhood. He was married to Gertrude that very day, but every one noticed that the ecstasy which transfigured his face seemed to be drawn more from the sound of the bells than the sweet face beside him.

"Don't you see a spell is cast on him as soon as they begin to ring?" said one, after the bells had ceased to be a wonder. "If he is walking, he stops short, and if he is working, the work drops and a strange fire comes in his eyes; and I have seen him shudder all over as it he had an ague."

In good truth, the bells seemed to have drawn a portion of Otto's life to them. When the incursions of the war forced him to fly from Ghent with his family, his regrets were not for his injured property, but that he could not hear the bells.

He was absent two years, and when he returned it was to find the cathedral almost a ruin, and the bells gone no one knew where. From that moment a settled melancholy took possession of Otto. He made no attempt to retrieve his losses; in fact, he gave up work altogether, and would sit all day with his eyes fixed on the ruined belfry.

People said he was melancholy mad, and I suppose it was the truth; but he was mad with a kind of gentle patience very sad to see. His mother had died during their exile, and now his wife, unable with all her love to rouse him from his torpor, faded slowly away. He did not notice her sickness, and his poor numbed brain seemed imperfectly to comprehend her death. But he followed her to the grave, and turning from it moved slowly down the city, passed the door of his old home without looking at it, and went out of the city gates.

After that he was seen in every city in Europe at different intervals. Charitable people gave him alms, but he never begged. He would enter a town, take his station near a church and wait until the bells rang for matins or vespers, then take up his staff and, sighing deeply, move off. People noting the wistful look in his eyes would ask him what he wanted.

"I am seeking,—I am seeking," was his only reply; and those were almost the only words any one ever heard from him, and he muttered them often to himself. Years rolled over the head of the wanderer, but still his slow march from town to town continued. His hair had grown white, and his strength had failed him so much that he only tottered instead of walked, but still that wistful seeking look was in his eyes.

He heard the old bells on the Rhine in his wanderings. He lingered long near the belfries of the sweetest voices; but their melodious tongues only spoke to him of his lost hope.

He left the river of sweet bells, and made a pilgrimage to England. It was the days of cathedrals in their beauty and glory, and here he again heard the tones that he loved, but which failed to realize his own ideal.

When a person fails to fulfil his ideal, his whole life seems a failure,—like something glorious and beautiful one meets and loses, and never again finds.

"Be true to the dreams of thy youth," says a German author; and every soul is unhappy until the dreams of youth prove true.

One glorious evening in midsummer Otto was crossing a river in Ireland. The kind-hearted boatman had been moved by the old man's imploring gestures to cross him. "He's mighty nigh his end, anyhow," he muttered, looking at the feeble movements of the old pilgrim as he stumbled to his seat.

Suddenly through the still evening air came the distant sound of a melodious chime. At the first note the pilgrim leaped to his feet and threw up his arms.