No More Learning

THE SWAN'S NEST

Between the Baltic and the North Sea there lies an old swan's
nest, wherein swans are born and have been born that shall never die.

In olden times a flock of swans flew over the Alps to the green
plains around Milan, where it was delightful to dwell. This flight
of swans men called the Lombards.

Another flock, with shining plumage and honest eyes, soared
southward to Byzantium; the swans established themselves there close
by the Emperor's throne, and spread their wings over him as shields to
protect him. They received the name of Varangians.

On the coast of France there sounded a cry of fear, for the
blood-stained swans that came from the North with fire under their
wings; and the people prayed, "Heaven deliver us from the wild
Northmen. "

On the fresh sward of England stood the Danish swan by the open
seashore, with the crown of three kingdoms on his head; and he
stretched out his golden sceptre over the land. The heathens on the
Pomerian coast bent the knee, and the Danish swans came with the
banner of the Cross and with the drawn sword.

"That was in the very old times," you say.

In later days two mighty swans have been seen to fly from the
nest. A light shone far through the air, far over the lands of the
earth; the swan, with the strong beating of his wings, scattered the
twilight mists, and the starry sky was seen, and it was as if it
came nearer to the earth. That was the swan Tycho Brahe.

"Yes, then," you say; "but in our own days? "

We have seen swan after swan soar by in glorious flight. One let
his pinions glide over the strings of the golden harp, and it
resounded through the North. Norway's mountains seemed to rise
higher in the sunlight of former days; there was a rustling among
the pine trees and the birches; the gods of the North, the heroes, and
the noble women, showed themselves in the dark forest depths.

We have seen a swan beat with his wings upon the marble crag, so
that it burst, and the forms of beauty imprisoned in the stone stepped
out to the sunny day, and men in the lands round about lifted up their
heads to behold these mighty forms.

We have seen a third swan spinning the thread of thought that is
fastened from country to country round the world, so that the word may
fly with lightning speed from land to land.

And our Lord loves the old swan's nest between the Baltic and
the North Sea. And when the mighty birds come soaring through the
air to destroy it, even the callow young stand round in a circle on
the margin of the nest, and though their breasts may be struck so that
their blood flows, they bear it, and strike with their wings and their
claws.

Centuries will pass by, swans will fly forth from the nest, men
will see them and hear them in the world, before it shall be said in
spirit and in truth, "This is the last swan--the last song from the
swan's nest. "




THE SWINEHERD

Once upon a time lived a poor prince; his kingdom was very
small, but it was large enough to enable him to marry, and marry he
would. It was rather bold of him that he went and asked the
emperor's daughter: "Will you marry me? " but he ventured to do so, for
his name was known far and wide, and there were hundreds of princesses
who would have gladly accepted him, but would she do so? Now we
shall see.

On the grave of the prince's father grew a rose-tree, the most
beautiful of its kind. It bloomed only once in five years, and then it
had only one single rose upon it, but what a rose! It had such a sweet
scent that one instantly forgot all sorrow and grief when one smelt
it. He had also a nightingale, which could sing as if every sweet
melody was in its throat. This rose and the nightingale he wished to
give to the princess; and therefore both were put into big silver
cases and sent to her.

The emperor ordered them to be carried into the great hall where
the princess was just playing "Visitors are coming" with her
ladies-in-waiting; when she saw the large cases with the presents
therein, she clapped her hands for joy.

"I wish it were a little pussy cat," she said. But then the
rose-tree with the beautiful rose was unpacked.

"Oh, how nicely it is made," exclaimed the ladies.

"It is more than nice," said the emperor, "it is charming. "

The princess touched it and nearly began to cry.

"For shame, pa," she said, "it is not artificial, it is natural! "

"For shame, it is natural," repeated all her ladies.

"Let us first see what the other case contains before we are
angry," said the emperor; then the nightingale was taken out, and it
sang so beautifully that no one could possibly say anything unkind
about it.

"Superbe, charmant," said the ladies of the court, for they all
prattled French, one worse than the other.

"How much the bird reminds me of the musical box of the late
lamented empress," said an old courtier, "it has exactly the same
tone, the same execution. "

"You are right," said the emperor, and began to cry like a
little child.

"I hope it is not natural," said the princess.

"Yes, certainly it is natural," replied those who had brought
the presents.

"Then let it fly," said the princess, and refused to see the
prince.

But the prince was not discouraged. He painted his face, put on
common clothes, pulled his cap over his forehead, and came back.

"Good day, emperor," he said, "could you not give me some
employment at the court? "

"There are so many," replied the emperor, "who apply for places,
that for the present I have no vacancy, but I will remember you. But
wait a moment; it just comes into my mind, I require somebody to
look after my pigs, for I have a great many. "

Thus the prince was appointed imperial swineherd, and as such he
lived in a wretchedly small room near the pigsty; there he worked
all day long, and when it was night he had made a pretty little pot.
There were little bells round the rim, and when the water began to
boil in it, the bells began to play the old tune:

"A jolly old sow once lived in a sty,
Three little piggies had she," &c.

But what was more wonderful was that, when one put a finger into the
steam rising from the pot, one could at once smell what meals they
were preparing on every fire in the whole town. That was indeed much
more remarkable than the rose. When the princess with her ladies
passed by and heard the tune, she stopped and looked quite pleased,
for she also could play it--in fact, it was the only tune she could
play, and she played it with one finger.

"That is the tune I know," she exclaimed. "He must be a
well-educated swineherd. Go and ask him how much the instrument is. "

One of the ladies had to go and ask; but she put on pattens.

"What will you take for your pot? " asked the lady.

"I will have ten kisses from the princess," said the swineherd.

"God forbid," said the lady.

"Well, I cannot sell it for less," replied the swineherd.

"What did he say? " said the princess.

"I really cannot tell you," replied the lady.

"You can whisper it into my ear. "

"It is very naughty," said the princess, and walked off.

But when she had gone a little distance, the bells rang again so
sweetly:

"A jolly old sow once lived in a sty,
Three little piggies had she," &c.


"Ask him," said the princess, "if he will be satisfied with ten
kisses from one of my ladies. "

"No, thank you," said the swineherd: "ten kisses from the
princess, or I keep my pot. "

"That is tiresome," said the princess. "But you must stand
before me, so that nobody can see it. "

The ladies placed themselves in front of her and spread out
their dresses, and she gave the swineherd ten kisses and received
the pot.

That was a pleasure! Day and night the water in the pot was
boiling; there was not a single fire in the whole town of which they
did not know what was preparing on it, the chamberlain's as well as
the shoemaker's. The ladies danced and clapped their hands for joy.

"We know who will eat soup and pancakes; we know who will eat
porridge and cutlets; oh, how interesting! "

"Very interesting, indeed," said the mistress of the household.
"But you must not betray me, for I am the emperor's daughter. "

"Of course not," they all said.

The swineherd--that is to say, the prince--but they did not know
otherwise than that he was a real swineherd--did not waste a single
day without doing something; he made a rattle, which, when turned
quickly round, played all the waltzes, galops, and polkas known
since the creation of the world.

"But that is superbe," said the princess passing by. "I have never
heard a more beautiful composition. Go down and ask him what the
instrument costs; but I shall not kiss him again. "

"He will have a hundred kisses from the princess," said the
lady, who had gone down to ask him.

"I believe he is mad," said the princess, and walked off, but soon
she stopped. "One must encourage art," she said. "I am the emperor's
daughter! Tell him I will give him ten kisses, as I did the other day;
the remainder one of my ladies can give him.

"But we do not like to kiss him," said the ladies.

"That is nonsense," said the princess; "if I can kiss him, you can
also do it. Remember that I give you food and employment. " And the
lady had to go down once more.

"A hundred kisses from the princess," said the swineherd, "or
everybody keeps his own. "

"Place yourselves before me," said the princess then. They did
as they were bidden, and the princess kissed him.

"I wonder what that crowd near the pigsty means! " said the
emperor, who had just come out on his balcony. He rubbed his eyes
and put his spectacles on.

"The ladies of the court are up to some mischief, I think. I shall
have to go down and see. " He pulled up his shoes, for they were down
at the heels, and he was very quick about it. When he had come down
into the courtyard he walked quite softly, and the ladies were so
busily engaged in counting the kisses, that all should be fair, that
they did not notice the emperor. He raised himself on tiptoe.

"What does this mean? " he said, when he saw that his daughter
was kissing the swineherd, and then hit their heads with his shoe just
as the swineherd received the sixty-eighth kiss.

"Go out of my sight," said the emperor, for he was very angry; and
both the princess and the swineherd were banished from the empire.
There she stood and cried, the swineherd scolded her, and the rain
came down in torrents.

"Alas, unfortunate creature that I am! " said the princess, "I wish
I had accepted the prince. Oh, how wretched I am! "

The swineherd went behind a tree, wiped his face, threw off his
poor attire and stepped forth in his princely garments; he looked so
beautiful that the princess could not help bowing to him.

"I have now learnt to despise you," he said. "You refused an
honest prince; you did not appreciate the rose and the nightingale;
but you did not mind kissing a swineherd for his toys; you have no one
but yourself to blame! "

And then he returned into his kingdom and left her behind. She
could now sing at her leisure:

"A jolly old sow once lived in a sty,
Three little piggies has she," &c.




THE THISTLE'S EXPERIENCES

Belonging to the lordly manor-house was beautiful, well-kept
garden, with rare trees and flowers; the guests of the proprietor
declared their admiration of it; the people of the neighborhood,
from town and country, came on Sundays and holidays, and asked
permission to see the garden; indeed, whole schools used to pay visits
to it.

Outside the garden, by the palings at the road-side, stood a great
mighty Thistle, which spread out in many directions from the root,
so that it might have been called a thistle bush. Nobody looked at it,
except the old Ass which drew the milk-maid's cart. This Ass used to
stretch out his neck towards the Thistle, and say, "You are beautiful;
I should like to eat you! " But his halter was not long enough to let
him reach it and eat it.

There was great company at the manor-house--some very noble people
from the capital; young pretty girls, and among them a young lady
who came from a long distance. She had come from Scotland, and was
of high birth, and was rich in land and in gold--a bride worth
winning, said more than one of the young gentlemen; and their lady
mothers said the same thing.

The young people amused themselves on the lawn, and played at
ball; they wandered among the flowers, and each of the young girls
broke off a flower, and fastened it in a young gentleman's buttonhole.
But the young Scotch lady looked round, for a long time, in an
undecided way. None of the flowers seemed to suit her taste. Then
her eye glanced across the paling--outside stood the great thistle
bush, with the reddish-blue, sturdy flowers; she saw them, she smiled,
and asked the son of the house to pluck one for her.

"It is the flower of Scotland," she said. "It blooms in the
scutcheon of my country. Give me yonder flower. "

And he brought the fairest blossom, and pricked his fingers as
completely as if it had grown on the sharpest rose bush.

She placed the thistle-flower in the buttonhole of the young
man, and he felt himself highly honored. Each of the other young
gentlemen would willingly have given his own beautiful flower to
have worn this one, presented by the fair hand of the Scottish maiden.
And if the son of the house felt himself honored, what were the
feelings of the Thistle bush? It seemed to him as if dew and
sunshine were streaming through him.

"I am something more than I knew of," said the Thistle to
itself. "I suppose my right place is really inside the palings, and
not outside. One is often strangely placed in this world; but now I
have at least managed to get one of my people within the pale, and
indeed into a buttonhole! "

The Thistle told this event to every blossom that unfolded itself,
and not many days had gone by before the Thistle heard, not from
men, not from the twittering of the birds, but from the air itself,
which stores up the sounds, and carries them far around--out of the
most retired walks of the garden, and out of the rooms of the house,
in which doors and windows stood open, that the young gentleman who
had received the thistle-flower from the hand of the fair Scottish
maiden had also now received the heart and hand of the lady in
question. They were a handsome pair--it was a good match.

"That match I made up! " said the Thistle; and he thought of the
flower he had given for the buttonhole. Every flower that opened heard
of this occurrence.

"I shall certainly be transplanted into the garden," thought the
Thistle, "and perhaps put into a pot, which crowds one in. That is said
to be the greatest of all honors. "

And the Thistle pictured this to himself in such a lively
manner, that at last he said, with full conviction, "I am to be
transplanted into a pot. "

Then he promised every little thistle flower which unfolded itself
that it also should be put into a pot, and perhaps into a
buttonhole, the highest honor that could be attained. But not one of
them was put into a pot, much less into a buttonhole. They drank in
the sunlight and the air; lived on the sunlight by day, and on the dew
by night; bloomed--were visited by bees and hornets, who looked
after the honey, the dowry of the flower, and they took the honey, and
left the flower where it was.

"The thievish rabble! " said the Thistle. "If I could only stab
every one of them! But I cannot. "

The flowers hung their heads and faded; but after a time new
ones came.

"You come in good time," said the Thistle. "I am expecting every
moment to get across the fence. "

A few innocent daisies, and a long thin dandelion, stood and
listened in deep admiration, and believed everything they heard.

The old Ass of the milk-cart stood at the edge of the
field-road, and glanced across at the blooming thistle bush; but his
halter was too short, and he could not reach it.

And the Thistle thought so long of the thistle of Scotland, to
whose family he said he belonged, that he fancied at last that he
had come from Scotland, and that his parents had been put into the
national escutcheon. That was a great thought; but, you see, a great
thistle has a right to a great thought.

"One is often of so grand a family, that one may not know it,"
said the Nettle, who grew close by. He had a kind of idea that he
might be made into cambric if he were rightly treated.

And the summer went by, and the autumn went by. The leaves fell
from the trees, and the few flowers left had deeper colors and less
scent. The gardener's boy sang in the garden, across the palings:

"Up the hill, down the dale we wend,
That is life, from beginning to end. "


The young fir trees in the forest began to long for Christmas, but
it was a long time to Christmas yet.

"Here I am standing yet! " said the Thistle. "It is as if nobody
thought of me, and yet I managed the match. They were betrothed, and
they have had their wedding; it is now a week ago. I won't take a
single step-because I can't. "

A few more weeks went by. The Thistle stood there with his last
single flower large and full. This flower had shot up from near the
roots; the wind blew cold over it, and the colors vanished, and the
flower grew in size, and looked like a silvered sunflower.

One day the young pair, now man and wife, came into the garden.
They went along by the paling, and the young wife looked across it.

"There's the great thistle still growing," she said. "It has no
flowers now. "

"Oh, yes, the ghost of the last one is there still," said he.
And he pointed to the silvery remains of the flower, which looked like
a flower themselves.

"It is pretty, certainly," she said. "Such an one must be carved
on the frame of our picture. "

And the young man had to climb across the palings again, and to
break off the calyx of the thistle. It pricked his fingers, but then
he had called it a ghost. And this thistle-calyx came into the garden,
and into the house, and into the drawing-room. There stood a
picture--"Young Couple. " A thistle-flower was painted in the
buttonhole of the bridegroom. They spoke about this, and also about
the thistle-flower they brought, the last thistle-flower, now gleaming
like silver, whose picture was carved on the frame.

And the breeze carried what was spoken away, far away.

"What one can experience! " said the Thistle Bush. "My first born
was put into a buttonhole, and my youngest has been put in a frame.
Where shall I go? "

And the Ass stood by the road-side, and looked across at the
Thistle.

"Come to me, my nibble darling! " said he. "I can't get across to
you. "

But the Thistle did not answer.
He became more and more
thoughtful--kept on thinking and thinking till near Christmas, and
then a flower of thought came forth.

"If the children are only good, the parents do not mind standing
outside the garden pale. "

"That's an honorable thought," said the Sunbeam. "You shall also
have a good place. "

"In a pot or in a frame? " asked the Thistle.

"In a story," replied the Sunbeam.




THE THORNY ROAD OF HONOR

An old story yet lives of the "Thorny Road of Honor," of a
marksman, who indeed attained to rank and office, but only after a
lifelong and weary strife against difficulties. Who has not, in
reading this story, thought of his own strife, and of his own numerous
"difficulties? " The story is very closely akin to reality; but still
it has its harmonious explanation here on earth, while reality often
points beyond the confines of life to the regions of eternity. The
history of the world is like a magic lantern that displays to us, in
light pictures upon the dark ground of the present, how the
benefactors of mankind, the martyrs of genius, wandered along the
thorny road of honor.

From all periods, and from every country, these shining pictures
display themselves to us. Each only appears for a few moments, but
each represents a whole life, sometimes a whole age, with its
conflicts and victories. Let us contemplate here and there one of
the company of martyrs--the company which will receive new members
until the world itself shall pass away.

We look down upon a crowded amphitheatre. Out of the "Clouds" of
Aristophanes, satire and humor are pouring down in streams upon the
audience; on the stage Socrates, the most remarkable man in Athens, he
who had been the shield and defence of the people against the thirty
tyrants, is held up mentally and bodily to ridicule--Socrates, who
saved Alcibiades and Xenophon in the turmoil of battle, and whose
genius soared far above the gods of the ancients. He himself is
present; he has risen from the spectator's bench, and has stepped
forward, that the laughing Athenians may well appreciate the
likeness between himself and the caricature on the stage. There he
stands before them, towering high above them all.

Thou juicy, green, poisonous hemlock, throw thy shadow over
Athens--not thou, olive tree of fame!

Seven cities contended for the honor of giving birth to Homer--that
is to say, they contended after his death! Let us look at him
as he was in his lifetime. He wanders on foot through the cities,
and recites his verses for a livelihood; the thought for the morrow
turns his hair gray! He, the great seer, is blind, and painfully
pursues his way--the sharp thorn tears the mantle of the king of
poets. His song yet lives, and through that alone live all the
heroes and gods of antiquity.

One picture after another springs up from the east, from the west,
far removed from each other in time and place, and yet each one
forming a portion of the thorny road of honor, on which the thistle
indeed displays a flower, but only to adorn the grave.

The camels pass along under the palm trees; they are richly
laden with indigo and other treasures of value, sent by the ruler of
the land to him whose songs are the delight of the people, the fame of
the country. He whom envy and falsehood have driven into exile has
been found, and the caravan approaches the little town in which he has
taken refuge. A poor corpse is carried out of the town gate, and the
funeral procession causes the caravan to halt. The dead man is he whom
they have been sent to seek--Firdusi--who has wandered the Thorny road
of honor even to the end.

The African, with blunt features, thick lips, and woolly hair,
sits on the marble steps of the palace in the capital of Portugal, and
begs. He is the submissive slave of Camoens, and but for him, and
for the copper coins thrown to him by the passers-by, his master,
the poet of the "Lusiad," would die of hunger. Now, a costly
monument marks the grave of Camoens.

There is a new picture.

Behind the iron grating a man appears, pale as death, with long
unkempt beard.

"I have made a discovery," he says, "the greatest that has been
made for centuries; and they have kept me locked up here for more than
twenty years! "

Who is the man?

"A madman," replies the keeper of the madhouse. "What whimsical
ideas these lunatics have! He imagines that one can propel things by
means of steam. "

It is Solomon de Cares, the discoverer of the power of steam,
whose theory, expressed in dark words, is not understood by Richelieu;
and he dies in the madhouse.

Here stands Columbus, whom the street boys used once to follow and
jeer, because he wanted to discover a new world; and he has discovered
it. Shouts of joy greet him from the breasts of all, and the clash
of bells sounds to celebrate his triumphant return; but the clash of
the bells of envy soon drowns the others. The discoverer of a world--he
who lifted the American gold land from the sea, and gave it to
his king--he is rewarded with iron chains. He wishes that these chains
may be placed in his coffin, for they witness to the world of the
way in which a man's contemporaries reward good service.

One picture after another comes crowding on; the thorny path of
honor and of fame is over-filled.

Here in dark night sits the man who measured the mountains in
the moon; he who forced his way out into the endless space, among
stars and planets; he, the mighty man who understood the spirit of
nature, and felt the earth moving beneath his feet--Galileo. Blind and
deaf he sits--an old man thrust through with the spear of suffering,
and amid the torments of neglect, scarcely able to lift his foot--that
foot with which, in the anguish of his soul, when men denied the
truth, he stamped upon the ground, with the exclamation, "Yet it
moves! "

Here stands a woman of childlike mind, yet full of faith and
inspiration. She carries the banner in front of the combating army,
and brings victory and salvation to her fatherland. The sound of
shouting arises, and the pile flames up. They are burning the witch,
Joan of Arc. Yes, and a future century jeers at the White Lily.
Voltaire, the satyr of human intellect, writes "La Pucelle. "

At the Thing or Assembly at Viborg, the Danish nobles burn the
laws of the king. They flame up high, illuminating the period and
the lawgiver, and throw a glory into the dark prison tower, where an
old man is growing gray and bent. With his finger he marks out a
groove in the stone table. It is the popular king who sits there, once
the ruler of three kingdoms, the friend of the citizen and the
peasant. It is Christian the Second. Enemies wrote his history. Let us
remember his improvements of seven and twenty years, if we cannot
forget his crime.

A ship sails away, quitting the Danish shores. A man leans against
the mast, casting a last glance towards the Island Hueen. It is
Tycho Brahe. He raised the name of Denmark to the stars, and was
rewarded with injury, loss and sorrow. He is going to a strange
country.

"The vault of heaven is above me everywhere," he says, "and what
do I want more? "

And away sails the famous Dane, the astronomer, to live honored
and free in a strange land.

"Ay, free, if only from the unbearable sufferings of the body! "
comes in a sigh through time, and strikes upon our ear. What a
picture! Griffenfeldt, a Danish Prometheus, bound to the rocky
island of Munkholm.

We are in America, on the margin of one of the largest rivers;
an innumerable crowd has gathered, for it is said that a ship is to
sail against the wind and weather, bidding defiance to the elements.
The man who thinks he can solve the problem is named Robert Fulton.
The ship begins its passage, but suddenly it stops. The crowd begins
to laugh and whistle and hiss--the very father of the man whistles
with the rest.

"Conceit! Foolery! " is the cry. "It has happened just as he
deserved. Put the crack-brain under lock and key! "

Then suddenly a little nail breaks, which had stopped the
machine for a few moments; and now the wheels turn again, the floats
break the force of the waters, and the ship continues its course;
and the beam of the steam engine shortens the distance between far
lands from hours into minutes.

O human race, canst thou grasp the happiness of such a minute of
consciousness, this penetration of the soul by its mission, the moment
in which all dejection, and every wound--even those caused by one's
own fault--is changed into health and strength and clearness--when
discord is converted to harmony--the minute in which men seem to
recognize the manifestation of the heavenly grace in one man, and feel
how this one imparts it to all?

Thus the thorny path of honor shows itself as a glory, surrounding
the earth with its beams. Thrice happy he who is chosen to be a
wanderer there, and, without merit of his own, to be placed between
the builder of the bridge and the earth--between Providence and the
human race.

On mighty wings the spirit of history floats through the ages, and
shows--giving courage and comfort, and awakening gentle thoughts--on
the dark nightly background, but in gleaming pictures, the thorny path
of honor, which does not, like a fairy tale, end in brilliancy and joy
here on earth, but stretches out beyond all time, even into eternity!




IN A THOUSAND YEARS

Yes, in a thousand years people will fly on the wings of steam
through the air, over the ocean! The young inhabitants of America will
become visitors of old Europe. They will come over to see the
monuments and the great cities, which will then be in ruins, just as
we in our time make pilgrimages to the tottering splendors of Southern
Asia. In a thousand years they will come!

The Thames, the Danube, and the Rhine still roll their course,
Mont Blanc stands firm with its snow-capped summit, and the Northern
Lights gleam over the land of the North; but generation after
generation has become dust, whole rows of the mighty of the moment are
forgotten, like those who already slumber under the hill on which
the rich trader, whose ground it is, has built a bench, on which he
can sit and look out across his waving corn fields.

"To Europe! " cry the young sons of America; "to the land of our
ancestors, the glorious land of monuments and fancy--to Europe! "

The ship of the air comes. It is crowded with passengers, for
the transit is quicker than by sea. The electro-magnetic wire under
the ocean has already telegraphed the number of the aerial caravan.
Europe is in sight. It is the coast of Ireland that they see, but
the passengers are still asleep; they will not be called till they are
exactly over England. There they will first step on European shore, in
the land of Shakespeare, as the educated call it; in the land of
politics, the land of machines, as it is called by others.

Here they stay a whole day. That is all the time the busy race can
devote to the whole of England and Scotland. Then the journey is
continued through the tunnel under the English Channel, to France, the
land of Charlemagne and Napoleon. Moliere is named, the learned men
talk of the classic school of remote antiquity. There is rejoicing and
shouting for the names of heroes, poets, and men of science, whom
our time does not know, but who will be born after our time in
Paris, the centre of Europe, and elsewhere.

The air steamboat flies over the country whence Columbus went
forth, where Cortez was born, and where Calderon sang dramas in
sounding verse. Beautiful black-eyed women live still in the
blooming valleys, and the oldest songs speak of the Cid and the
Alhambra.

Then through the air, over the sea, to Italy, where once lay
old, everlasting Rome. It has vanished! The Campagna lies desert. A
single ruined wall is shown as the remains of St. Peter's, but there
is a doubt if this ruin be genuine.

Next to Greece, to sleep a night in the grand hotel at the top
of Mount Olympus, to say that they have been there; and the journey is
continued to the Bosphorus, to rest there a few hours, and see the
place where Byzantium lay; and where the legend tells that the harem
stood in the time of the Turks, poor fishermen are now spreading their
nets.

Over the remains of mighty cities on the broad Danube, cities
which we in our time know not, the travellers pass; but here and
there, on the rich sites of those that time shall bring forth, the
caravan sometimes descends, and departs thence again.

Down below lies Germany, that was once covered with a close net of
railway and canals, the region where Luther spoke, where Goethe
sang, and Mozart once held the sceptre of harmony. Great names shine
there, in science and in art, names that are unknown to us. One day
devoted to seeing Germany, and one for the North, the country of
Oersted and Linnaeus, and for Norway, the land of the old heroes and
the young Normans. Iceland is visited on the journey home. The geysers
burn no more, Hecla is an extinct volcano, but the rocky island is
still fixed in the midst of the foaming sea, a continual monument of
legend and poetry.

"There is really a great deal to be seen in Europe," says the
young American, "and we have seen it in a week, according to the
directions of the great traveller" (and here he mentions the name of
one of his contemporaries) "in his celebrated work, 'How to See All
Europe in a Week. '"




THE BRAVE TIN SOLDIER

There were once five-and-twenty tin soldiers, who were all
brothers, for they had been made out of the same old tin spoon. They
shouldered arms and looked straight before them, and wore a splendid
uniform, red and blue. The first thing in the world they ever heard
were the words, "Tin soldiers! " uttered by a little boy, who clapped
his hands with delight when the lid of the box, in which they lay, was
taken off. They were given him for a birthday present, and he stood at
the table to set them up. The soldiers were all exactly alike,
excepting one, who had only one leg; he had been left to the last, and
then there was not enough of the melted tin to finish him, so they
made him to stand firmly on one leg, and this caused him to be very
remarkable.

The table on which the tin soldiers stood, was covered with
other playthings, but the most attractive to the eye was a pretty
little paper castle. Through the small windows the rooms could be
seen. In front of the castle a number of little trees surrounded a
piece of looking-glass, which was intended to represent a
transparent lake. Swans, made of wax, swam on the lake, and were
reflected in it. All this was very pretty, but the prettiest of all
was a tiny little lady, who stood at the open door of the castle; she,
also, was made of paper, and she wore a dress of clear muslin, with
a narrow blue ribbon over her shoulders just like a scarf. In front of
these was fixed a glittering tinsel rose, as large as her whole
face. The little lady was a dancer, and she stretched out both her
arms, and raised one of her legs so high, that the tin soldier could
not see it at all, and he thought that she, like himself, had only one
leg. "That is the wife for me," he thought; "but she is too grand, and
lives in a castle, while I have only a box to live in, five-and-twenty
of us altogether, that is no place for her. Still I must try and
make her acquaintance. " Then he laid himself at full length on the
table behind a snuff-box that stood upon it, so that he could peep
at the little delicate lady, who continued to stand on one leg without
losing her balance. When evening came, the other tin soldiers were all
placed in the box, and the people of the house went to bed. Then the
playthings began to have their own games together, to pay visits, to
have sham fights, and to give balls. The tin soldiers rattled in their
box; they wanted to get out and join the amusements, but they could
not open the lid. The nut-crackers played at leap-frog, and the pencil
jumped about the table. There was such a noise that the canary woke up
and began to talk, and in poetry too. Only the tin soldier and the
dancer remained in their places. She stood on tiptoe, with her legs
stretched out, as firmly as he did on his one leg. He never took his
eyes from her for even a moment. The clock struck twelve, and, with
a bounce, up sprang the lid of the snuff-box; but, instead of snuff,
there jumped up a little black goblin; for the snuff-box was a toy
puzzle.

"Tin soldier," said the goblin, "don't wish for what does not
belong to you. "

But the tin soldier pretended not to hear.

"Very well; wait till to-morrow, then," said the goblin.

When the children came in the next morning, they placed the tin
soldier in the window. Now, whether it was the goblin who did it, or
the draught, is not known, but the window flew open, and out fell
the tin soldier, heels over head, from the third story, into the
street beneath. It was a terrible fall; for he came head downwards,
his helmet and his bayonet stuck in between the flagstones, and his
one leg up in the air. The servant maid and the little boy went down
stairs directly to look for him; but he was nowhere to be seen,
although once they nearly trod upon him. If he had called out, "Here I
am," it would have been all right, but he was too proud to cry out for
help while he wore a uniform.

Presently it began to rain, and the drops fell faster and
faster, till there was a heavy shower. When it was over, two boys
happened to pass by, and one of them said, "Look, there is a tin
soldier. He ought to have a boat to sail in. "

So they made a boat out of a newspaper, and placed the tin soldier
in it, and sent him sailing down the gutter, while the two boys ran by
the side of it, and clapped their hands. Good gracious, what large
waves arose in that gutter! and how fast the stream rolled on! for the
rain had been very heavy. The paper boat rocked up and down, and
turned itself round sometimes so quickly that the tin soldier
trembled; yet he remained firm; his countenance did not change; he
looked straight before him, and shouldered his musket. Suddenly the
boat shot under a bridge which formed a part of a drain, and then it
was as dark as the tin soldier's box.

"Where am I going now? " thought he. "This is the black goblin's
fault, I am sure. Ah, well, if the little lady were only here with
me in the boat, I should not care for any darkness. "

Suddenly there appeared a great water-rat, who lived in the drain.

"Have you a passport? " asked the rat, "give it to me at once. " But
the tin soldier remained silent and held his musket tighter than ever.
The boat sailed on and the rat followed it. How he did gnash his teeth
and cry out to the bits of wood and straw, "Stop him, stop him; he has
not paid toll, and has not shown his pass. " But the stream rushed on
stronger and stronger. The tin soldier could already see daylight
shining where the arch ended. Then he heard a roaring sound quite
terrible enough to frighten the bravest man. At the end of the
tunnel the drain fell into a large canal over a steep place, which
made it as dangerous for him as a waterfall would be to us. He was too
close to it to stop, so the boat rushed on, and the poor tin soldier
could only hold himself as stiffly as possible, without moving an
eyelid, to show that he was not afraid. The boat whirled round three
or four times, and then filled with water to the very edge; nothing
could save it from sinking. He now stood up to his neck in water,
while deeper and deeper sank the boat, and the paper became soft and
loose with the wet, till at last the water closed over the soldier's
head. He thought of the elegant little dancer whom he should never see
again, and the words of the song sounded in his ears--

"Farewell, warrior! ever brave,
Drifting onward to thy grave. "


Then the paper boat fell to pieces, and the soldier sank into
the water and immediately afterwards was swallowed up by a great fish.
Oh how dark it was inside the fish! A great deal darker than in the
tunnel, and narrower too, but the tin soldier continued firm, and
lay at full length shouldering his musket. The fish swam to and fro,
making the most wonderful movements, but at last he became quite
still. After a while, a flash of lightning seemed to pass through him,
and then the daylight approached, and a voice cried out, "I declare
here is the tin soldier. " The fish had been caught, taken to the
market and sold to the cook, who took him into the kitchen and cut him
open with a large knife. She picked up the soldier and held him by the
waist between her finger and thumb, and carried him into the room.
They were all anxious to see this wonderful soldier who had
travelled about inside a fish; but he was not at all proud. They
placed him on the table, and--how many curious things do happen in the
world! --there he was in the very same room from the window of which he
had fallen, there were the same children, the same playthings,
standing on the table, and the pretty castle with the elegant little
dancer at the door; she still balanced herself on one leg, and held up
the other, so she was as firm as himself. It touched the tin soldier
so much to see her that he almost wept tin tears, but he kept them
back. He only looked at her and they both remained silent. Presently
one of the little boys took up the tin soldier, and threw him into the
stove. He had no reason for doing so, therefore it must have been
the fault of the black goblin who lived in the snuff-box. The flames
lighted up the tin soldier, as he stood, the heat was very terrible,
but whether it proceeded from the real fire or from the fire of love
he could not tell. Then he could see that the bright colors were faded
from his uniform, but whether they had been washed off during his
journey or from the effects of his sorrow, no one could say. He looked
at the little lady, and she looked at him. He felt himself melting
away, but he still remained firm with his gun on his shoulder.
Suddenly the door of the room flew open and the draught of air
caught up the little dancer, she fluttered like a sylph right into the
stove by the side of the tin soldier, and was instantly in flames
and was gone. The tin soldier melted down into a lump, and the next
morning, when the maid servant took the ashes out of the stove, she
found him in the shape of a little tin heart. But of the little dancer
nothing remained but the tinsel rose, which was burnt black as a
cinder.




THE TINDER-BOX

A soldier came marching along the high road: "Left, right--left,
right.