"O my God," he cried, "found at last!"

"It's the bells of the Convent," said the wondering man, not understanding Otto's words spoken in a foreign tongue, but answering his gesture. "They was brought from somewhere in Holland when they were fighting there. Moighty fine bells they are, anyhow. But he isn't listening to me."

No, he heard nothing but the bells. He merely whispered, "Come back to me after so many years,—O love of my soul, O thought of my life! Peal on, for your voices tell me of Paradise."

The last note floated through the air, and as it died away something else soared aloft forever, free from the clouds and struggles of life.



His ideal was fulfilled now. Otto lay dead, his face full of peace and joy, for the weary quest of his crazy brain was over, and the Harmony Chime had called him to his eternal rest.

And, past that change of life that men call Death, we may well believe that he heard in the ascension to the celestial atmosphere the ringing of welcoming bells more beautiful than the Harmony Chime.

"I will relate another story," said Mr. Beal. "It is like the Harmony Chime, but has a sadder ending."

THE BELL-FOUNDER OF BRESLAU.

There once lived in Breslau a famous bell-founder, the fame of whose skill caused his bells to be placed in many German towers. According to the ballad of Wilhelm Mueller,—

"And all his bells they sounded So full and clear and pure: He poured his faith and love in, Of that all men were sure. But of all bells that ever He cast, was one the crown, That was the bell for sinners At Breslau in the town."

He had an ambition to cast one bell that would surpass all others in purity of tone, and that should render his own name immortal.

He was required to cast a bell for the Magdalen Church tower of that city of noble churches,—Breslau. He felt that this was opportunity for his masterpiece. All of his thoughts centred on the Magdalen bell.

After a long period of preparation, his metals were arranged for use. The form was walled up and made steady; the melting of the metals in the great bell-kettle had begun.

The old bell-founder had two faults which had grown upon him; a love of ale and a fiery temper.

While the metals were heating in the kettle, he said to his fire-watch, a little boy,—

"Tend the kettle for a moment; I am overwrought: I must go over to the inn, and take my ale, and nerve me for the casting.

"But, boy," he added, "touch not the stopple; if you do, you shall rue it. That bell is my life, I have put all I have learned in life into it. If any man were to touch that stopple, I would strike him dead."





The boy had an over-sensitive, nervous temperament. He was easily excited, and was subject to impulses that he could not easily control.

The command that he should not touch the stopple, under the dreadful penalty, strongly affected his mind, and made him wish to do the very thing he had been forbidden.

He watched the metal in the great kettle. It bubbled, billowed, and ran to and fro. In the composition of the glowing mass he knew that his master had put his heart and soul.

It would be a bold thing to touch the stopple,—adventurous. His hand began to move towards it.

The evil impulse grew, and his hand moved on.

He touched the stopple. The impulse was a wild passion now,—he turned it.

Then his mind grew dark—he was filled with horror. He ran to his master.

"I have turned the stopple; I could not help it," he said. "The Devil tempted me!"

The old bell-founder clasped his hands and looked upward in agony. Then his temper flashed over him. He seized his knife, and stabbed the boy to the heart.

He rushed back to the foundry, hoping to stay the stream. He found the metal whole; the turning of the stopple had not caused the metal to flow.

The boy lay dead on the ground.



The old bell-founder knew the consequences of his act, and he did not seek to escape them. He cast the bell; then he went to the magistrates, and said,—

"My work is done; but I am a murderer. Do with me as you will."

The trial was short; it greatly excited the city. The judges could not do otherwise than sentence him to death. But as he was penitent, he was promised that on the day of his execution he should receive the offices and consolations of the Church.

"You are good," he said. "But grant me another favor. My bells will delight many ears when I am gone; my soul is in them; grant me another favor."

"Name it," said the judges.

"That I may hear the sound of my new bell before I die."

The judges consulted, and answered,—

"It shall toll for your execution."

The fatal day came.

Toll, toll, toll!

There was a sadness in the tone of the bell that touched every heart in Breslau. The bell seemed human.

Toll, toll, toll!

How melodious! how perfect! how beautiful! The very air seemed charmed! The years would come and go, and this bell would be the tongue of Breslau!

The old man came forth. He had forgotten his fate in listening to the bell. The heavy clang was so melodious that it filled his heart with joy.

"That is it! that is it; my heart, my life!" he said. "I know all the metals; I made the voice! Ring on, ring on forever! Ring in holy days, and happy festivals, and joy eternal to Breslau."

Toll, toll, toll!

On passed the white-haired man, listening still to the call of the bell that summoned him to death.

He bowed his head at the place of execution to meet the stroke just as the last tone of the bell melted upon the air. His soul passed amid the silvery echoes. The bell rings on.

"Ay, of all bells that ever He cast, is this the crown, The bell of Church St. Magdalen At Breslau in the town. It was, from that time forward, Baptized the Sinner's Bell; Whether it still is called so, Is more than I can tell."

"There is a sadness in the bells of the Rhine," continued Mr. Beal, "as they ring from old belfries at evening under the ruins of the castles on the hills. The lords of the Rhine that once heard them are gone forever. The vineyards creep up the hills on the light trellises, and the sun and the earth, as it were, fill the grapes with wine. The woods are as green as of old. The rafts go drifting down the light waves as on feet of air. But the river of history is changed, and one feels the spirit of the change with deep sadness as one listens to the bells."

THE LIGHTS HAVE GONE OUT IN THE CASTLE.

I.

The boatmen strike lightly the zither As they drift 'neath the hillsides of green, But gone from the Rhine is the palgrave, And gone is the palgravine. Play lightly, play lightly, O boatman, When the shadows of night round thee fall, For the lights have gone out in the castle, The lights have gone out in the hall. And the Rhine waters silently flow, The old bells ring solemn and slow, O boatman, Play lightly, Play lightly, O boatman, play lightly and low.

II.

Awake the old runes on the zither, O boatman! the lips of the Rhine Still kiss the green ruins of ivy, And smile on the vineyards of wine. Play lightly, play lightly, O boatman, When the shadows of night round thee fall, For the lights have gone out in the castle, The lights have gone out in the hall. And the Rhine waters silently flow, The old bells ring solemn and slow, O boatman, Play lightly, Play lightly, O boatman, play lightly and low.



III.

The lamps of the stars shine above thee As they shone when the vineyards were green, In the long vanished days of the palgrave, In the days of the palgravine. Play lightly, thy life tides are flowing, Thy fate in the palgrave's recall, For the lights have gone out in the castle, The lights have gone out in the hall. And the Rhine waters silently flow, And the old bells ring solemn and slow, O boatman, Play lightly, Play lightly, O boatman, play lightly and low.

The narratives of the evening devoted to the Bells on the Rhine were closed by a story by Master Lewis.

"I do not often relate stories," he said; "but I have a German story in mind, the lesson of which has been helpful to my experience. It is a legend and a superstition, and one that is not as generally familiar to the readers of popular books as are many that have been told at these meetings. I think you will like it, and that you will not soon forget it."

"TO-MORROW."

Once—many years, perhaps centuries ago—a young German student, named Lek, was travelling from Leipsig to the Middle Rhine. His journey was made on foot, and a part of it lay through the Thuringian Forest.

He rested one night at the old walled town of Saalfeld, visited the ruins of Sorenburg, and entered one of the ancient roads then greatly frequented, but less used now, on account of the shorter and swifter avenues of travel.

Towards evening he ascended a hill, and, looking down, was surprised to discover a quaint town at the foot, of which he had never heard.

It was summer; the red sun was going down, and the tree-tops of the vast forests, moved by a gentle wind, seemed like the waves of the wide sea. Lek was a lover of the beautiful expressions of Nature, of the poetry of the forests, hills, and streams; and he sat down on a rock, under a spreading tree, to see the sunset flame and fade, and the far horizons sink into the shadows and disappear.

"I have made a good journey to-day," he said, "and whatever the strange town below me may be, it will be safe for me to spend the night there. I see that it has a church and an inn."

Lek had travelled much over Germany, but he had never before seen a town like the one below him. It wore an air of strange antiquity,—as a town might look that had remained unchanged for many hundred years. An old banner hung out from a quaint steepled building; but it was unlike any of modern times, national or provincial.

The fires of sunset died away; clouds, like smoke, rose above them, and a deep shadow overspread the forests. Lek gathered up his bundles, and descended the hill towards the town. As he was hurrying onward he met a strange-looking man in a primitive habit,—evidently a villager. Lek asked him the name of the place.

The stranger looked at him sadly and with surprise, and answered in a dialect that he did not wholly understand; but he guessed at the last words, and rightly.

"Why do you wish to know?"

"I am a traveller," answered Lek, "and I must remain there until to-morrow."

"TO-MORROW!" said the man, throwing up his hands. "To-morrow! For us," pointing to himself, "there is no to-morrow. I must hurry on."

He strode away towards a faded cottage on the outskirts of the town, leaving Lek to wonder what his mysterious answer could mean.



Lek entered the town. The people were strange to him; every one seemed to be in a hurry. Men and women were talking rapidly, like travellers when taking leave of their friends for a long journey. Indeed, so earnest were their words that they seemed hardly to notice him at all.

He presently met an old woman on a crutch, hurrying along the shadowy street.



"Is this the way to the inn?" he asked.

The old one hobbled on. He followed her.

"Is this the way to the inn? I wish to remain there until to-morrow."

The cripple turned on her crutch.

"TO-MORROW!" she said. "Who are you that talk of to-morrow? All the gold of the mountains could not buy a to-morrow. Go back to your own, young man! they may have to-morrows; but my time is short,—I must hurry on."

Away hobbled the dame; and Lek, wondering at her answer, entered what seemed to him the principal street.

He came at length to the inn; a faded structure, and antique, like a picture of the times of old. There men were drinking and talking; men in gold lace, and with long purses filled with ancient coin.

The landlord was evidently a rich old fellow; he had a girdle of jewels, and was otherwise habited much like a king.

He stared at Lek; so did his jovial comrades.

"Can you give a stranger hospitality until to-morrow?" asked the young student, bowing.

"Until TO-MORROW! Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the innkeeper. "He asks for hospitality until to-morrow!" he added to his six jolly companions.

"To-morrow—ha, ha, ha!" echoed one.

"Ha, ha, ha!" repeated another.

"Ha, ha, ha!" chorused the others, slapping their hands on their knees. "To-morrow!"

Then a solemn look came into the landlord's face.

"Young man," said he, "don't you know, have you not heard? We have no to-morrows; our nights are long, long slumbers; each one is a hundred years."



The six men were talking now, and the landlord turned from Lek and joined in the conversation eagerly.

The shadows of the long twilight deepened. Men and women ran to and fro in the streets. Every one seemed in a hurry, as though much must be said and done in a brief time.

Presently a great bell sounded in a steeple. The hurrying people paused. Each one uplifted his or her hands, waved them in a circle, and cried,—

"Alas! TO-MORROW! Hurry, good men, all, good women, all, hurry!"

What did it mean? "Have I gone mad?" asked Lek. "Am I dreaming?"

Near the inn was a green, parched and faded. In the centre was a withered tree; under it was a maiden. She was very fair; her dress was of silk and jewels, and on her arms were heavy bracelets of gold. Unlike the other people, she did not seem hurried and anxious. She appeared to take little interest in the strangely stimulated activities around her.

Lek went to her.

"Pardon a poor student seeking information," he said. "Your people all treat me rudely and strangely; they will not listen to me. I am a traveller, and I came here civilly, and only asked for food and lodging until to-morrow."

"TO-MORROW! The word is a terror to most of them; it is no terror to me. I care not for to-morrows,—they are days of disappointments; I had them once,—I am glad they do not come oftener to me. I shall go to sleep at midnight, here where I was deserted. You are a stranger, I see. You belong to the world; every day has its to-morrow. Go away, away to your own people, and to your own life of to-morrows. This is no place for you here."

Again the bell sounded. The hurrying people stopped again in the street, and waved their hands wildly, and cried,—

"Haste, haste, good men, all, good women, all. The hour is near. Good men, all, good women, all, hurry!"



It was night now; but the full moon rose over the long line of hills, and behind it appeared a black cloud, from which darted tongues of red flame, followed by mutterings of thunder.

The moon ascended the clear sky like a chariot, and the cloud seemed to follow her like an army,—an awful spectacle that riveted Lek's gaze and made him apprehensive.

"A storm is coming," he said. "I must stay here. Tell me, good maiden, where can I find food and shelter?"

"Have you a true heart?"

"I have a true heart. I have always been true to myself; and he who is true to himself is never unfaithful to God or his fellow-men."

"Then you will be saved when the hour comes. They only go down with us who are untrue. All true hearts have to-morrows."

The moon ascended higher, and her light, more resplendent, heightened the effect of the blackness of the rising cloud. The lightnings became more vivid, the thunder more distinct.

"You are sure that your heart is true?" said the maiden.

"By the Cross, it is true."

"Then I have a duty to do. Follow me."

She rose and walked towards the hill from which Lek had come. Lek followed her. As he passed out of the town the bell sounded: it was the hour of eleven.

The people stopped in the streets as before, waving their hands, and crying,—

"Good men, all, good women, all, hurry! The hour is near. Good men, all, good women, all, hurry!"



The maiden ascended the hill to the very rock from which the student had first seen the town, and under which he had rested.

"Sit you here," she said, "and do not leave the place until the cocks crow for morning. A true heart never perished with the untrue. My duty is done. Farewell!"

"But the tempest?" said the student. "This is no place of shelter. Let me return with you, only until to-morrow."

There burst upon the hill a terrific thunder-gust. The maiden was gone, the black cloud swept over the moon, and Lek could no longer discern the town in the valley. Everything around him grew dark. The air seemed to turn into a thick inky darkness.

Fearful flashes of lightning and terrific thunder followed. The wind bent the forest before it; but not a drop of rain fell.

There was a moment's silence. The bell in the mysterious steeple smote upon the air. It was midnight.

Another hush, as though Nature had ceased to breathe. Then a thunder-crash shook the hills, and seemed to cleave open the very earth.

Lek crossed himself and fell upon his knees. The cloud passed swiftly. The moon came out again, revealing the lovely valley. The village was gone.

In the morning a cowherd came up the hill at the rising of the sun.

"Good morrow," said Lek. "That was a fearful tempest that we had at midnight."

"I never heard such thunder," said the cowherd. "I almost thought that the final day had come. You may well say it was a fearful night, my boy."



"But what has become of the village that was in the valley yesterday?" asked Lek.

"There is no village in the valley," said the cowherd. "There never was but one. That was sunk hundreds of years ago; if you saw any village there yesterday it was that: it comes up only once in a hundred years, and then it remains for only a single day. Woe betide the traveller that stops there that day. Unless he have a true heart, he goes down with the town at midnight. The town was cursed because it waxed rich, and became so wicked that there was found in it but one heart that was true."

"Tell me about this strange village," said Lek, in fear and awe, recalling his adventure. "I never before heard of a thing so mysterious."

"It is a sorry story. I will tell it as I have heard it.

"The hills of Reichmanndorf used to abound with gold, and the people of the old town all became rich; but their riches did not make them happy and contented. It made them untrue.

"The more their wealth increased, the more unfaithful they became, until the men met in the market-place daily to defraud each other, and the women's only purpose in life was to display their vanity.

"At the inn were nightly carousals. The young men thought only of their gains and dissipations. Men were untrue to their families, and lovers to their vows.

"The Sabbath was not kept. The old priest, Van Ness, said masses to the empty aisles.

"In those evil days lived one Frederic Wollin. He was a brave man, and his soul was true.

"It was the custom of this good man to instruct the people in the market-place. But at last none came to hear him.

"One day, near Christmas, the council met. Wine flowed; rude jests went round. The question was discussed as to how these days of selfish delights might be made perpetual.

"A great cry arose:—

"'Banish the holy days: then all our to-morrows will be as to-day!'

"Then Wollin arose and faced the people. His appearance was met by a tumult, and his words increased the hatred long felt against him.

"'The days of evil have no to-morrows.' he said. 'He that liveth to himself is dead.'

"'Give him a holy day once in a hundred years!' cried one.

"The voice was hailed with cheers. The council voted that all future days should be as that day, except that Wollin and the old priest, Van Ness, should have a holy day once in a hundred years.

"Christmas came. No bell was rung; no chant was heard. Easter brought flowers to the woods, but none to the altar. Purple Pentecost filled the forest villages with joy; but here no one cared to recall the descent of the celestial fire except the old priest and Wollin.

"It was such a night as last night when Van Ness and Wollin came out of the church for the last time. The people were drinking at the inn, and dancing upon the green. Spring was changing into deep summer; the land was filled with blooms.

"A party of young men who had been carousing, on seeing Wollin come from the church, set upon him, and compelled him to leave the town. He came up this hill. When he had reached the top, he paused and lifted his face towards heaven, and stretched out his hand. As he did so, a sharp sound rent the valley, and caused the hills to tremble. He looked down. The village had disappeared. Only Van Ness was standing by his side.

"But as the villagers had promised Wollin a holy day once in a hundred years, so once in a hundred years these people are permitted to rise with their village into the light of the sun for a single day. If on that day a stranger visits them whose heart is untrue he disappears with them at midnight. Such is the story. You will hardly believe it true."

The student crossed himself, and went on his journey towards the Rhine.

"They have one day in a hundred years," he said. "How precious must that one day be to them! If I enter the ways of evil, and my heart becomes untrue, shall I have one day in one hundred years when life is ended and my account to Heaven is rendered?"

He thought. He read the holy books. He tried to find a single hope for an untrue soul; but he could discover none.

Then he said,—

"The days of evil have no to-morrows,—no, not once in a hundred years. Only good deeds have to-morrows. I will be true: so shall to-morrows open and close like golden doors until time is lost in the eternal." And his heart remained true.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE SONGS OF THE RHINE.

THE WATCHMAN'S SONG.—THE WILD HUNT OF LUeTZOW.—THE AUTHOR OF THE ERL KING.—BEETHOVEN'S BOYHOOD.—THE ORGAN-TEMPEST OF LUCERNE.

Rhineland is the land of song. It is the wings of song that have given it its fame. Every town on the Rhine has its own songs; every mountain, hill, and river.

America has few local songs,—few songs of the people. The singers who give voices to rivers, lakes, mountains, and valleys have not yet appeared. The local poets and singers of America are yet to come.

In England, Germany, and some of the provinces of France, every temple, stream, and grove has had its sweet singer.

Go to Basle, and you may hear the clubs singing the heroic songs of Alsace and Lorraine.

Go to Heidelberg, and you may listen to student-songs through which breathe the national spirit of hundreds of years.

The bands tell the story, legend, or romance of such towns at night, wherever they may play.

In one of the public grounds to which the Class went for an evening rest, one of the bands was playing the Fremersberg.

It related an old romance of the region of Baden-Baden: how that a nobleman was once wandering with his dogs in the mountains, and was overtaken by a storm; how he was about to perish when he heard the distant sounds of a monastery bell; how, following the direction of the sound, he heard a chant of priests; and how, at last, he was saved.

The piece was full of melody. The wind, the rain, the horns, the bells, the chant, while they told a story, were all delightfully melodious.

The ballad is almost banished from the intellectual American concert-rooms. In Germany a ballad is a gem, and is so valued. It is the best expression of national life and feeling.

The Class went to hear one of Germany's greatest singers. She sang an heroic selection, and was recalled. Her first words on the recall hushed the audience: it was a ballad of the four stages of life. It began with an incident of a child dreaming under a rosebush:—

"Sweetly it sleeps and on dream wings flies To play with the angels in Paradise, And the years glide by."

as an English translation gives it.

In the last stanza, the child having passed through the stages of life, was represented as again sleeping under a rosebush. The withered leaves fall upon his grave.

"Withered and dead they fall to the ground, And silently cover a new-made mound, And the years glide by."

These last lines were rendered so softly, yet distinctly, that they seemed like tremulous sounds in the air. The singer's face hardly appeared to move; every listener was like a statue. The silence was almost painful and impressive. One could but feel this was indeed art, and not a pretentious affectation of it.



The reign of the organ as the monarch of musical instruments began with Charlemagne, and nearly all of the towns on the Rhine have historic organs. Many of the organ pieces are local compositions and imitative. On the great organs at Basle and Frieburg the imitation of storms is sometimes produced.

None of these storm-pieces, however, equal that which is daily played in summer on the organ of Lucerne. This organ tempest more greatly excited the Class than any music that they heard during their journeys; and Master Beal made a record of it in verse, which we give at the close of the chapter.

The children of Germany learn to read music at the same age that they learn to read books. Music is a part of their primary school—Kindergarten—education. The poorest children are taught to sing.



The consequence is that the Germans are a nation of singers. The organ is a power in the church, the military band at the festival, and the ballad in the concert-room and the home.

These ballad-loving people are familiar with the best music. To them music is a language. Says Mayhew, in his elaborate work on the Rhine, in speaking of the free education in music in Germany: "To tickle the gustatory nerves with either dainty food or drink costs some money; but to be able to reproduce the harmonious combinations of a Beethoven or a Weber, or to make the air tremble melodiously with some sweet and simple ballad, or even to recall the sonorous solemnities of some prayerful chorus or fine thanksgiving in an oratorio, is not only to fill the heart and brain with affections too deep for words, but it is to be able to taste as high a pleasure as the soul is capable of knowing, and yet one that may be had positively for nothing."

It is to be regretted that so much of the good music of Germany is performed in the beer-gardens. The too free use of the glass and the pipe cannot tend to make the nation strong for the future; and one cannot long be charmed with the music and mirth of such places without fearing for the losses that may follow.

All trades and occupations have their own songs, even the humblest. Take for example the pleasing Miller's Song, which catches the spirit of his somewhat poetic yet homely calling:—

"To wander is the miller's joy, To wander! What kind of miller must he be, Who ne'er hath yearned to wander free? To wander!

"From water we have learned it, yes, From water! It knows no rest by night or day, But wanders ever on its way, Does water.

"We see it by the mill-wheels, too, The mill-wheels! They ne'er repose, nor brook delay, They weary not the livelong day, The mill-wheels.

"The stones, too, heavy though they be, The stones, too, Round in the giddy circle dance, Ee'n fain more quickly would advance, The stones would.

"To wander, wander, my delight, To wander! O master, mistress, on my way Let me in peace depart to-day, And wander!"

WILHELM MUeLLER.

The watchman, too, has his peculiar songs. One of these is very solemn and stately. A favorite translation of it begins:—

"Hark ye, neighbors, and hear me tell Eight now strikes the loud church bell."

An almost literal translation thus reproduces the grand themes which were made to remind the old guardians of the night in their ghostly vigils:—

THE WATCHMAN'S SONG.

Hark, while I sing! our village clock The hour of eight, good sirs, has struck. Eight souls alone from death were kept, When God the earth with deluge swept: Unless the Lord to guard us deign, Man wakes and watches all in vain. Lord! through thine all-prevailing might, Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!

Hark, while I sing! our village clock The hour of nine, good sirs, has struck. Nine lepers cleansed returned not;— Be not thy blessings, man, forgot! Unless the Lord to guard us deign, Man wakes and watches all in vain. Lord! through thine all-prevailing might, Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!

Hark, while I sing! our village clock The hour of ten, good sirs, has struck. Ten precepts show God's holy will;— Oh, may we prove obedient still! Unless the Lord to guard us deign, Man wakes and watches all in vain. Lord! through thine all-prevailing might, Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!

Hark, while I sing! our village clock The hour eleven, good sirs, has struck. Eleven apostles remained true;— May we be like that faithful few! Unless the Lord to guard us deign, Man wakes and watches all in vain. Lord! through thine all-prevailing might, Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!

Hark, while I sing! our village clock The hour of twelve, good sirs, has struck. Twelve is of Time the boundary;— Man, think upon eternity! Unless the Lord to guard us deign, Man wakes and watches all in vain. Lord! through thine all-prevailing might, Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!

Hark, while I sing! our village clock The hour of one, good sirs, has struck. One God alone reigns over all; Nought can without his will befall: Unless the Lord to guard us deign, Man wakes and watches all in vain. Lord! through thine all-prevailing might, Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!

Hark, while I sing! our village clock The hour of two, good sirs, has struck. Two ways to walk has man been given: Teach me the right,—the path to heaven! Unless the Lord to guard us deign, Man wakes and watches all in vain. Lord! through thine all-prevailing might, Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!

Hark, while I sing! our village clock The hour of three, good sirs, has struck. Three Gods in one, exalted most, The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Unless the Lord to guard us deign, Man wakes and watches all in vain. Lord! through thine all-prevailing might, Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!

Hark, while I sing! our village clock The hour of four, good sirs, has struck. Four seasons crown the farmer's care;— Thy heart with equal toil prepare! Up, up! awake, nor slumber on! The morn approaches, night is gone! Thank God, who by his power and might Has watched and kept us through this night!

The Class devoted an autumn evening to singing the songs of the Rhine; the "Watch on the Rhine," the "Loreley," the student-songs, folk-songs, and some of the chorals of Luther. The song that proved most inspiring was the "Wild Chase of Luetzow." Master Beal awakened a deep interest in this song before it was sung, by relating its history.

"THE WILD HUNT OF LUeTZOW."

All musical ears are familiar with the refrain: "Yes, 'tis the hunt of Luetzow the free and the bold,"—if not with these exact words, with other words of the same meaning. The music of C. M. Von Weber has carried the "hunt" of Luetzow over the world. The song and music alike catch the spirit and the movement of a corps of cavalry bent on the destruction of an enemy. One sees the flying horsemen in the poem, and hears them in the music. It was one of the few martial compositions that starts one to one's feet, and stirs one's blood with the memory of heroic achievements.

I will give you one of the most vigorous translations. Longfellow has adopted it in his "Poems of Places." It catches the spirit of the original, and very nearly reproduces the original thought.

LUeTZOW'S WILD CHASE.

What gleams from yon wood in the bright sunshine? Hark! nearer and nearer 'tis sounding; It hurries along, black line upon line, And the shrill-voiced horns in the wild chase join, The soul with dark horror confounding: And if the black troopers' name you'd know, 'Tis Luetzow's wild Jaeger,—a-hunting they go!



From hill to hill, through the dark wood they hie, And warrior to warrior is calling; Behind the thick bushes in ambush they lie, The rifle is heard, and the loud war-cry, In rows the Frank minions are falling: And if the black troopers' name you'd know, 'Tis Luetzow's wild Jaeger,—a-hunting they go!

Where the bright grapes glow, and the Rhine rolls wide, He weened they would follow him never; But the pursuit came like the storm in its pride, With sinewy arms they parted the tide, And reached the far shore of the river; And if the dark swimmers' name you'd know, 'Tis Luetzow's wild Jaeger,—a-hunting they go!

How roars in the valley the angry fight; Hark! how the keen swords are clashing! High-hearted Ritter are fighting the fight, The spark of Freedom awakens bright, And in crimson flames it is flashing: And if the dark Ritters' name you'd know, 'Tis Luetzow's wild Jaeger,—a-hunting they go!

Who gurgle in death, 'mid the groans of the foe, No more the bright sunlight seeing? The writhings of death on their face they show, But no terror the hearts of the freemen know. For the Franzmen are routed and fleeing; And if the dark heroes' name you'd know, 'Tis Luetzow's wild Jaeger,—a-hunting they go!

The chase of the German, the chase of the free, In hounding the tyrant we strained it! Ye friends, that love us, look up with glee! The night is scattered, the dawn we see, Though we with our life-blood have gained it! And from sire to son the tale shall go: 'Twas Luetzow's wild Jaeger that routed the foe!

Luetzow, the cavalry hero of Prussia, in the German war for freedom against the rule of Napoleon, was born in 1782. He was a famous hunter, and when Europe arose against Bonaparte in 1813, he called for volunteers of adventurous spirit for cavalry service: "hunters" of the enemy, who should hang about the French army, and, with the destructive vigilance of birds or beasts of prey, give the enemy no rest on the German side of the Rhine.

The boldest young men of Germany rushed to Luetzow; noblemen, students, foresters. His corps of cavalry became the terror of the French army. The enemy could never tell where they would be found.

Among the young volunteers was Koerner, the young German poet. He was a slender young man; but he had an heroic soul, and the cavalry corps of the fiery Luetzow seemed to him the place for it. He joined the "wild hunters" in 1813.

"Germany rises," he said. "The Prussian eagle beats her wings; there is hope of freedom.

"I know what happiness can fruit for me in life; I know that the star of fortune shines upon me; but a mighty feeling and conviction animates me: no sacrifice can be too great for my country's freedom!"

The words glow.

He added,—

"I must forth,—I must oppose my breast to the storm. Can I celebrate the deeds of others in song, and not dare with them the danger?"

Koerner's battle-songs became firebrands. He consecrated himself to his country in the village church near Zobten. He wrote the battle-hymn for the occasion, which was a service for the departing volunteers.

"We swore," he said, "the oath of fidelity to our cause. I fell upon my knees and implored God's blessing. The oath was repeated by all, and the officers swore it on their swords. Then Martin Luther's 'A Mighty Fortress is our God' concluded the ceremony."

He wrote a thrilling war-song on the morning of the battle of Danneberg, May 12, 1813. It ended with these words:—

"Hark! hear ye the shouts and the thunders before ye? On, brothers, on, to death and to glory! We'll meet in another, a happier sphere!"

On May 28, 1813, Major Von Luetzow determined to set out on an expedition towards Thuringia, with his young cavalry and with Cossacks. Koerner begged to accompany him. Luetzow commissioned him as an officer. He was wounded, and left for a time helpless in a wood, on the 17th of June. In this condition he wrote his famous "Farewell to Life."

"My deep wound burns," &c.

Koerner recovered, but was suddenly killed in an engagement on August 26th.

The "Sword Song" of Koerner which Von Weber's music has made famous, was written a few hours before his death. It was an inspiration to the German cause.

"Luetzow's Wild Chase" thrilled Prussia. Like the "Watch on the Rhine" in the recent war, it was the word that fired the national pride, and nerved men to deeds that crowned the cause with glory.

"The Rhine! the Rhine!" shouted the young German heroes at last, looking down on the river.

"Is there a battle?" asked the officers, dashing on in the direction of the shout.

"No, the enemy has gone over the Rhine," was the answer. "The Rhine! the Rhine!"

Mr. Beal introduced a number of selections from German composers, the loved tone-poets, with interesting stories and anecdotes. We reproduce a part of these musical incidents, as they properly belong to the history of the river of song.

Taking up a selection from Schubert's famous symphony, he spoke feelingly of the author, and then gave some pictures of the lives of Beethoven and Bach.

THE AUTHOR OF THE ERL KING.

Poor Schubert! The composer of what operas, symphonies, overtures, choruses, masses, cantatas, sonatas, fantasias, arias! What tenderness was in his soul!—Listen to the "Last Greeting;" what fancy and emotion! listen to the "Fisher Maiden" and "Post Horn;" what refinement! listen to the "Serenade;" what devotion! hear the "Ave Maria"!

Dead at the age of thirty-one; dead after a life of neglect, leaving all these musical riches behind him!

Franz Schubert was born at Himmelpfortgrand, in 1797. His father was a musician, but a poor man. Franz was placed at the age of eleven among the choir-boys of the Court Chapel, where he remained five years, absorbed in musical studies, and making himself the master of the leading instruments of the orchestra.

To compose music was his life. His restless genius was ever at work; always seeking to produce something new, something better. The old masters, and especially Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, were his sources of study and inspiration. Music became his world, and all outside of it was strange and unexplored. All of his moods found expression in music: his love, his hopes, his wit, his sadness, and his dreams.

He seems to have composed his best works for the pure love of his art, with little thought of money or fame. Many of his best works he never heard performed. He left his manuscript scores scattered about his rooms, and so they were found in confusion after his decease.

A monument was erected to his memory. On it is the following simple but touching inscription:—

"The art of music buried here a rich possession, but yet far fairer hopes. Franz Schubert lies here. Born on the 30th of January, 1797, died on the 19th of November, 1828, thirty-one years old."

Fame almost failed to overtake him in life; his course was so rapid, and his works were so swiftly produced. It crowned his memory.

Schubert's magnificent symphony in C is one of the most beautiful works of the kind ever written, and lovers of orchestral music always delight to find it on the programme of an evening concert. It is a charm, an enchantment; it awakens feelings that are only active in the soul under exceptional influences. Yet the listener does not know to what he is listening: it is all a mystery; no one can tell what the composer intended to express by this symphony. We know that the theme is a noble one,—but what? that the soul of the writer must have been powerfully moved during its composition,—by what influences? It is an enigma: each listener may guess at the theme, and each will associate it with the subject most in harmony with his own taste.

In 1844 Robert Schumann, while looking over a heap of dusty manuscripts at Vienna, found this wonderful symphony, until then unknown. He was so much charmed with it that he sent it to Mendelssohn at Leipzig. It was there produced at the Gewandhaus concerts, won the admiration it deserved, and thence found its way to all the orchestras of the world. The youthful composer had been dead nearly twenty years when the discovery was made.

One of the best known of the dramatic German ballads is the Erl King.

The Erl King is Death. He rides through the night. He comes to a happy home, and carries away a child, galloping back to the mysterious land whence he came.

In this ballad a father is represented as riding with a dying child under his cloak. The Erl King pursues them.

Schubert gave the ballad its musical wings. I need not describe the music. It is on your piano. Let it tell the story.

BEETHOVEN'S BOYHOOD AT BONN.

Literary men have often produced their best works late in life. Longfellow cites some striking illustrations of this truth in Morituri Salutamus:—

"It is too late! Ah, nothing is too late Till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate. Cato learned Greek at eighty; Sophocles Wrote his grand Oedipus, and Simonides Bore off the prize of verse from his compeers, When each had numbered more than fourscore years. And Theophrastus, at fourscore and ten, Had but begun his Characters of Men. Chaucer, at Woodstock with the nightingales, At sixty wrote the Canterbury Tales; Goethe at Weimar, toiling to the last, Completed Faust when eighty years were past."

Such examples of late working are seldom found in musical art. Men seem to become musicians because of the inspiration born within them. This impelling force is very early developed.

Handel, the greatest musical composer of his own or any age, was so devoted to music in childhood that his father forbade his musical studies. At the age of eleven he as greatly delighted and surprised Frederick I. of Prussia by his inspirational playing; he was in youth appointed to a conspicuous position of organist in Halle.

Haydn surprised his friends by his musical talents at his fifth year. He had a voice of wonderful purity, sweetness, and compass, and was received as a choir-boy at St. Stephen's Church, Vienna.

Mozart's childhood is a household story. He was able to produce chords on the harpsichord at the age of three, and wrote music with correct harmonies at the age of six. Glueck had made a musical reputation at the age of eighteen.

Mendelssohn was a brilliant pianist at six, and gave concerts at nine. Verdi was appointed musical director at Milan in youth. Rossini composed an opera at the age of sixteen, and ceased to compose music at forty.

No other art exhibits such remarkable developments of youthful genius; though many eminent poets like Pindar, Cowley, Pope, Mrs. Hemans, L. E. L., have written well in early youth. Music is a flower that blossoms early, and bears early fruit.

Music may justly be called the art of youth.

Beethoven was born at Bonn on the Rhine, 1770. He lived here twenty-two years. His musical character was formed here.

Beethoven was put at the harpsichord at the age of four years. He was able to play the most difficult music in every key at twelve years; and was appointed one of the court organists when fifteen.

The boy received this appointment, which was in the chapel of the Elector of Cologne, by the influence of Count Waldstein, who had discovered his genius. Here he was the organ prince.

The following curious anecdote is told of his skill at the organ:—

"On the last three days of the passion week the Lamentations of the Prophet Jeremiah were always chanted; these consisted of passages of from four to six lines, and they were sung in no particular time. In the middle of each sentence, agreeably to the old choral style, a rest was made upon one note, which rest the player on the piano (for the organ was not used on those three days) had to fill up with a voluntary flourish.



"Beethoven told Heller, a singer at the chapel who was boasting of his professional cleverness, that he would engage, that very day, to put him out, at such a place, without his being aware of it, so that he should not be able to proceed. He accepted the wager; and Beethoven, when he came to a passage that suited his purpose, led the singer, by an adroit modulation, out of the prevailing mode into one having no affinity with it, still, however, adhering to the tonic of the former key; so that the singer, unable to find his way in this strange region was brought to a dead stand.

"Exasperated by the laughter of those around him, Heller complained to the elector, who (to use Beethoven's expression) 'gave him a most gracious reprimand, and bade him not play any more such clever tricks.'"

At Bonn young Beethoven devoted himself almost wholly to the organ. The memories of the Rhine filled his life, which ended so sadly on the Danube. Bonn and Beethoven are as one name to the English or American tourist.

THE FATHER OF ORGAN MUSIC.

Bach, the greatest organist and composer of organ music of the last century, was born at Eisenach, 1685, and had truly a remarkable history. His art was born in him. He wrote because he must write, and sung because he must sing.

His father was a court musician, and had a twin brother who occupied the same situation, and so much resembled him that their wives could not tell them apart. These twin brothers produced music nearly alike; their dispositions were identical; when one was ill, the other was so likewise, and both died at the same time.

John Sebastian Bach was the brightest ornament of this music-loving family. His parents died in his boyhood, and his musical education was undertaken by his eldest brother, a distinguished organist. He fed on music as food.

An incident will show his spirit. He was eager to play more difficult music than his brother assigned. He noticed that his brother had a book of especially difficult pieces; and he begged to be allowed to use it, but was denied. This book was kept locked in a cupboard, which had an opening just wide enough to admit the boy's thin hand. He was able to reach it, and, by rolling it in a certain way, to bring it out and replace it without unlocking the door. He began to copy it by moonlight, as no candle was allowed him in the evening, and in six months had reproduced in this manner the whole of the music. About this time his brother died, and the friendless lad engaged himself as a choir-singer, which gave him a temporary support.

Organ-music became a passion with him. He determined, at whatever sacrifice, to make himself the master of the instrument. He might go hungry, lose the delights of society; but the first organist in Germany he would be: nothing should be allowed to stand in the way of this purpose in life. He studied all masters. He made a long journey on foot to Lubeck to hear a great German master play the organ; and when he heard him, he remained three months an unknown and secret auditor in the church.

A youth in which a single aim governs life early arrives at the harvest. Young manhood found Bach court organist in that Athens of Germany, Weimar. His fame grew until it reached the ears of Frederick the Great.

"Old Bach has come," joyfully said the King to his musicians, on learning that the great organist arrived in town.

He became blind in his last years, as did Handel. Ten days before his death his sight was suddenly restored, and he rejoiced at seeing the sunshine and the green earth again. A few hours after this strange occurrence, he was seized with an apoplectic fit. He died at the age of sixty-eight.

His organ-playing was held to be one of the marvels of Germany. He made the organ as it were a part of his own soul; it expressed his thoughts like an interpreter, and swayed other hearts with the emotions of his own. His oratorios and cantatas were numbered by the hundred, many of which were produced only on a single occasion. His most enduring work is the Passion Music.

In 1850 a Bach Society was formed in London, and a revival of the works of the master followed. Bach wrote five passions, but only one for two choirs.

To the general audience much of the Passion music, as arranged for English choral societies, seems too difficult for appreciation; but the over-choir at the beginning, the expression of suffering and darkness, and the so-called earthquake choruses, with its sudden and stupendous effects, impress even the uneducated ear.

The beauty and power of the oratorio as a work of art are felt in proportion to one's musical training; but as a sublime tone-sermon, all may feel its force, and dream that the awful tragedy it represents is passing before them.



THE ORGAN-TEMPEST OF LUCERNE.

We came to fair Lucerne at even,— How beauteous was the scene! The snowy Alps like walls of heaven Rose o'er the Alps of green; The damask sky a roseate light Flashed on the Lake, and low Above Mt. Pilate's shadowy height Night bent her silver bow.

We turned towards the faded fane, How many centuries old! And entered as the organ's strain Along the arches rolled; Such as when guardian spirits bear A soul to realms of light, And melts in the immortal air The anthem of their flight; Then followed strains so sweet, So sadly sweet and low, That they seemed like memory's music, And the chords of long ago.

A light wind seemed to rise; A deep gust followed soon, As when a dark cloud flies Across the sun, at noon. It filled the aisles,—each drew His garments round his form; We could not feel the wind that blew, We could only hear the storm. Then we cast a curious eye Towards the window's lights, And saw the lake serenely lie Beneath the crystal heights. Fair rose the Alps of white Above the Alps of green, The slopes lay bright in the sun of night, And the peaks in the sun unseen.

A deep sound shook the air, As when the tempest breaks Upon the peaks, while sunshine fair Is dreaming in the lakes. The birds shrieked on their wing; When rose a wind so drear, Its troubled spirit seemed to bring The shades of darkness near. We looked towards the windows old, Calm was the eve of June, On the summits shone the twilight's gold, And on Pilate shone the moon.

A sharp note's lightning flash Upturned the startled face; When a mighty thunder-crash With horror filled the place! From arch to arch the peal Was echoed loud and long; Then o'er the pathway seemed to steal Another seraph's song; And 'mid the thunder's crash And the song's enraptured flow, We still could hear, with charmed ear, The organ playing low.



As passed the thunder-peal, Came raindrops, falling near, A rain one could not feel, A rain that smote the ear. And we turned to look again Towards the mountain wall, When a deep tone shook the fane, Like the avalanche's fall. Loud piped the wind, fast poured the rain, The very earth seemed riven, And wildly flashed, and yet again, The smiting fires of heaven. And cheeks that wore the light of smiles When slowly rose the gale, Like pulseless statues lined the aisles And, as forms of marble, pale. The organ's undertones Still sounded sweet and low, And the calm of a more than mortal trust With the rhythms seemed to flow.

The Master's mirrored face Was lifted from the keys, As if more holy was the place As he touched the notes of peace. Then the sympathetic reeds His chastened spirit caught, As the senses met the needs And the touch of human thought. The organ whispered sweet, The organ whispered low, "Fear not, God's love is with thee, Though tempests round thee blow!" And the soul's grand power 'twas ours to trace, And its deathless hopes discern, As we gazed that night on the living face Of the Organ of Lucerne.

Then from the church it passed, That strange and ghostly storm, And a parting beam the twilight cast Through the windows, bright and warm. The music grew more clear, Our gladdened pulses swaying, When Alpine horns we seemed to hear On all the hillsides playing.

We left the church—how fair Stole on the eve of June! Cool Righi in the dusky air, The low-descending moon! No breath the lake cerulean stirred, No cloud could eye discern; The Alps were silent,—we had heard The Organ of Lucerne.

Soon passed the night,—the high peaks shone A wall of glass and fire, And Morning, from her summer zone, Illumined tower and spire; I walked beside the lake again, Along the Alpine meadows, Then sought the old melodious fane Beneath the Righi's shadows. The organ, spanned by arches quaint, Rose silent, cold, and bare, Like the pulseless tomb of a vanished saint:— The Master was not there! But the soul's grand power 'twas mine to trace And its deathless hopes discern, As I gazed that morn on the still, dead face Of the Organ of Lucerne.



CHAPTER XV.

COPENHAGEN.

COPENHAGEN.—THE STORY OF ANCIENT DENMARK.—THE ROYAL FAMILY.—STORY OF A KING WHO WAS OUT INTO A BAG.

On the Denmark Night Mr. Beal gave a short introductory talk on Copenhagen, and several of the boys related stories by Hans Christian Andersen. Master Lewis gave some account of the early history of Denmark and of the present Royal Family; and Herman Reed related an odd story of one of the early kings of Denmark.

* * * * *

"Copenhagen, or the Merchants' Haven, the capital of the island kingdom of Denmark, rises out of the coast of Zealand, and breaks the loneliness and monotony of a long coast line. It was a beautiful vision as we approached it in the summer evening hours of the high latitude,—evening only to us, for the sun was still high above the horizon. The spire of the Church of Our Saviour—three hundred feet high—appeared to stand against the sky. Palaces seemed to lift themselves above the sea as we steamed slowly towards the great historic city of the North.

"The entrance to the harbor is narrow but deep. The harbor itself is full of ships; Copenhagen is the station of the Danish navy.

"We passed very slowly through the water streets among the ships of the harbor,—for water streets they seemed,—and after a tedious landing, were driven through the crooked streets of a strange old town to a quiet hotel where some English friends we had met on the Continent were stopping.

"The city is little larger than Providence, Rhode Island. Its public buildings are superb. It is an intellectual city, and its libraries are the finest of Europe.



"It is divided into two parts, the old town and the new. In the new part are broad streets and fine squares.

"We visited the Rosenborg Palace, the old residence of the Danish kings;—it is only a show palace now. In the church we saw Thorwaldsen's statues of the Twelve Apostles, regarded as the finest of his works.



THE STORY OF ANCIENT DENMARK.

It is a strange, wild romance, the early history of the nations of the North.

The Greeks and Romans knew but little about the Scandinavians. They knew that there was a people in the regions from which came the north winds. The north wind was very cold. Was there a region beyond the north wind? If so, how lovely it must be, where the cold winds never blow. They fancied that there was such a region. They called the inhabitants Hyperboreans, or the people beyond the north wind. They imagined also that in this region of eternal summer men did not die. If one of the Hyperboreans became tired of earth, he had to kill himself by leaping from a cliff.

The Northmen, or the inhabitants of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden, were of the same origin as the tribes that peopled Germany, and that came from the East, probably from the borders of the Black Sea. They were fire-worshippers, and their chief god was Odin.

Denmark means a land of dark woods. In ancient times it was probably covered with sombre firs. One of its early kings was Dan the Famous. His descendants were called Danes.

Many ages after the reign of this king, the land was filled with peace and plenty. It was the Golden Age of the North. Frode the Peaceful was king in the Golden Age. He ruled over all lands from Russia to the Rhine, and over two hundred and twenty kingdoms of two hundred and twenty subjugated kings. There was no wrong, nor want, nor thieves, nor beggars in the Golden Age. This happy period of Northern history was at that age of the world when Christ was born.

According to the Scalds, the god Odin used to appear to men. He appeared the last time at the battle of Bravalla, a contest in which the Frisians, Wends, Finns, Lapps, Danes, Saxons, Jutes, Goths, and Swedes all were engaged. The dead were so thick on the field, after this battle, that their bodies reached to the axle-wheels of the chariots of the victors. At the time of this battle Christianity was being proclaimed in England. It was approaching the North. With the battle of Bravalla the mythic age of Denmark and the North comes to an end.

I have told you something of Louis le Debonnaire, who went to die on a rock in the Rhine, that the waters might lull him to his eternal repose. He was a missionary king, and he desired nothing so much as the conversion of the world to Christ. He was the son of Charlemagne. "It is nobler to convert souls than conquer kingdoms" was his declaration of purpose. He sent missionary apostles to the North to convert Denmark. His missions at first were failures, but in the end they resulted in giving all the Northern crowns to Christ's kingdom, that Louis loved more than his own.

The Danes in the Middle Ages became famous sea-kings. Before England, Denmark ruled the sea. One stormy day in December Gorm the Old appeared before Paris with seven hundred barks. He compelled the French king to sue for peace.

The sea-kings conquered England. Canute the Dane was king of all the regions of the northwest of Europe. His kingdom embraced Denmark, England, Sweden, Norway, Scotland, and Cumberland. Such is the second wonderful period of Denmark's history.

THE ROYAL FAMILY OF DENMARK.

Royal people, as well as "self-made men," often undergo remarkable changes of fortune. No one, however high or low, is free from the accidents of this world. All men have surprises, either good or bad, in store for them.

Few families have experienced a more striking change in position than the present royal house of the little northern kingdom of Denmark. Twenty years ago, the present king, Christian IX., was a rather poor and obscure gentleman, of princely rank, to be sure, residing quietly in Copenhagen, and bringing up his fine family of boys and girls in a very domestic and economical fashion. He was only a remote cousin of Frederick VII., the reigning monarch, and he seemed little likely to come to the throne.

But death somewhat suddenly prepared the way for him, so that when old Frederick died, in 1863, Christian found himself king.

This, however, was but the beginning of the fortunes of this once modest and little-known household. Just before Christian came to the throne, his eldest daughter, Alexandra, a beautiful and an amiable girl, attracted the attention of the Prince of Wales. The prince became attached to her, and in due time married her.

About the same time, Christian's second son, George, was chosen King of Greece, and was crowned at Athens, and is still reigning there.

After three years had passed, the second daughter, Maria Dagmar, who, like her sister Alexandra, was a very lovely and attractive girl, was married to the Czarowitch Alexander of Russia, after having been betrothed to his elder brother Nicholas, who died. She is now Empress of Russia.



Somewhat later, the eldest son of the Danish king married the only daughter of Oscar II., King of Sweden and Norway, thus forming a new link of national friendship between the three Scandinavian nations.

It is thus quite possible that in the not distant future no less than four of King Christian's children, who were brought up with little more expectation than that of living respectably and wedding into Danish noble families, will occupy thrones in Europe. It may happen that the two daughters will share two of the greatest of those thrones,—that one will be Queen of England; the other is Empress of Russia,—while the two sons will be respectively King of Denmark and King of Greece.

This great good fortune, in a worldly point of view, which has come to the Danish royal family, cannot certainly be attributed solely, or even mainly, to luck or chance. It has been, after all, chiefly its virtues which have won it such a high position in Europe. The good breeding and excellent character of the king's children have won for them the prominence they now hold; for the daughters are as womanly and virtuous as they are physically attractive, and the sons are models of manly bearing and irreproachable habits.

THE STORY OF A KING WHO WAS PUT INTO A BAG.

"His realm was once a cradle, and now it is a coffin," might be said of the most powerful monarch that ever lived. Kings are but human, and they are pitiable objects indeed when they fall from their high estate into the power of their enemies. Never did a king present a more humiliating spectacle in his fall than Valdemar II., called the Conqueror.

Under the early reign of this king, the Golden Age seemed to have returned to Denmark. Never was a young monarch more prosperous or glorious in so narrow a kingdom.

His empire grew. He annexed Pomerania. He wrested from the German Empire all the territories in their possession north of the Elbe and Elde, and he finally became the master of Northern Germany.

He was a champion of the Church. A papal bull conceded to him the sovereignty of all the people he might convert, and he entered the field against the pagans of Esthonia, with an army of 60,000 men, and 1,400 ships! He baptized the conquered with kingly pomp and pride.

His reign was now most splendid. Denmark was supreme in Scandinavia and Northern Germany. The Pope revered the Danish power, and the world feared it.

But secret foes are often more dangerous than open enemies. The conquered princes of Germany hated him, and planned his downfall.

Among these was the Count-Duke of Schwerin. He pretended great respect and affection for Valdemar. He laid many snares for the king's ruin, but they failed. He was called "Black Henry" in his own country on account of his dark face and evil nature, and Valdemar had been warned against him as a false friend.



But he was warm, obsequious, and fascinating to the king, and the king liked him.

In the spring of 1233 Valdemar invited him to hunt with him in the woods of Lyo.

"Tell the king I am disabled and cannot leave my couch," said the artful count, who now thought of a way to accomplish his long-cherished purpose.

He left his couch at once, and sent his spies to shadow the king.

The king landed at Lyo with only a few attendants.

One night the king was sleeping in the woods of Lyo in a rude, unguarded tent. His son was by his side.

They were awaked from slumber by an assault from unknown foes, and a sense of suffocation.

What had happened? The king could not move his arms; his head seemed enveloped in cloth. He could not see; his voice was stifled. He felt himself carried away.

Black Henry had entered the tent with his confidants, and had put the King of the North and his son into two bags, and tied them up, and was now hurrying away with them to the river.

Black Henry laid his two captives in the bottom of a boat like two logs, and hoisted sail; and Valdemar, whose kingdom was now only a bag, was blown away towards the German coast.

He was thrown into prison, and there lived in darkness and neglect. The Pope ordered his release, but it was not heeded. The Danes tried to rescue him, but were defeated.

He was at last set free on the agreement that he should pay a large ransom. He returned to his kingdom, but found his territory reduced to its old narrow limits. His glory was gone. His empire had been the North; it had also been a bag; and at last it was a coffin. Poor old man! His last years were peaceful, and in them he served Denmark well.



CHAPTER XVI.

NORWAY.

STOCKHOLM.—STORY OF THE HERO KING.—UPSALA.—NORWAY.—CHRISTIANIA.— KING OLAF.—DRONTHEIM.—THE FISHERMAN OF FAROE.

The narrative of travel and history was continued by Mr. Beal.

* * * * *

"Strange is the evolution of cities.

"We are about to glance at Stockholm. Let us go back in imagination six hundred years.

"There are some rocky islands in the Baltic, at the foot of the northern peninsula. Sea birds wheel above them in the steel-gray air; they build their nests there. Storms sweep over these lonely islands; sunlight bursts upon them, and now and then a Viking's ship finds a haven among them, and scares away the birds.

"Years pass. Fishermen build huts on the islands. Hunters come there. There come also the sea kings. A mixed, strange people.

"They build a village on the holms, or islets. They defend themselves with stockades, and they found on stocks, or beams, their strong houses. The growing town rises from stock holms; hence, Stockholm.



"The years pass, and the sea birds fly away. There are wings of gables where once were wings of birds. Stockholm becomes a fortress, and, as in the case of St. Petersburg in recent times, the sea desolation pulses with life and energy, and is transformed into a city. Churches, palaces, gardens, arise. Battles are fought, and here tread the feet of kings.

"The wonder grows. The birds scream far away now. The islands are spanned by bridges. Stockholm stands a splendid city, one of the crowns of earth.

"The city lies before us. Noble structures, villas, steeples, are seen among the green trees. The ships of many flags lie together like a town in the sea.

"It is sunset. The tops of the linden-trees are crowned with sunlight, the Gothic windows burn. A shadow falls from the gray sky. Afar fly the white sea-gulls. The shadow deepens. It is night. We are in Stockholm.

"Every nation has its hero.

"You have been told how that poor Louis le Debonnaire, the son of Charlemagne, preferred to win crowns for Christ's kingdom rather than for his own. He lost his own kingdom; but the missionaries he sent forth, though at first not successful, were the means of giving Christianity to all the nations of the North.

THE HERO KING OF SWEDEN.

There was born in Stockholm, in 1594, an heir to the Swedish throne, whose influence was destined to be felt throughout the world and to very distant periods of time. The child was named Gustavus Adolphus.

He was educated for the kingdom. At the age of ten he was made to attend the sittings of the Diet and the councils of state. In boyhood he was able to discuss state affairs in Latin, and in youth he was able to speak nearly all European tongues.

He was schooled in the arts of war as well as peace. In early manhood he entered Russia at the head of an army, and compelled the Czar to sue for peace.

After the war the young king gave his whole heart to the development of the industries and institutions of his kingdom. He founded schools, assisted churches, and everywhere multiplied influences for good. Never did a monarch devote himself more earnestly to the improvement of his people, or accomplish more in a short time. His influence for good has ever lived in Sweden, and is felt strongly to-day.

He was an ardent Protestant. The Catholic powers of the South and the Protestant powers of the North had become very hostile, and war between them seemed impending. In this crisis the Protestant leaders looked to Gustavus Adolphus as the champion of their cause.

In 1630 Gustavus called a Diet in Stockholm, and reported the danger that was threatening the Protestant states of Germany, and which would involve Sweden unless checked. He announced that he had decided to espouse the cause of the German princes, and to enter the field. He took his little daughter in his arms, and commended her to the Diet as the heir to the crown.

He landed in Germany on Midsummer's day in 1630. He had an army of fifteen thousand men. It was a small army indeed for so perilous an undertaking. "Cum Deo et victricibus armis is my motto," he declared, and trusting in this watchword he advanced on his dangerous course.

The Imperialists, as the foes of the Reformed Faith were called, were led by Wallenstein. They were greatly superior in numbers to the Swedes and their allies.

At Lutzen the great battle of Protestantism was fought, Nov. 6, 1632.

"I truly believe that the Lord has given my enemies into my hands," said Gustavus, just before the battle.

The morning dawned gray and gloomy. A heavy mist hung over the two armies.

The Swedish and German army united in singing Luther's hymn,—

"Ein' feste Burg ist unser Gott."

Then Gustavus said,—

"Let us sing 'Christ our Salvation.'"



"Be not dismayed, thou little flock, Although the foe's fierce battle-shock, Loud on all sides, assail thee. Though o'er thy fall they laugh secure, Their triumph cannot long endure; Let not thy courage fail thee.

"Thy cause is God's,—go at his call, And to his hand commit thy all; Fear thou no ill impending: His Gideon shall arise for thee, God's Word and people manfully, In God's own time, defending.

"Our hope is sure in Jesus' might; Against themselves the godless fight, Themselves, not us, distressing; Shame and contempt their lot shall be; God is with us, with him are we: To us belongs his blessing."

Clad in his overcoat without armor, he mounted his horse and rode along the lines.

"The enemy is within your reach," he said to the allies.

"Swedes," he said to his old army, "if you fight as I expect of you, you shall have your reward; if not, not a bone of your bodies will ever return to Sweden."

To the Germans he said,—

"If you fail me to-day, your religion, your freedom, and your welfare in this world and in the next are lost."

He prophesied to the Germans,—

"Trust in God; believe that with his help you may this day gain a victory which shall profit your latest descendants."

He waved his drawn sword over his head and advanced.

The Swedes and Finns responded with cheers and the clash of arms.

"Jesus, Jesus, let us fight this day for thy name," he exclaimed.

The whole army was now in motion, the king leading amid the darkness and gloom of the mist.

The battle opened with an immediate success for the Swedes. But in the moment of victory the king was wounded and fell from his horse.

"The king is killed!"

The report was like a death-knell to the Swedes, but only for a moment.

The king's horse with an empty saddle was seen galloping wildly down the road.

"Lead us again to the attack," the leaders demanded of George of Saxe-Weimar.

The spirit of the dead king seemed to infuse the little army with more than human valor. The men fought as though they were resolved to give their lives to their cause. The memory of the king's words in the morning thrilled them. Nothing could stand before such heroism. Pappenheim fell. The Imperialists were routed. The Swedes at night, victorious, possessed the field, but they had lost the bravest of kings, and one of the most unselfish of rulers.

"We left Stockholm for Upsala, the student city. The paddles of the boat brushed along the waters of the Maelar; the old city retreated from view, and landscape after landscape of variegated beauty rose before us.

"The Maelar Lake is margined with dark pines, bright meadows and fields, light green linden-trees, gray rocks, and shadowy woods. Here and there are red houses among the lindens.

"We pass flat-bottomed boats, that dance about in the current made by the steamer.

"The hills of Upsala come into view. The University next appears, like a palace; then a palace indeed, red like the houses; then the gabled town.

"We went to the church, and were conducted into a vaulted chamber where were crowns and sceptres taken from the coffins of dead kings. We wandered along the aisle after leaving the treasure-room of the dead, and gazed on cold tombs and dusty frescos.

"Here sleeps Gustavus Vasa.

"In the centre aisle, under a flat stone, lies the great botanist, Linnaeus.

"We visited the garden of Linnaeus, or the place where it once bore the blossoms and fruits of the world. Nettles were there; the orangeries were gone; the winter garden had disappeared. The place wore a desolate look; the master had departed, leaving little there but the ghost of a great memory.

"We left Stockholm for Norway.



"We were landed from the steamer at Christiansand. This sea-port is a rude town, and except from the wild, strange expression of both land and sea, which affects one gloomily, yet with a kind of poetic sadness, revealed little to interest us or to remember. There was a Lazaretto, or pest-house, on a high rock, from which we felt sure that no disease would ever be communicated.



"The scenery of Norway is unlike any other in the world. Take the map and scan the western coast. It looks like a piece of lace-work, so numerous are the inlets or fiords.

"These fiords are many of them surrounded by headlands as high as mountain walls. They are little havens, with calm water of wondrous beauty and with walls that seem to reach to the sky. On a level spot in the mountainous formation, a hamlet or a little church is sometimes seen, one of the most picturesque objects with its setting in the world."

[The artist can give one a better view of these fiords than any description, and he has faithfully done it here.]



"The mountains and valleys of Norway are unlike any other. Summer finds them as winter leaves them. Great hills are worn into cones by the snow and ice. The cataracts are numerous and wonderful. The water scenery has no equal for romantic beauty and wildness.

"A twelve hours' farther sail brought us to Christiania. It is situated in a lovely valley on the northern side of Christiania Fiord. It has a population of about eighty thousand. Here are the Royal Palace and University.

"All of the cities of the North have great schools and libraries. The University at Christiania has nearly a thousand students, and a library of one hundred and fifty thousand books.

"The port is covered with ice during some four months in the year. During the mild seasons some two thousand vessels yearly enter the harbor.

"Olaf, the Saint, the King of 'Norroway,' who preached the Gospel 'with his sword,' is the hero of the western coast. I might relate many wonderful stories of him, but I would advise you to read 'The Saga of King Olaf,' by Longfellow, in the 'Wayside Inn.'

"His capital was Drontheim, far up among the northern regions, where the sun shines all night in summer, and where the winters are wild and dreary, cold and long. It is a quaint old town. Summer tourists to the western coast of Norway sometimes visit it. Its cathedral was founded by Olaf, and is nearly a thousand years old.

* * * * *

"And now in ten nights' entertainments, you have taken hasty views of Germany and the old Kingdom of Charlemagne. Narratives of travel and history have been mingled with strange traditions and tales of superstition; all have combined to give pictures of the ages that are faded and gone, and that civilization can never wish to recall. Men are reaching higher levels in religion, knowledge, science, and the arts. Kingcraft is giving way to the governing intelligence of the people, and superstition to the simple doctrines of the Sermon on the Mount and to the experiences of a spiritual life. The age of castles and fortresses, like churches, is gone. The age of peace and good-will comes with the fuller light of the Gospel and intelligence. The pomps of cathedrals will never be renewed. The Church is coming to teach that character is everything, and that the soul is the temple of God's spiritual indwelling."

The tenth evening was closed by Charlie Leland. He read an original poem, suggested by an incident related to him by a fisherman at Stockholm.



THE FISHERMAN OF FAROE.

When life was young, my white sail hung O'er ocean's crystal floor; In the fiords alee was the dreaming sea, And the deep sea waves before. The Faroe fishermen used to call From the pier's extremest post: "Strike out, my boy, from the ocean wall; There's danger near the coast. Beware of the drifting dunes In the nights of the watery moons, Beware of the Maelstrom's tide When the western wind blows free, Of the rocks of the Skagerrack, Of the shoals of the Cattegat; Strike out for the open sea, Strike out for the open sea!"

"O pilot! pilot! every rock You know in the ocean wall." "No, no, my boy, I only know Where there are no rocks at all, Where there are no rocks at all, my boy, And there no ship is lost. Strike out, strike out for the open sea; There's danger near the coast. Beware, I say, of the dunes In the nights of the watery moons, Beware of the Maelstrom's tide When the western wind blows free, Of the rocks of the Skagerrack, Of the shoals of the Cattegat; Strike out for the open sea, Strike out for the open sea!"

Low sunk the trees in the sun-laved seas, And the flash of peaking oars Grew faint and dim on the sheeny rim Of the harbor-dented shores. And far Faroe in the light lay low, Where rode like a dauntless host The white-plumed waves o'er the green sea graves Of the rock-imperilled coast. And I thought of the drifting dunes In the nights of the watery moons, And I thought of the Maelstrom's tide When the western wind blew free, Of the rocks of the Skagerrack, Of the shoals of the Cattegat, And I steered for the open sea, I steered for the open sea.

To far Faroe I sailed away, When bright the summer burned, And I told in the old Norse kirk one day The lesson my heart had learned. Then the grizzly landvogt said to me: "Of strength we may not boast; But ever in life for you and me There's danger near the coast. Then think of the drifting dunes In the nights of the watery moons, And think of the Maelstrom's tide When the western wind blows free, Of the rocks of the Skagerrack, Of the shoals of the Cattegat; Strike out for the open sea, Strike out for the open sea!"

"O landvogt, well thou knowest the ways Wherein my feet may fall." "Oh, no, my boy, I only know The ways that are safe to all, The ways that are safe to all, my boy, And there no soul is lost. Strike out in life for the open sea, There's danger near the coast. Then think of the drifting dunes In the nights of the watery moons, And think of the Maelstrom's tide When the western wind blows free, Of the rocks of the Skagerrack, Of the shoals of the Cattegat; Strike out for the open sea, Strike out for the open sea!

"False lights, false lights, are near the land, The reef the land wave hides, And the ship goes down in sight of the town That safe the deep sea rides. 'Tis those who steer the old life near Temptation suffer most; The way is plain to life's open main, There's danger near the coast. Beware of the drifting dunes In the nights of the watery moons, Beware of the Maelstrom's tide When the western wind blows free, Of the rocks of the Skagerrack, Of the shoals of the Cattegat; Strike out for the open sea, Strike out for the open sea!"

And so on life's sea I sailed away, Where free the waters flow, As I sailed from the old home port that day For the islands of far Faroe. And when I steer temptation near, The pilot, like a ghost, On the wave-rocked pier I seem to hear: "There's danger near the coast. Beware of the drifting dunes In the nights of the watery moons, Beware of the Maelstrom's tide When the western wind blows free, Of the rocks of the Skagerrack, Of the shoals of the Cattegat; Strike out for the open sea, Strike out for the open sea!"





CHAPTER XVII.

THE GREATER RHINE.

THE RETURN HOMEWARD.—ON THE TERRACE,—QUEBEC.

The Class made their return voyage by the way of Liverpool to Quebec, one of the shortest of the ocean ferries, and one of the most delightful in midsummer and early autumn, when the Atlantic is usually calm, and the icebergs have melted away.

As the steamer was passing down the Mersey, and Liverpool with her thousands of ships, and Birkenhead with its airy cottages, were disappearing from view, Mr. Beal remarked to the boys,—

"We shall return through the Straits, and so shall be probably only four and a half days out of sight of land."

"I did not suppose it was possible to cross the Atlantic from land to land in four days and a half," said Charlie Leland.

"We shall stop to-morrow at Moville, the port of Londonderry," said Mr. Beal. "A few hours after we leave we shall sink the Irish coast. Make notes of the time you lose sight of the light-houses of Ireland, and of the time when you first see Labrador, and compare the dates towards the end of the voyage," said Mr. Beal.

Past the green hills of Ireland the steamer glided along, among ships so numerous that the sea seemed a moving city, or the suburbs of a moving city; for Liverpool itself, with her seven miles of wonderful docks, is a city of the sea.

The Giant's Causeway, the sunny port of Moville, the rocky islands with their white light-houses, were passed, and at one o'clock on Monday morning the last light dropped into the calm sea, fading like a star.

The Atlantic was perfectly calm—as "calm as a mill-pond" as the expression is, during the tranquillity of the ocean that follows the settled summer weather. The steamer was heavily loaded, and had little apparent motion; bright days and bright nights succeeded each other. A flock of gulls followed the steamer far out to sea. For three days no object of interest was seen on the level ocean except the occasional spouting of a whale.

The sky was a glory in the long twilights. The sun when half set made the distant ocean seem like an island of fire, and the light clouds after sunset like hazes drifting away from a Paradisic sphere.

On Thursday morning the shadowy coast of Labrador appeared. The voyage seemed now virtually ended after four days from land to land. There were three days more, but the steamer would be in calm water, with land constantly in view.

The Straits of Belle Isle, some six miles wide, were as calm as had been the ocean. The Gulf of St. Lawrence—the fishing field of the world—was like a surface of glass. The sunrise and moonrise were now magnificent; the sunsets brought scenes to view as wonderful as the skies of Italy; gigantic mountains rose; clustering sails broke the monotonous expanse of the glassy sea, and now and then appeared an Indian canoe such as Jacques Cartier and the early explorers saw nearly three centuries ago.

The wild shores of Anticosti rose and sunk.

"We are now in the Greater Rhine," said Mr. Beal to the boys,—"the Rhine of the West."

"How is that?" asked Charlie Leland. "Is not the Hudson the American Rhine?"



"It is the New York Rhine," said Mr. Beal, smiling. "The river St. Lawrence is, by right of analogy, the American Rhine, and so deserves to be called."

"Which is the larger river?" asked Charlie.

"The larger?"

"Yes, the longer?"

"It does not seem possible that an American schoolboy could seriously ask such a question! I am sometimes astonished, however, at the ignorance that older people of intelligence show in regard to our river of which all Americans should be proud.

"Ours is the Greater Rhine. The German Rhine is less than a thousand miles long; our Rhine is nearly twenty-five hundred miles long: the German Rhine can at almost any point be easily spanned with bridges; our Rhine defies bridges, except in its narrowest boundaries. The great inland seas of Superior, Huron, Michigan, Ontario, and Erie require a width of miles for their pathway to the ocean. The Rhine falls cannot be compared with Niagara, nor the scattered islands of the old river with the Lake of a Thousand Islands of the new. Quebec is as beautiful as Coblentz, and Montreal is in its situation one of the loveliest cities of the world.

"The tributaries of the old Rhine are small; those of the new are almost as large as the old Rhine itself,—the gloomy Saguenay, and the sparkling Ottawa.

"Think of its lakes! Lake Ladoga, the largest lake in Europe, contains only 6,330 square miles. Lake Superior has 32,000 square miles, and Michigan 22,000 square miles.

"You will soon have a view of the mountain scenery of the lower St. Lawrence. The pine-covered walls along which trail the clouds of the sky are almost continuous to Montreal."

"But why," asked Charlie Leland, "is the German Rhine so famous, and ours so little celebrated?"

"The German Rhine gathers around it the history of two thousand years; ours, two hundred years. What will our Rhine be two thousand years from to-day?"

He added:—

"I look upon New England as one of the best products of civilization thus far. But there is rising a new New England in the West, a vast empire in the States of the Northwest and in Canada, to which New England is as a province,—an empire that in one hundred years will lead the thought, the invention, and the statesmanship of the world. Every prairie schooner that goes that way is like a sail of the 'Mayflower.'

"In yonder steerage are a thousand emigrants. The easy-going, purse-proud cabin passengers do not know it; they do not visit them or give much thought to them: but there are the men and women whose children will one day sway the empire that will wear the crown of the world.

"The castles are fading from view on the hills of the old Rhine; towns and cities are leaping into life on the new. The procession of cities, like a triumphal march, will go on, on, on. The Canadian Empire will probably one day lock hands with the imperial States of the Northwest; Mexico, perhaps, will join the Confederacy, and Western America will doubtless vie with Eastern Russia in power, in progress, and in the glories of the achievements of the arts and sciences. Our Rhine has the future: let the old Rhine have the past."

The Class approached Quebec at night. The scene was beautiful: like a city glimmering against the sky, the lights of the lower town, of the upper town, and of the Castle standing on the heights, shone brightly against the hills; and the firing of guns and the striking of bells were echoed from the opposite hills of the calm and majestic river.

The Class spent a day at Quebec, chiefly on the Terrace,—one of the most beautiful promenades in the world. From the Terrace the boys saw the making up of the emigrant trains on the opposite side of the river, where the steamer had landed, and saw them disappear along the winding river, going to the great province of Ontario, the lone woods of Muskoka, and the far shores of the Georgian Bay.





"I wish we might make a Zigzag journey on the St. Lawrence," said Charlie Leland.

"And collect the old legends, stories, and histories of the Indian tribes, and the early explorers and French settlers," added Mr. Beal. "Perhaps some day we may be able to do so. I am in haste to return to the States, but I regret to leave a place so perfectly beautiful as the Terrace of Quebec. It is delightful to sit here and see the steamers go and come; to watch the bright, happy faces pass, and to recall the fact that the river below is doubtless to be the water-path of the nations that will most greatly influence future times. But our journey is ended: let us go."

ON THE TERRACE,—QUEBEC.

Alone, beside these peaceful guns I walk,—the eve is calm and fair; Below, the broad St. Lawrence runs, Above, the castle shines in air, And o'er the breathless sea and land Night stretches forth her jewelled hand.

Amid the crowds that hurry past— Bright faces like a sunlit tide— Some eyes the gifts of friendship cast Upon me, as I walk aside, Kind, wordless welcomes understood, The Spirit's touch of brotherhood.

Below, the sea; above, the sky, Smile each to each, a vision fair; So like Faith's zones of light on high, A sphere seraphic seems the air, And loving thoughts there seem to meet, And come and go with golden feet.

Below me lies the old French town, With narrow rues and churches quaint, And tiled roofs and gables brown, And signs with names of many a saint. And there in all I see appears The heart of twice an hundred years.

Beyond, by inky steamers mailed, Point Levi's painted roofs arise, Where emigration long has hailed The empires of the western skies; And lightly wave the red flags there, Like roses of the damask air.

Peace o'er yon garden spreads her palm, Where heroes fought in other days; And Honor speaks of brave Montcalm On Wolfe's immortal shaft of praise. What lessons that I used to learn In schoolboy days to me return!

Fair terrace of the Western Rhine, I leave thee with unwilling feet, I long shall see thy castle shine As bright as now, in memories sweet; And cheerful thank the kindly eyes That lent to me their sympathies.

Go, friendly hearts, that met by chance A stranger for a little while; Friendship itself is but a glance, And love is but a passing smile. I am a pilgrim,—all I meet Are glancing eyes and hurrying feet.

Farewell; in dreams I see again The northern river of the vine, While crowns the sun with golden grain The hillsides of the greater Rhine. And here shall grow as years increase The empires of the Rhine of Peace.



University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.



Transcriber's Note

This book contains some archaic spelling, which has been preserved as printed. Minor punctuation errors have been repaired.

There is some variable spelling, particularly of place names; this has been repaired where there was a definite prevalence of one form over the other, but is otherwise left as printed.

Page 12—"Castle at" amended to "Bell Tower of"—"Bell Tower of Heidelberg 229"

There are two references on page 57 to "Crofe Castle" in Dorsetshire, which appear to be an author error for "Corfe Castle". These have been preserved as printed.

Character dialogue sometimes transitions into tales, which do not use continuing quote marks. As a result, some closing quotes are omitted, and this has been preserved as printed.

The frontispiece illustration and advertising material have been moved to follow the title page. Other illustrations have been moved where necessary so that they are not in the middle of a paragraph.

The list of illustrations included some captions which were not included with their corresponding image in the main text. These have been added.

A pointing hand symbol is indicated with —>.

THE END