No More Learning

Anthony, I would not, for the world, make an enemy of you
when I am far away. Believe me, I entertain for you the kindest wishes
in my heart; but to feel for you what I now know can be felt for
another man, can never be. You must try and reconcile yourself to
this. Farewell, Anthony. "

Anthony also said, "Farewell. " Not a tear came into his eye; he
felt he was no longer Molly's friend. Hot iron and cold iron alike
take the skin from our lips, and we feel the same sensation if we kiss
either; and Anthony's kiss was now the kiss of hatred, as it had
once been the kiss of love. Within four-and-twenty hours Anthony was
back again to Eisenach, though the horse that he rode was entirely
ruined.

"What matters it? " said he; "I am ruined also. I will destroy
everything that can remind me of her, or of Lady Halle, or Lady Venus,
the heathen woman. I will break down the apple-tree, and tear it up by
the roots; never more shall it blossom or bear fruit. "

The apple-tree was not broken down; for Anthony himself was struck
with a fever, which caused him to break down, and confined him to
his bed. But something occurred to raise him up again. What was it?
A medicine was offered to him, which he was obliged to take: a
bitter remedy, at which the sick body and the oppressed spirit alike
shuddered. Anthony's father lost all his property, and, from being
known as one of the richest merchants, he became very poor. Dark days,
heavy trials, with poverty at the door, came rolling into the house
upon them like the waves of the sea. Sorrow and suffering deprived
Anthony's father of his strength, so that he had something else to
think of besides nursing his love-sorrows and his anger against Molly.
He had to take his father's place, to give orders, to act with energy,
to help, and, at last, to go out into the world and earn his bread.
Anthony went to Bremen, and there he learnt what poverty and hard
living really were. These things often harden the character, but
sometimes soften the heart, even too much.

How different the world, and the people in it, appeared to Anthony
now, to what he had thought in his childhood! What to him were the
minstrel's songs? An echo of the past, sounds long vanished. At
times he would think in this way; yet again and again the songs
would sound in his soul, and his heart become gentle and pious.

"God's will is the best," he would then say. "It was well that I
was not allowed to keep my power over Molly's heart, and that she
did not remain true to me. How I should have felt it now, when fortune
has deserted me! She left me before she knew of the change in my
circumstances, or had a thought of what was before me. That is a
merciful providence for me. All has happened for the best. She could
not help it, and yet I have been so bitter, and in such enmity against
her. "

Years passed by: Anthony's father died, and strangers lived in the
old house. He had seen it once again since then. His rich master
sent him journeys on business, and on one occasion his way led him
to his native town of Eisenach. The old Wartburg castle stood
unchanged on the rock where the monk and the nun were hewn out of
the stone. The great oaks formed an outline to the scene which he so
well remembered in his childhood. The Venus mountain stood out gray
and bare, overshadowing the valley beneath. He would have been glad to
call out "Lady Halle, Lady Halle, unlock the mountain. I would fain
remain here always in my native soil. " That was a sinful thought,
and he offered a prayer to drive it away. Then a little bird in the
thicket sang out clearly, and old Anthony thought of the minstrel's
song. How much came back to his remembrance as he looked through the
tears once more on his native town! The old house was still standing
as in olden times, but the garden had been greatly altered; a
pathway led through a portion of the ground, and outside the garden,
and beyond the path, stood the old apple-tree, which he had not broken
down, although he talked of doing so in his trouble. The sun still
threw its rays upon the tree, and the refreshing dew fell upon it as
of old; and it was so overloaded with fruit that the branches bent
towards the earth with the weight. "That flourishes still," said he,
as he gazed. One of the branches of the tree had, however, been
broken: mischievous hands must have done this in passing, for the tree
now stood in a public thoroughfare. "The blossoms are often
plucked," said Anthony; "the fruit is stolen and the branches broken
without a thankful thought of their profusion and beauty. It might
be said of a tree, as it has been said of some men--it was not
predicted at his cradle that he should come to this. How brightly
began the history of this tree, and what is it now? Forsaken and
forgotten, in a garden by a hedge in a field, and close to a public
road. There it stands, unsheltered, plundered, and broken. It
certainly has not yet withered; but in the course of years the
number of blossoms from time to time will grow less, and at last it
was cease altogether to bear fruit; and then its history will be
over. "

Such were Anthony's thoughts as he stood under the tree, and
during many a long night as he lay in his lonely chamber in the wooden
house in Hauschen Street, Copenhagen, in the foreign land to which the
rich merchant of Bremen, his employer, had sent him on condition
that he should never marry. "Marry! ha, ha! " and he laughed bitterly
to himself at the thought.

Winter one year set in early, and it was freezing hard. Without, a
snowstorm made every one remain at home who could do so. Thus it
happened that Anthony's neighbors, who lived opposite to him, did
not notice that his house remained unopened for two days, and that
he had not showed himself during that time, for who would go out in
such weather unless he were obliged to do so. They were gray, gloomy
days, and in the house whose windows were not glass, twilight and dark
nights reigned in turns. During these two days old Anthony had not
left his bed, he had not the strength to do so. The bitter weather had
for some time affected his limbs. There lay the old bachelor, forsaken
by all, and unable to help himself. He could scarcely reach the
water jug that he had placed by his bed, and the last drop was gone.
It was not fever, nor sickness, but old age, that had laid him low. In
the little corner, where his bed lay, he was over-shadowed as it
were by perpetual night. A little spider, which he could however not
see, busily and cheerfully spun its web above him, so that there
should be a kind of little banner waving over the old man, when his
eyes closed. The time passed slowly and painfully. He had no tears
to shed, and he felt no pain; no thought of Molly came into his
mind. He felt as if the world was now nothing to him, as if he were
lying beyond it, with no one to think of him. Now and then he felt
slight sensations of hunger and thirst; but no one came to him, no one
tended him. He thought of all those who had once suffered from
starvation, of Saint Elizabeth, who once wandered on the earth, the
saint of his home and his childhood, the noble Duchess of Thuringia,
that highly esteemed lady who visited the poorest villages, bringing
hope and relief to the sick inmates. The recollection of her pious
deeds was as light to the soul of poor Anthony. He thought of her as
she went about speaking words of comfort, binding up the wounds of the
afflicted and feeding the hungry, although often blamed for it by
her stern husband. He remembered a story told of her, that on one
occasion, when she was carrying a basket full of wine and
provisions, her husband, who had watched her footsteps, stepped
forward and asked her angrily what she carried in her basket,
whereupon, with fear and trembling, she answered, "Roses, which I have
plucked from the garden. " Then he tore away the cloth which covered
the basket, and what could equal the surprise of the pious woman, to
find that by a miracle, everything in her basket--the wine, the
bread--had all been changed into roses.

In this way the memory of the kind lady dwelt in the calm mind
of Anthony. She was as a living reality in his little dwelling in
the Danish land. He uncovered his face that he might look into her
gentle eyes, while everything around him changed from its look of
poverty and want, to a bright rose tint. The fragrance of roses spread
through the room, mingled with the sweet smell of apples. He saw the
branches of an apple-tree spreading above him. It was the tree which
he and Molly had planted together. The fragrant leaves of the tree
fell upon him and cooled his burning brow; upon his parched lips
they seemed like refreshing bread and wine; and as they rested on
his breast, a peaceful calm stole over him, and he felt inclined to
sleep. "I shall sleep now," he whispered to himself. "Sleep will do me
good. In the morning I shall be upon my feet again, strong and well.
Glorious! wonderful! That apple-tree, planted in love, now appears
before me in heavenly beauty. " And he slept.

The following day, the third day during which his house had been
closed, the snow-storm ceased. Then his opposite neighbor stepped over
to the house in which old Anthony lived, for he had not yet showed
himself. There he lay stretched on his bed, dead, with his old
nightcap tightly clasped in his two hands. The nightcap, however,
was not placed on his head in his coffin; he had a clean white one
on then. Where now were the tears he had shed? What had become of
those wonderful pearls? They were in the nightcap still. Such tears as
these cannot be washed out, even when the nightcap is forgotten. The
old thoughts and dreams of a bachelor's nightcap still remain. Never
wish for such a nightcap. It would make your forehead hot, cause
your pulse to beat with agitation, and conjure up dreams which would
appear realities.

The first who wore old Anthony's cap felt the truth of this,
though it was half a century afterwards. That man was the mayor
himself, who had already made a comfortable home for his wife and
eleven children, by his industry. The moment he put the cap on he
dreamed of unfortunate love, of bankruptcy, and of dark days.
"Hallo! how the nightcap burns! " he exclaimed, as he tore it from
his bead. Then a pearl rolled out, and then another, and another,
and they glittered and sounded as they fell. "What can this be? Is
it paralysis, or something dazzling my eyes? " They were the tears
which old Anthony had shed half a century before.

To every one who afterwards put this cap on his head, came visions
and dreams which agitated him not a little. His own history was
changed into that of Anthony till it became quite a story, and many
stories might be made by others, so we will leave them to relate their
own. We have told the first; and our last word is, don't wish for a
"bachelor's nightcap. "




THE OLD CHURCH BELL

(WRITTEN FOR THE SCHILLER ALBUM)

In the country of Wurtemburg, in Germany, where the acacias grow
by the public road, where the apple-trees and the pear-trees in autumn
bend to the earth with the weight of the precious fruit, lies the
little town of Marbach. As is often the case with many of these towns,
it is charmingly situated on the banks of the river Neckar, which
rushes rapidly by, passing villages, old knights' castles, and green
vineyards, till its waters mingle with those of the stately Rhine.
It was late in the autumn; the vine-leaves still hung upon the
branches of the vines, but they were already tinted with red and gold;
heavy showers fell on the surrounding country, and the cold autumn
wind blew sharp and strong. It was not at all pleasant weather for the
poor. The days grew shorter and more gloomy, and, dark as it was out
of doors in the open air, it was still darker within the small,
old-fashioned houses of the village. The gable end of one of these
houses faced the street, and with its small, narrow windows, presented
a very mean appearance. The family who dwelt in it were also very poor
and humble, but they treasured the fear of God in their innermost
hearts. And now He was about to send them a child. It was the hour
of the mother's sorrow, when there pealed forth from the church
tower the sound of festive bells. In that solemn hour the sweet and
joyous chiming filled the hearts of those in the humble dwelling
with thankfulness and trust; and when, amidst these joyous sounds, a
little son was born to them, the words of prayer and praise arose from
their overflowing hearts, and their happiness seemed to ring out
over town and country in the liquid tones of the church bells'
chime. The little one, with its bright eyes and golden hair, had
been welcomed joyously on that dark November day. Its parents kissed
it lovingly, and the father wrote these words in the Bible, "On the
tenth of November, 1759, God sent us a son. " And a short time after,
when the child had been baptized, the names he had received were
added, "John Christopher Frederick. "

And what became of the little lad? --the poor boy of the humble
town of Marbach? Ah, indeed, there was no one who thought or supposed,
not even the old church bell which had been the first to sound and
chime for him, that he would be the first to sing the beautiful song
of "The Bell. " The boy grew apace, and the world advanced with him.

While he was yet a child, his parents removed from Marbach, and
went to reside in another town; but their dearest friends remained
behind at Marbach, and therefore sometimes the mother and her son
would start on a fine day to pay a visit to the little town. The boy
was at this time about six years old, and already knew a great many
stories out of the Bible, and several religious psalms. While seated
in the evening on his little cane-chair, he had often heard his father
read from Gellert's fables, and sometimes from Klopstock's grand poem,
"The Messiah. " He and his sister, two years older than himself, had
often wept scalding tears over the story of Him who suffered death
on the cross for us all.

On his first visit to Marbach, the town appeared to have changed
but very little, and it was not far enough away to be forgotten. The
house, with its pointed gable, narrow windows, overhanging walls and
stories, projecting one beyond another, looked just the same as in
former times. But in the churchyard there were several new graves; and
there also, in the grass, close by the wall, stood the old church
bell! It had been taken down from its high position, in consequence of
a crack in the metal which prevented it from ever chiming again, and a
new bell now occupied its place. The mother and son were walking in
the churchyard when they discovered the old bell, and they stood still
to look at it. Then the mother reminded her little boy of what a
useful bell this had been for many hundred years. It had chimed for
weddings and for christenings; it had tolled for funerals, and to give
the alarm in case of fire. With every event in the life of man the
bell had made its voice heard. His mother also told him how the
chiming of that old bell had once filled her heart with joy and
confidence, and that in the midst of the sweet tones her child had
been given to her. And the boy gazed on the large, old bell with the
deepest interest. He bowed his head over it and kissed it, old, thrown
away, and cracked as it was, and standing there amidst the grass and
nettles. The boy never forgot what his mother told him, and the
tones of the old bell reverberated in his heart till he reached
manhood. In such sweet remembrance was the old bell cherished by the
boy, who grew up in poverty to be tall and slender, with a freckled
complexion and hair almost red; but his eyes were clear and blue as
the deep sea, and what was his career to be? His career was to be
good, and his future life enviable. We find him taking high honors
at the military school in the division commanded by the member of a
family high in position, and this was an honor, that is to say, good
luck. He wore gaiters, stiff collars, and powdered hair, and by this
he was recognized; and, indeed, he might be known by the word of
command--"March! halt! front! "

The old church bell had long been quite forgotten, and no one
imagined it would ever again be sent to the melting furnace to make it
as it was before. No one could possibly have foretold this. Equally
impossible would it have been to believe that the tones of the old
bell still echoed in the heart of the boy from Marbach; or that one
day they would ring out loud enough and strong enough to be heard
all over the world. They had already been heard in the narrow space
behind the school-wall, even above the deafening sounds of "March!
halt! front! " They had chimed so loudly in the heart of the youngster,
that he had sung them to his companions, and their tones resounded
to the very borders of the country. He was not a free scholar in the
military school, neither was he provided with clothes or food. But
he had his number, and his own peg; for everything here was ordered
like clockwork, which we all know is of the greatest utility--people
get on so much better together when their position and duties are
understood. It is by pressure that a jewel is stamped. The pressure of
regularity and discipline here stamped the jewel, which in the
future the world so well knew.

In the chief town of the province a great festival was being
celebrated. The light streamed forth from thousands of lamps, and
the rockets shot upwards towards the sky, filling the air with showers
of colored fiery sparks. A record of this bright display will live
in the memory of man, for through it the pupil in the military
school was in tears and sorrow. He had dared to attempt to reach
foreign territories unnoticed, and must therefore give up
fatherland, mother, his dearest friends, all, or sink down into the
stream of common life. The old church bell had still some comfort;
it stood in the shelter of the church wall in Marbach, once so
elevated, now quite forgotten. The wind roared around it, and could
have readily related the story of its origin and of its sweet
chimes, and the wind could also tell of him to whom he had brought
fresh air when, in the woods of a neighboring country, he had sunk
down exhausted with fatigue, with no other worldly possessions than
hope for the future, and a written leaf from "Fiesco. " The wind
could have told that his only protector was an artist, who, by reading
each leaf to him, made it plain; and that they amused themselves by
playing at nine-pins together. The wind could also describe the pale
fugitive, who, for weeks and months, lay in a wretched little
road-side inn, where the landlord got drunk and raved, and where the
merry-makers had it all their own way. And he, the pale fugitive, sang
of the ideal.

For many heavy days and dark nights the heart must suffer to
enable it to endure trial and temptation; yet, amidst it all, would
the minstrel sing. Dark days and cold nights also passed over the
old bell, and it noticed them not; but the bell in the man's heart
felt it to be a gloomy time. What would become of this young man,
and what would become of the old bell?

The old bell was, after a time, carried away to a greater distance
than any one, even the warder in the bell tower, ever imagined; and
the bell in the breast of the young man was heard in countries where
his feet had never wandered. The tones went forth over the wide
ocean to every part of the round world.

We will now follow the career of the old bell. It was, as we
have said, carried far away from Marbach and sold as old copper;
then sent to Bavaria to be melted down in a furnace. And then what
happened?

In the royal city of Bavaria, many years after the bell had been
removed from the tower and melted down, some metal was required for
a monument in honor of one of the most celebrated characters which a
German people or a German land could produce. And now we see how
wonderfully things are ordered. Strange things sometimes happen in
this world.

In Denmark, in one of those green islands where the foliage of the
beech-woods rustles in the wind, and where many Huns' graves may be
seen, was another poor boy born. He wore wooden shoes, and when his
father worked in a ship-yard, the boy, wrapped up in an old worn-out
shawl, carried his dinner to him every day. This poor child was now
the pride of his country; for the sculptured marble, the work of his
hands, had astonished the world. [1] To him was offered the honor of
forming from the clay, a model of the figure of him whose name,
"John Christopher Frederick," had been written by his father in the
Bible. The bust was cast in bronze, and part of the metal used for
this purpose was the old church bell, whose tones had died away from
the memory of those at home and elsewhere. The metal, glowing with
heat, flowed into the mould, and formed the head and bust of the
statue which was unveiled in the square in front of the old castle.
The statue represented in living, breathing reality, the form of him
who was born in poverty, the boy from Marbach, the pupil of the
military school, the fugitive who struggled against poverty and
oppression, from the outer world; Germany's great and immortal poet,
who sung of Switzerland's deliverer, William Tell, and of the
heaven-inspired Maid of Orleans.

It was a beautiful sunny day; flags were waving from tower and
roof in royal Stuttgart, and the church bells were ringing a joyous
peal. One bell was silent; but it was illuminated by the bright
sunshine which streamed from the head and bust of the renowned figure,
of which it formed a part. On this day, just one hundred years had
passed since the day on which the chiming of the old church bell at
Marbach had filled the mother's heart with trust and joy--the day on
which her child was born in poverty, and in a humble home; the same
who, in after-years, became rich, became the noble woman-hearted poet,
a blessing to the world--the glorious, the sublime, the immortal bard,
John Christoper Frederick Schiller!


[1] The Danish sculptor Thorwaldsen.




THE OLD GRAVE-STONE

In a house, with a large courtyard, in a provincial town, at
that time of the year in which people say the evenings are growing
longer, a family circle were gathered together at their old home. A
lamp burned on the table, although the weather was mild and warm,
and the long curtains hung down before the open windows, and without
the moon shone brightly in the dark-blue sky.

But they were not talking of the moon, but of a large, old stone
that lay below in the courtyard not very far from the kitchen door.
The maids often laid the clean copper saucepans and kitchen vessels on
this stone, that they might dry in the sun, and the children were fond
of playing on it. It was, in fact, an old grave-stone.

"Yes," said the master of the house, "I believe the stone came
from the graveyard of the old church of the convent which was pulled
down, and the pulpit, the monuments, and the grave-stones sold. My
father bought the latter; most of them were cut in two and used for
paving-stones, but that one stone was preserved whole, and laid in the
courtyard. "

"Any one can see that it is a grave-stone," said the eldest of the
children; "the representation of an hour-glass and part of the
figure of an angel can still be traced, but the inscription beneath is
quite worn out, excepting the name 'Preben,' and a large 'S' close
by it, and a little farther down the name of 'Martha' can be easily
read. But nothing more, and even that cannot be seen unless it has
been raining, or when we have washed the stone. "

"Dear me! how singular. Why that must be the grave-stone of Preben
Schwane and his wife. "

The old man who said this looked old enough to be the
grandfather of all present in the room.

"Yes," he continued, "these people were among the last who were
buried in the churchyard of the old convent. They were a very worthy
old couple, I can remember them well in the days of my boyhood.
Every one knew them, and they were esteemed by all. They were the
oldest residents in the town, and people said they possessed a ton
of gold, yet they were always very plainly dressed, in the coarsest
stuff, but with linen of the purest whiteness. Preben and Martha
were a fine old couple, and when they both sat on the bench, at the
top of the steep stone steps, in front of their house, with the
branches of the linden-tree waving above them, and nodded in a gentle,
friendly way to passers by, it really made one feel quite happy.
They were very good to the poor; they fed them and clothed them, and
in their benevolence there was judgment as well as true
Christianity. The old woman died first; that day is still quite
vividly before my eyes. I was a little boy, and had accompanied my
father to the old man's house. Martha had fallen into the sleep of
death just as we arrived there. The corpse lay in a bedroom, near to
the one in which we sat, and the old man was in great distress and
weeping like a child. He spoke to my father, and to a few neighbors
who were there, of how lonely he should feel now she was gone, and how
good and true she, his dead wife, had been during the number of
years that they had passed through life together, and how they had
become acquainted, and learnt to love each other. I was, as I have
said, a boy, and only stood by and listened to what the others said;
but it filled me with a strange emotion to listen to the old man,
and to watch how the color rose in his cheeks as he spoke of the
days of their courtship, of how beautiful she was, and how many little
tricks he had been guilty of, that he might meet her. And then he
talked of his wedding-day; and his eyes brightened, and he seemed to
be carried back, by his words, to that joyful time. And yet there
she was, lying in the next room, dead--an old woman, and he was an old
man, speaking of the days of hope, long passed away. Ah, well, so it
is; then I was but a child, and now I am old, as old as Preben Schwane
then was. Time passes away, and all things changed. I can remember
quite well the day on which she was buried, and how Old Preben
walked close behind the coffin.

"A few years before this time the old couple had had their
grave-stone prepared, with an inscription and their names, but not the
date. In the evening the stone was taken to the churchyard, and laid
on the grave. A year later it was taken up, that Old Preben might be
laid by the side of his wife. They did not leave behind them wealth,
they left behind them far less than people had believed they
possessed; what there was went to families distantly related to
them, of whom, till then, no one had ever heard. The old house, with
its balcony of wickerwork, and the bench at the top of the high steps,
under the lime-tree, was considered, by the road-inspectors, too old
and rotten to be left standing. Afterwards, when the same fate
befell the convent church, and the graveyard was destroyed, the
grave-stone of Preben and Martha, like everything else, was sold to
whoever would buy it. And so it happened that this stone was not cut
in two as many others had been, but now lies in the courtyard below, a
scouring block for the maids, and a playground for the children. The
paved street now passes over the resting place of Old Preben and his
wife; no one thinks of them any more now. "

And the old man who had spoken of all this shook his head
mournfully, and said, "Forgotten! Ah, yes, everything will be
forgotten! " And then the conversation turned on other matters.

But the youngest child in the room, a boy, with large, earnest
eyes, mounted upon a chair behind the window curtains, and looked
out into the yard, where the moon was pouring a flood of light on
the old gravestone,--the stone that had always appeared to him so dull
and flat, but which lay there now like a great leaf out of a book of
history. All that the boy had heard of Old Preben and his wife
seemed clearly defined on the stone, and as he gazed on it, and
glanced at the clear, bright moon shining in the pure air, it was as
if the light of God's countenance beamed over His beautiful world.

"Forgotten! Everything will be forgotten! " still echoed through
the room, and in the same moment an invisible spirit whispered to
the heart of the boy, "Preserve carefully the seed that has been
entrusted to thee, that it may grow and thrive. Guard it well. Through
thee, my child, shall the obliterated inscription on the old,
weather-beaten grave-stone go forth to future generations in clear,
golden characters. The old pair shall again wander through the streets
arm-in-arm, or sit with their fresh, healthy cheeks on the bench under
the lime-tree, and smile and nod at rich and poor. The seed of this
hour shall ripen in the course of years into a beautiful poem. The
beautiful and the good are never forgotten, they live always in
story or in song. "




THE OLD HOUSE

A very old house stood once in a street with several that were
quite new and clean. The date of its erection had been carved on one
of the beams, and surrounded by scrolls formed of tulips and
hop-tendrils; by this date it could be seen that the old house was
nearly three hundred years old. Verses too were written over the
windows in old-fashioned letters, and grotesque faces, curiously
carved, grinned at you from under the cornices. One story projected
a long way over the other, and under the roof ran a leaden gutter,
with a dragon's head at the end. The rain was intended to pour out
at the dragon's mouth, but it ran out of his body instead, for there
was a hole in the gutter. The other houses in the street were new
and well built, with large window panes and smooth walls. Any one
could see they had nothing to do with the old house. Perhaps they
thought, "How long will that heap of rubbish remain here to be a
disgrace to the whole street. The parapet projects so far forward that
no one can see out of our windows what is going on in that
direction. The stairs are as broad as the staircase of a castle, and
as steep as if they led to a church-tower. The iron railing looks like
the gate of a cemetery, and there are brass knobs upon it. It is
really too ridiculous. "

Opposite to the old house were more nice new houses, which had
just the same opinion as their neighbors.

At the window of one of them sat a little boy with fresh rosy
cheeks, and clear sparkling eyes, who was very fond of the old
house, in sunshine or in moonlight. He would sit and look at the
wall from which the plaster had in some places fallen off, and fancy
all sorts of scenes which had been in former times. How the street
must have looked when the houses had all gable roofs, open staircases,
and gutters with dragons at the spout. He could even see soldiers
walking about with halberds. Certainly it was a very good house to
look at for amusement.

An old man lived in it, who wore knee-breeches, a coat with
large brass buttons, and a wig, which any one could see was a real
wig. Every morning an old man came to clean the rooms, and to wait
upon him, otherwise the old man in the knee-breeches would have been
quite alone in the house. Sometimes he came to one of the windows
and looked out; then the little boy nodded to him, and the old man
nodded back again, till they became acquainted, and were friends,
although they had never spoken to each other; but that was of no
consequence.

The little boy one day heard his parents say, "The old man
opposite is very well off, but is terribly lonely. " The next Sunday
morning the little boy wrapped something in a piece of paper and
took it to the door of the old house, and said to the attendant who
waited upon the old man, "Will you please give this from me to the
gentleman who lives here; I have two tin soldiers, and this is one
of them, and he shall have it, because I know he is terribly lonely. "

And the old attendant nodded and looked very pleased, and then
he carried the tin soldier into the house.

Afterwards he was sent over to ask the little boy if he would
not like to pay a visit himself. His parents gave him permission,
and so it was that he gained admission to the old house.

The brassy knobs on the railings shone more brightly than ever, as
if they had been polished on account of his visit; and on the door
were carved trumpeters standing in tulips, and it seemed as if they
were blowing with all their might, their cheeks were so puffed out.
"Tanta-ra-ra, the little boy is coming; Tanta-ra-ra, the little boy is
coming. "

Then the door opened. All round the hall hung old portraits of
knights in armor, and ladies in silk gowns; and the armor rattled, and
the silk dresses rustled. Then came a staircase which went up a long
way, and then came down a little way and led to a balcony, which was
in a very ruinous state. There were large holes and long cracks, out
of which grew grass and leaves, indeed the whole balcony, the
courtyard, and the walls were so overgrown with green that they looked
like a garden. In the balcony stood flower-pots, on which were heads
having asses' ears, but the flowers in them grew just as they pleased.
In one pot pinks were growing all over the sides, at least the green
leaves were shooting forth stalk and stem, and saying as plainly as
they could speak, "The air has fanned me, the sun has kissed me, and I
am promised a little flower for next Sunday--really for next Sunday. "

Then they entered a room in which the walls were covered with
leather, and the leather had golden flowers stamped upon it.

"Gilding will fade in damp weather,
To endure, there is nothing like leather,"

said the walls. Chairs handsomely carved, with elbows on each side,
and with very high backs, stood in the room, and as they creaked
they seemed to say, "Sit down. Oh dear, how I am creaking. I shall
certainly have the gout like the old cupboard. Gout in my back, ugh. "

And then the little boy entered the room where the old man sat.

"Thank you for the tin soldier my little friend," said the old
man, "and thank you also for coming to see me. "

"Thanks, thanks," or "Creak, creak," said all the furniture.

There was so much that the pieces of furniture stood in each
other's way to get a sight of the little boy.

On the wall near the centre of the room hung the picture of a
beautiful lady, young and gay, dressed in the fashion of the olden
times, with powdered hair, and a full, stiff skirt. She said neither
"thanks" nor "creak," but she looked down upon the little boy with her
mild eyes; and then he said to the old man,

"Where did you get that picture? "

"From the shop opposite," he replied. "Many portraits hang there
that none seem to trouble themselves about. The persons they represent
have been dead and buried long since. But I knew this lady many
years ago, and she has been dead nearly half a century. "

Under a glass beneath the picture hung a nosegay of withered
flowers, which were no doubt half a century old too, at least they
appeared so.

And the pendulum of the old clock went to and fro, and the hands
turned round; and as time passed on, everything in the room grew
older, but no one seemed to notice it.

"They say at home," said the little boy, "that you are very
lonely. "

"Oh," replied the old man, "I have pleasant thoughts of all that
has passed, recalled by memory; and now you are come to visit me,
and that is very pleasant. "

Then he took from the book-case, a book full of pictures
representing long processions of wonderful coaches, such as are
never seen at the present time. Soldiers like the knave of clubs,
and citizens with waving banners. The tailors had a flag with a pair
of scissors supported by two lions, and on the shoemakers' flag
there were not boots, but an eagle with two heads, for the
shoemakers must have everything arranged so that they can say, "This
is a pair. " What a picture-book it was; and then the old man went into
another room to fetch apples and nuts. It was very pleasant,
certainly, to be in that old house.

"I cannot endure it," said the tin soldier, who stood on a
shelf, "it is so lonely and dull here. I have been accustomed to
live in a family, and I cannot get used to this life. I cannot bear
it. The whole day is long enough, but the evening is longer. It is not
here like it was in your house opposite, when your father and mother
talked so cheerfully together, while you and all the dear children
made such a delightful noise. No, it is all lonely in the old man's
house. Do you think he gets any kisses? Do you think he ever has
friendly looks, or a Christmas tree? He will have nothing now but
the grave. Oh, I cannot bear it. "

"You must not look only on the sorrowful side," said the little
boy; "I think everything in this house is beautiful, and all the old
pleasant thoughts come back here to pay visits. "

"Ah, but I never see any, and I don't know them," said the tin
soldier, "and I cannot bear it. "

"You must bear it," said the little boy. Then the old man came
back with a pleasant face; and brought with him beautiful preserved
fruits, as well as apples and nuts; and the little boy thought no more
of the tin soldier. How happy and delighted the little boy was; and
after he returned home, and while days and weeks passed, a great
deal of nodding took place from one house to the other, and then the
little boy went to pay another visit. The carved trumpeters blew
"Tanta-ra-ra. There is the little boy. Tanta-ra-ra. " The swords and
armor on the old knight's pictures rattled. The silk dresses
rustled, the leather repeated its rhyme, and the old chairs had the
gout in their backs, and cried, "Creak;" it was all exactly like the
first time; for in that house, one day and one hour were just like
another. "I cannot bear it any longer," said the tin soldier; "I
have wept tears of tin, it is so melancholy here. Let me go to the
wars, and lose an arm or a leg, that would be some change; I cannot
bear it. Now I know what it is to have visits from one's old
recollections, and all they bring with them. I have had visits from
mine, and you may believe me it is not altogether pleasant. I was very
nearly jumping from the shelf. I saw you all in your house opposite,
as if you were really present. It was Sunday morning, and you children
stood round the table, singing the hymn that you sing every morning.
You were standing quietly, with your hands folded, and your father and
mother. You were standing quietly, with your hands folded, and your
father and mother were looking just as serious, when the door
opened, and your little sister Maria, who is not two years old, was
brought into the room. You know she always dances when she hears music
and singing of any sort; so she began to dance immediately, although
she ought not to have done so, but she could not get into the right
time because the tune was so slow; so she stood first on one leg and
then on the other, and bent her head very low, but it would not suit
the music. You all stood looking very grave, although it was very
difficult to do so, but I laughed so to myself that I fell down from
the table, and got a bruise, which is there still; I know it was not
right to laugh. So all this, and everything else that I have seen,
keeps running in my head, and these must be the old recollections that
bring so many thoughts with them. Tell me whether you still sing on
Sundays, and tell me about your little sister Maria, and how my old
comrade is, the other tin soldier. Ah, really he must be very happy; I
cannot endure this life. "

"You are given away," said the little boy; "you must stay. Don't
you see that? " Then the old man came in, with a box containing many
curious things to show him. Rouge-pots, scent-boxes, and old cards, so
large and so richly gilded, that none are ever seen like them in these
days. And there were smaller boxes to look at, and the piano was
opened, and inside the lid were painted landscapes. But when the old
man played, the piano sounded quite out of tune. Then he looked at the
picture he had bought at the broker's, and his eyes sparkled
brightly as he nodded at it, and said, "Ah, she could sing that tune. "

"I will go to the wars! I will go to the wars! " cried the tin
soldier as loud as he could, and threw himself down on the floor.
Where could he have fallen? The old man searched, and the little boy
searched, but he was gone, and could not be found. "I shall find him
again," said the old man, but he did not find him. The boards of the
floor were open and full of holes. The tin soldier had fallen
through a crack between the boards, and lay there now in an open
grave. The day went by, and the little boy returned home; the week
passed, and many more weeks. It was winter, and the windows were quite
frozen, so the little boy was obliged to breathe on the panes, and rub
a hole to peep through at the old house. Snow drifts were lying in all
the scrolls and on the inscriptions, and the steps were covered with
snow as if no one were at home. And indeed nobody was home, for the
old man was dead. In the evening, a hearse stopped at the door, and
the old man in his coffin was placed in it. He was to be taken to
the country to be buried there in his own grave; so they carried him
away; no one followed him, for all his friends were dead; and the
little boy kissed his hand to the coffin as the hearse moved away with
it. A few days after, there was an auction at the old house, and
from his window the little boy saw the people carrying away the
pictures of old knights and ladies, the flower-pots with the long
ears, the old chairs, and the cup-boards. Some were taken one way,
some another. Her portrait, which had been bought at the picture
dealer's, went back again to his shop, and there it remained, for no
one seemed to know her, or to care for the old picture. In the spring;
they began to pull the house itself down; people called it complete
rubbish. From the street could be seen the room in which the walls
were covered with leather, ragged and torn, and the green in the
balcony hung straggling over the beams; they pulled it down quickly,
for it looked ready to fall, and at last it was cleared away
altogether. "What a good riddance," said the neighbors' houses. Very
shortly, a fine new house was built farther back from the road; it had
lofty windows and smooth walls, but in front, on the spot where the
old house really stood, a little garden was planted, and wild vines
grew up over the neighboring walls; in front of the garden were
large iron railings and a great gate, which looked very stately.
People used to stop and peep through the railings. The sparrows
assembled in dozens upon the wild vines, and chattered all together as
loud as they could, but not about the old house; none of them could
remember it, for many years had passed by, so many indeed, that the
little boy was now a man, and a really good man too, and his parents
were very proud of him. He was just married, and had come, with his
young wife, to reside in the new house with the garden in front of it,
and now he stood there by her side while she planted a field flower
that she thought very pretty. She was planting it herself with her
little hands, and pressing down the earth with her fingers. "Oh
dear, what was that? " she exclaimed, as something pricked her. Out
of the soft earth something was sticking up. It was--only think! --it
was really the tin soldier, the very same which had been lost up in
the old man's room, and had been hidden among old wood and rubbish for
a long time, till it sunk into the earth, where it must have been
for many years. And the young wife wiped the soldier, first with a
green leaf, and then with her fine pocket-handkerchief, that smelt
of such beautiful perfume. And the tin soldier felt as if he was
recovering from a fainting fit. "Let me see him," said the young
man, and then he smiled and shook his head, and said, "It can scarcely
be the same, but it reminds me of something that happened to one of my
tin soldiers when I was a little boy. " And then he told his wife about
the old house and the old man, and of the tin soldier which he had
sent across, because he thought the old man was lonely; and he related
the story so clearly that tears came into the eyes of the young wife
for the old house and the old man. "It is very likely that this is
really the same soldier," said she, "and I will take care of him, and
always remember what you have told me; but some day you must show me
the old man's grave. "

"I don't know where it is," he replied; "no one knows. All his
friends are dead; no one took care of him, and I was only a little
boy. "

"Oh, how dreadfully lonely he must have been," said she.

"Yes, terribly lonely," cried the tin soldier; "still it is
delightful not to be forgotten. "

"Delightful indeed," cried a voice quite near to them; no one
but the tin soldier saw that it came from a rag of the leather which
hung in tatters; it had lost all its gilding, and looked like wet
earth, but it had an opinion, and it spoke it thus:--

"Gilding will fade in damp weather,
To endure, there is nothing like leather. "


But the tin soldier did not believe any such thing.




WHAT THE OLD MAN DOES IS ALWAYS RIGHT

I will tell you a story that was told me when I was a little
boy. Every time I thought of this story, it seemed to me more and more
charming; for it is with stories as it is with many people--they
become better as they grow older.

I have no doubt that you have been in the country, and seen a very
old farmhouse, with a thatched roof, and mosses and small plants
growing wild upon it. There is a stork's nest on the ridge of the
gable, for we cannot do without the stork. The walls of the house
are sloping, and the windows are low, and only one of the latter is
made to open. The baking-oven sticks out of the wall like a great
knob. An elder-tree hangs over the palings; and beneath its
branches, at the foot of the paling, is a pool of water, in which a
few ducks are disporting themselves. There is a yard-dog too, who
barks at all corners. Just such a farmhouse as this stood in a country
lane; and in it dwelt an old couple, a peasant and his wife. Small
as their possessions were, they had one article they could not do
without, and that was a horse, which contrived to live upon the
grass which it found by the side of the high road. The old peasant
rode into the town upon this horse, and his neighbors often borrowed
it of him, and paid for the loan of it by rendering some service to
the old couple. After a time they thought it would be as well to
sell the horse, or exchange it for something which might be more
useful to them.