No More Learning

" she asked.

"He has not arrived here yet," said an old gray-haired woman,
who was walking about, and watering Death's hothouse. "How have you
found your way here? and who helped you? "

"God has helped me," she replied. "He is merciful; will you not be
merciful too? Where shall I find my little child? "

"I did not know the child," said the old woman; "and you are
blind. Many flowers and trees have faded to-night, and Death will soon
come to transplant them. You know already that every human being has a
life-tree or a life-flower, just as may be ordained for him. They look
like other plants; but they have hearts that beat. Children's hearts
also beat: from that you may perhaps be able to recognize your
child. But what will you give me, if I tell you what more you will
have to do?

"I have nothing to give," said the afflicted mother; "but I
would go to the ends of the earth for you. "

"I can give you nothing to do for me there," said the old woman;
"but you can give me your long black hair. You know yourself that it
is beautiful, and it pleases me. You can take my white hair in
exchange, which will be something in return. "

"Do you ask nothing more than that? " said she. "I will give it
to you with pleasure. "

And she gave up her beautiful hair, and received in return the
white locks of the old woman. Then they went into Death's vast
hothouse, where flowers and trees grew together in wonderful
profusion. Blooming hyacinths, under glass bells, and peonies, like
strong trees. There grew water-plants, some quite fresh, and others
looking sickly, which had water-snakes twining round them, and black
crabs clinging to their stems. There stood noble palm-trees, oaks, and
plantains, and beneath them bloomed thyme and parsley. Each tree and
flower had a name; each represented a human life, and belonged to
men still living, some in China, others in Greenland, and in all parts
of the world. Some large trees had been planted in little pots, so
that they were cramped for room, and seemed about to burst the pot
to pieces; while many weak little flowers were growing in rich soil,
with moss all around them, carefully tended and cared for. The
sorrowing mother bent over the little plants, and heard the human
heart beating in each, and recognized the beatings of her child's
heart among millions of others.

"That is it," she cried, stretching out her hand towards a
little crocus-flower which hung down its sickly head.

"Do not touch the flower," exclaimed the old woman; "but place
yourself here; and when Death comes--I expect him every minute--do not
let him pull up that plant, but threaten him that if he does you
will serve the other flowers in the same manner. This will make him
afraid; for he must account to God for each of them. None can be
uprooted, unless he receives permission to do so. "

There rushed through the hothouse a chill of icy coldness, and the
blind mother felt that Death had arrived.

"How did you find your way hither? " asked he; "how could you
come here faster than I have? "

"I am a mother," she answered.

And Death stretched out his hand towards the delicate little
flower; but she held her hands tightly round it, and held it fast at
same time, with the most anxious care, lest she should touch one of
the leaves. Then Death breathed upon her hands, and she felt his
breath colder than the icy wind, and her hands sank down powerless.

"You cannot prevail against me," said Death.

"But a God of mercy can," said she.

"I only do His will," replied Death. "I am his gardener. I take
all His flowers and trees, and transplant them into the gardens of
Paradise in an unknown land. How they flourish there, and what that
garden resembles, I may not tell you. "

"Give me back my child," said the mother, weeping and imploring;
and she seized two beautiful flowers in her hands, and cried to Death,
"I will tear up all your flowers, for I am in despair. "

"Do not touch them," said Death. "You say you are unhappy; and
would you make another mother as unhappy as yourself? "

"Another mother! " cried the poor woman, setting the flowers free
from her hands.

"There are your eyes," said Death. "I fished them up out of the
lake for you. They were shining brightly; but I knew not they were
yours. Take them back--they are clearer now than before--and then look
into the deep well which is close by here. I will tell you the names
of the two flowers which you wished to pull up; and you will see the
whole future of the human beings they represent, and what you were
about to frustrate and destroy. "

Then she looked into the well; and it was a glorious sight to
behold how one of them became a blessing to the world, and how much
happiness and joy it spread around. But she saw that the life of the
other was full of care and poverty, misery and woe.

"Both are the will of God," said Death.

"Which is the unhappy flower, and which is the blessed one? " she
said.

"That I may not tell you," said Death; "but thus far you may
learn, that one of the two flowers represents your own child. It was
the fate of your child that you saw,--the future of your own child. "

Then the mother screamed aloud with terror, "Which of them belongs
to my child? Tell me that. Deliver the unhappy child. Release it
from so much misery. Rather take it away. Take it to the kingdom of
God. Forget my tears and my entreaties; forget all that I have said or
done. "

"I do not understand you," said Death. "Will you have your child
back? or shall I carry him away to a place that you do not know? "

Then the mother wrung her hands, fell on her knees, and prayed
to God, "Grant not my prayers, when they are contrary to Thy will,
which at all times must be the best. Oh, hear them not;" and her
head sank on her bosom.

Then Death carried away her child to the unknown land.




THE SUNBEAM AND THE CAPTIVE

It is autumn. We stand on the ramparts, and look out over the sea.
We look at the numerous ships, and at the Swedish coast on the
opposite side of the sound, rising far above the surface of the waters
which mirror the glow of the evening sky. Behind us the wood is
sharply defined; mighty trees surround us, and the yellow leaves
flutter down from the branches. Below, at the foot of the wall, stands
a gloomy looking building enclosed in palisades. The space between
is dark and narrow, but still more dismal must it be behind the iron
gratings in the wall which cover the narrow loopholes or windows,
for in these dungeons the most depraved of the criminals are confined.
A ray of the setting sun shoots into the bare cells of one of the
captives, for God's sun shines upon the evil and the good. The
hardened criminal casts an impatient look at the bright ray. Then a
little bird flies towards the grating, for birds twitter to the just
as well as to the unjust. He only cries, "Tweet, tweet," and then
perches himself near the grating, flutters his wings, pecks a
feather from one of them, puffs himself out, and sets his feathers
on end round his breast and throat. The bad, chained man looks at him,
and a more gentle expression comes into his hard face. In his breast
there rises a thought which he himself cannot rightly analyze, but the
thought has some connection with the sunbeam, with the bird, and
with the scent of violets, which grow luxuriantly in spring at the
foot of the wall. Then there comes the sound of the hunter's horn,
merry and full. The little bird starts, and flies away, the sunbeam
gradually vanishes, and again there is darkness in the room and in the
heart of that bad man. Still the sun has shone into that heart, and
the twittering of the bird has touched it.

Sound on, ye glorious strains of the hunter's horn; continue
your stirring tones, for the evening is mild, and the surface of the
sea, heaving slowly and calmly, is smooth as a mirror.




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.