Chapter XX (1)

About ten o'clock that night Catherine Lefevre and Louise, after having bid Hullin good-night, retired to their chamber, which was situated over the great hall. In this room were two huge feather beds, with red and blue striped curtains rising to the ceiling.

"Sleep-well, my child," said the old woman. "I can no longer bear up against my weariness."

She threw herself upon her bed, and in a few minutes was in a deep slumber. Louise did not delay following her example.

This lasted mayhap two hours, when a fearful tumult broke upon them.

"To arms! to arms!" shouted fifty voices. "They are on us! To arms!"

Shots resounded, and the tramp of hurrying feet mingled with cries of alarm; but above all was heard Hullin's voice giving orders in short, resolute, ringing tones, and to the left of the farm, from the gorges of Grosmann rose a deep heavy murmur like that of an approaching storm.

"Louise! hearest thou, Louise?" cried Catherine.

"Yes, yes. Great Heaven! it is terrible?"

Catherine sprang from her bed.

"Arise, my child," she cried; "dress quickly."

The shots redoubled and the windows were lit up as if by constant flashes of lightning.

"Attention!" shouted the voice of Materne.

They heard the neighing of a horse without, and the rush of many feet below in the passage, the yard, and in front of the house, which shook to its foundations.

Suddenly shots were fired from the hall on the ground floor. A heavy step sounded on the stairs; the door opened, and Hullin, pale, his hair disordered and his lips quivering, appeared, bearing a lantern.

"Hasten," he cried, "we have not a moment to lose."

"What has happened?" asked Catherine.

The firing became louder and louder.

"Is this a time to explain?" he shouted. "Come on!"

The old woman covered her head with her hood and descended the stairs with Louise. By the fitful light of the shots, they saw Materne, bare-necked, and his son Kasper, firing from the doorway on the abatis, while ten others behind them loaded and passed the muskets to them. Three or four corpses, lying against the broken wall, added to the horrors of the fight, and thick smoke hung among the rafters.

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As he reached the stairs, Hullin cried:

"Here they are, Heaven be thanked!"

And the brave fellows below shouted:

"Courage! courage, Mother Lefevre!"

Then the poor old woman, whose stout heart seemed at last broken, burst into tears. She leaned heavily on Jean-Claude's shoulder; but he lifted her like a feather and ran from the house, skirting the wall to the right. Louise followed, sobbing.

They could hear nothing but the whistling of bullets, or their dull thud as they flattened themselves on the rough east wall, scattering the plaster in showers, or as they hurled the tiles from the roof. In front, not three hundred paces distant, they saw a line of white uniforms, lighted up by their own fire in the black darkness. These the mountaineers on the other side of the ravine of Minières were assailing in flank.

Hullin turned the corner of the house; there all was darkness, and they could scarcely distinguish Doctor Lorquin, on horseback, before a sledge, swinging a long cavalry sabre in his hand and bearing two horse-pistols in his belt, and Frantz Materne, with a dozen men, the butt of his rifle resting on his foot and his lips foaming with rage. Hullin seated Catherine in the sledge and Louise by her side.

"Here at last!" cried the doctor, "God be thanked!"

And Frantz Materne added:

"If it were not for you, Mother Lefevre, you may be sure that not one of us would quit the plateau tonight; but for you--"

At this moment, a tall gaunt fellow, passed at full speed, shrieking as he ran:

"They are upon us! Every one for himself."

Hullin grew pale.

"It is the miller of Harberg," he muttered, grinding his teeth. "Traitor!"

Frantz said nothing, but brought his rifle to his shoulder, aimed and fired.

Louise saw the coward fling his arms in the air and fall face downward on the snow.

Frantz, with a strange smile, reloaded his piece.

"Comrades!" said Hullin; "here is your mother; she who gave you powder and food that you might defend your homes; and here is my child. Save them!"

And all answered:

"We will save them or die with them."

"And remember to warn Dives to remain at Falkenstein until further orders."

"We shall not fail."

"Then forward, doctor, forward," cried the brave old man.

"And you, Hullins?" asked Catherine.

"My place is here. Our position must be defended to the death."

"Father Jean-Claude!" cried Louise, stretching her arms toward him.

But he had, already turned the corner; the doctor whipped up his horse; the sledge crunched the snow, and behind it Frantz Materne and his men, their rifles on their shoulders, strode on, while the roll and clatter of the musketry continued. The old mistress of Bois-de-Chênes, remembering her dream, was silent. Louise dried her tears and threw a last long gaze on the plateau, which was lighted up as if by a fire. The horse galloped beneath the blows of the doctor, so that the mountaineers of the escort could scarcely keep up with it; but it was long ere the tumult, the shouts of battle, the clatter and crash of the shots, and the whistling of the balls, cutting through the branches of the trees, and growing more and more indistinct, were heard no more; then all seemed vanished like a dream.

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The sledge had reached the other slope of the mountain and darted like an arrow through the darkness. The tramp of the horse's hoofs, the hard-drawn breath of the escort, and from time to time the call of the doctor, "Ho, Bruno, old fellow!" alone broke the deep stillness.

A rush of ice-cold air, rolling up from the valley of the Sarre, bore from afar, like a sigh, the never-ending plaint of the torrents and woods. The moon broke through a cloud and looked down on the dark forests of Blanru, with their tall, snow-laden firs. A few moments after, the sledge reached a corner of the woods, and Doctor Lorquin, turning in his saddle, cried:

"Now, Frantz, what are we to do? The path turns to the hills of Saint-Quirin, and here is another going down to Blanru. Which shall we take?"

Frantz and the men of the escort drew near. As they were then on the western side of the Donon, they began to catch glimpses once more of the German fusilade, and occasionally they heard the crash of a cannon-shot echo through the abysses. "The path to the hills of Saint-Quirin," replied Frantz, "is shorter if we wish to stop at Bois-de-Chênes; we shall gain at least three quarters of an hour by it."

"Yes," said the doctor, "but we risk being taken by the Kaiserliks who now hold the defile of the Sarre. They are already masters of the heights, and they have doubtless sent detachments to the Sarre-Ridge in order to turn Donon."

"Let us, take the Blanru path then," answered Frantz; "it is longer, but safer."

The sledge descended the mountain side to the left, along the skirts of the wood. The partisans in single file, their rifles slung on their backs, marched upon the top of the slope, and the doctor, on horseback, in the narrow way, broke through the snowdrifts. Above hung the long fir branches, burying road and travellers in deep shadow, beyond which streamed the pale moonlight. The scene was picturesque and majestic, and under other circumstances Catherine would have wondered at its weird beauty, and Louise would not have failed to admire the long icicles glittering like spars of crystal where the moonbeams fell; but now their hearts were full of unrest and fear, and soon the sledge entered the deep gorge, whence they could see no light but that which flooded the mountain peaks. Thus they pushed on in silence until at length Catherine, rousing herself from the gloomy thoughts in which she seemed plunged, spoke.

"Doctor Lorquin, now that you have us at the bottom of Blanru, will you explain why we have thus been carried off? Jean-Claude seized me, threw me on this truss of straw, and here I am."

"Ho, Bruno!" cried the doctor.

Then he answered gravely:

"To-night, Mother Catherine, the greatest of evils has befallen us. It cannot be laid to Jean-Claude; for by the fault of another we have lost the fruit of all our blood and toil."

"By whose fault?"

"Labarbe's, who did not guard the defile of Blutfeld. He died afterward doing his duty like a man; but his death could not repair his fault; and if Pivrette does not arrive in time to support Hullin, all is lost. We must then abandon the road and retreat."

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"What! Blutfeld in possession of the enemy."

"Yes, Mother Catherine. But who would have thought that the Germans would have entered it? A defile almost impracticable for infantry, surrounded by pointed rocks, where the herdsmen themselves can scarcely descend with their flocks and goats? Well, they passed through it, two by two, turned Roche-Creuse, crushed Labarbe, and then fell upon Jerome, who defended himself like a lion until nine at night, but finally had to take to the woods and leave the road to the Kaiserliks. That is the whole story, and it is fearful enough. Some one must have been cowardly and treacherous enough to have guided the enemy to our rear--to have delivered us over bound hand and foot. O the wretch!" cried the doctor in a trembling voice; "I am not revengeful, but if ever he falls under my hand, how I will dissect him! Ho, Bruno! Ho, boy!"

The partisans still maintained their steady shadowy march, and no word was spoken.

The horse again began a gallop, but soon slackened his pace and breathed heavily.

Mother Lefevre was once more buried in thought.

"I begin to understand," said she at length; "we were attacked tonight in front and flank."

"Just so, Catherine; and, by good fortune, ten minutes before the attack, one of Marc-Dives's men--the smuggler Zimmer, an old dragoon--arrived at full speed to warn us. If he had not come, we were lost. He fell among our outposts after having passed through a detachment of Cossacks on the plateau of Grosmann. The poor fellow had received a terrible sabre-thrust, and the blood was pouring from his wound."

"And what did he say?" asked the old woman.

"He had only time to cry, 'To arms! We are turned! Jerome sent me--Labarbe is dead--the Germans passed through Blutfeld!'"

"He was a brave man!" murmured Catherine.

"Yes, a brave man!" replied Frantz, drooping his head.

All became silent, and thus for a long time the sledge kept on through the narrow, winding valley. From time to time they were forced to stop, so deep was the snow, and then three or four mountaineers took the horse by the bridle and pulled him on.

"No matter," exclaimed Catherine, emerging from her reverie, "Hullin might have told me--"

"But if he had told you of the two attacks," interrupted the doctor, "you would not have come away."

"And who dare hinder my doing as I wish? If it pleased me to descend from this sledge, am I not free to do so? I had forgiven Jean-Claude--I repent having done so!"

"O Mother Lefevre!" cried Louise; "if he should be killed, while you speak thus!"

"She is right, poor child!" thought Catherine--

And she continued:

"I said I repent of forgiving him; but he is a brave man, to whom I can wish no ill. I forgive him with all my heart. In his place I would have done as he has done."

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Two or three hundred yards further on, they entered the defile of the Rocks. The snow had ceased falling and the moon shone brilliantly from between two great black and white clouds. The narrow gorge, bordered by pointed rocks, seemed to unroll its length to their view, and on its sides high firs rose, until lost in distance. Nothing broke the deep quiet of the woods; human turmoil seemed indeed far away. So profound was the silence that they heard every step of the horse in the soft snow, and even his weary breathing. Frantz Materne halted from time to time, cast a glance over the dark mountain sides, and then hastened to overtake the others.

And valleys succeeded valleys; the sled ascended, descended, turned to right and to left, and the partisans, with their cold blue bayonets fixed, followed steadily after.

Thus toward three in the morning they had reached the field of Brimbelles, where even yet may be seen an old oak standing in a turn of the valley. On the other side, to the left, in the midst of bushes white with snow, behind its little wall of loose stones and the palings of its little garden, the lodge of Cuny, the forester, began to outline itself against the mountain side, with its three bee-hives in a row on a plank, its old knotty vine climbing to the roof, and its little branch of fir hung over the door by way of sign; for in that solitude Cuny joined to his avocation of forester that of innkeeper.

Here, as the road runs along the edge of a bank several feet above the field, and the moon was obscured by a thick cloud, the doctor, fearing lest the sledge should be overset, halted beneath the oak.

"Another hour will see us to the end of our journey, Mother Lefevre," said he; "so be of good cheer--we have now plenty of time."

"Ay," said Frantz; "the worst is over, and we can breathe the horse."

The whole party gathered around the sledge, and the doctor dismounted. A few produced flint and steel to light their pipes, but nothing was said; all were thinking of Donon. Could Jean-Claude hold his own until the arrival of Pivrette? So many painful thoughts weighed upon the mind of each that no one cared to speak.

They were some five minutes under the old oak when the cloud slowly passed away and the pale moonlight streamed down the gorge. But what is that yonder, between the two firs? A beam of light falls upon it--upon a tall dark figure on horseback; it is a Cossack with his lambskin cap, and long lance hanging backward under his arm, slowly advancing; Frantz had already aimed, when behind appeared another lance, and another, and in the depths of the forest, under the deep blue sky, the little group saw only swallow-tailed pennons waving, lances flashing, and Cossacks advancing straight on toward the sledge, but without hurry, some looking around, others leaning forward in their saddles like people seeking something. They numbered more than thirty.

Catherine and Louise gazed upon each other. Another minute and the savages would be upon them. The mountaineers seemed stupefied. They could not turn the sledge in the narrow way, and on one side was the steep slope to the field, on the other, the steep mountain side. The old woman, in an agony of fear, seized Louise's arm and whispered in trembling tones:

"Let us fly to the woods!"

She tried to spring from the sled, but her shoe came off in the straw.

Suddenly, one of the Cossacks uttered a guttural exclamation which ran all along their line.

"We are discovered!" cried Doctor Lorquin, drawing his sabre.

Scarcely had he spoken, when twelve shots lit up the path. Wild yells replied. The Cossacks left the road and dashed with loose rein over the field, fleeing like deer, to the forest lodge.

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"There they go," cried the doctor; "we are safe!"

But the brave surgeon was too hasty in his conclusion; the Cossacks, describing a circle in their career, massed their force, and then, with lance in rest, bending over their horses' necks, came right on the partisans, shouting "Hurrah! hurrah!"

Frantz and the others threw themselves before the sledge.

It was a terrible moment. Lance grated against bayonet; cries of rage replied to curses. Beneath the old oak, through the branches of which only a few scattered moonbeams fell, rearing horses, with manes erect, struggled up from the field to the path, bearing barbarous riders with blazing eyes and uplifted arms, striking furiously, advancing, recoiling, uttering yells that, might chill the stoutest hearts.

Louise and the old mistress of Bois-de-Chênes stood erect in the sledge, pale as death. Doctor Lorquin, before them, parried, lunged, and struck, crying the while:

"Down, down! Morbleu! Lie down!"

But they heard him not.

Louise, in the midst of the tumult, thought only of protecting Catherine, and Catherine--imagine her horror when she saw Yegof, on a tall, bony horse, among the assailants--Yegof, his crown upon his head, his unkempt beard and dogskin mantle floating on the wind, and a lance in his hand. She saw him there plainly, as if it were broad day, flourishing his long weapon not ten paces from her, and she saw his gleaming eyes fixed on hers.

The most resolute souls seem often utterly broken by the pursuit of a relentless and inflexible fate. What was to be done? Submit--yield to that fate. The old woman believed herself doomed; she saw the mingled combat--men striking and falling in the clear moonlight; she saw riderless horses dashing over the field; she saw the attic window of the forester's lodge open, and old Cuny aim without daring to fire into the mass. She saw all these things with strange distinctness, but she kept repeating to herself, "The fool has returned; whatever may happen, he will hang my head to his saddle-bow. My dream is true--true!"

And indeed, everything seemed to justify her fears. The mountaineers, too feeble in numbers, began to give way. Soon, like a whirlwind, the Cossacks burst upon the road, and a lance's point passed through the old woman's hair, so that she felt the cold steel pass across her neck.

"O wretches! wretches!" she cried, as she fell to the bottom of the sledge, still holding, however, the reins in both hands.

Doctor Lorquin, too, had fallen upon the sledge. Frantz and the others, surrounded by twenty Cossacks, could render no assistance. Louise felt a hand grasp her shoulder--the hand of the fool, mounted on his tall steed.

At this supreme moment, the poor girl, crazed with fear, uttered a shriek of distress; then she saw something flash in the darkness; it was the barrels of Lorquin's pistols, and, quick as lightning, she had torn them from the doctor's belt. Both flashed at once, burning Yegof's beard, and sending their bullets crashing through the skull of a Cossack who was bending toward her. She seized Catherine's whip, and standing erect, pale as a corpse, struck the horse's flanks with all her might. The animal bounded from the blow, and the sledge dashed through the bushes; it bent to the right--to the left; then there was a shock; Catherine, Louise, sledge and straw, rolled clown the steep road-side in the snow. The horse stopped short, flung back on his haunches and his mouth full of bloody foam. He had struck against an oak. {634} Swift as was their fall, Louise had seen some shadows pass like the wind behind the copse. She heard a terrible voice--the voice of Dives--shout,

"Forward! Point! point!"

It seemed but an illusion--a mingled vision, such as at our latest hour passes before our glazing eyes; but as she rose, the poor girl doubted it not; sabres were clashing twenty paces from her, behind a curtain of trees, and Marc's voice still rang on the night:

"Bravely, boys, bravely! No quarter!"

Then she saw a dozen Cossacks climbing the slope opposite, in the midst of the bushes, like hares, and through an opening beneath, Yegof flying across the valley, in the clear moonlight like a frightened bird. Several shots resounded, but they did not reach the fool; and standing erect in his stirrups while his horse kept on at his utmost speed, he turned in the saddle, shook his lance defiantly, and shouted a "Hurrah!" in a voice like that of a heron escaping the eagle's talons. Two more shots flashed from the forester's lodge; a rag flew from the fool's waist, but he still held on his course, again and again hoarsely shouting his "Hurrah!" as he followed the path his comrades had taken.

And then the vision vanished.

When Louise again became conscious, Catherine was standing beside her. They gazed for a moment at each other, and then embraced in an ecstasy of joy.

"Saved! saved!" murmured Catherine, and they wept in each other's arms.

"You bore yourself well and bravely," said the old woman. "Jean-Claude, Gaspard, and I may well be proud of you."

Louise trembled from head to foot. The danger passed, her gentle nature asserted itself, and she could not understand her courage of a few moments before.

Then, finding themselves more composed, they tried to reach the road, when they saw the doctor and five or six partisans coming to meet them.

"Ah! you needn't cry, Louise," said Lorquin; "you are a dragoon, a little Amazon. Your heart seems now in your throat, but we saw all. And, by the by, where are my pistols?"

As he spoke, the thicket separated, and tall Marc-Dives, his sabre hanging from his wrist, appeared, crying,

"Ha! Mother Catherine! What a time? What luck that I happened to be on hand! How those beggars would have plundered you!"

"Yes," returned the old woman, pushing her gray hair beneath her hood, "it was indeed fortunate."

"I believe you. Not more than ten minutes ago I reached Father Cuny's with my wagon. 'Do not go to Donon,' said he; 'for the last hour the sky above it has been red; they are fighting there!' 'Do you think so?' said I. '_Ma foi_! yes,' he replied. 'Then Joson will go ahead as a scout, and we will empty a glass while we wait for his return.' Scarcely had Joson started, when I heard shouts as if the fiends had broken loose. 'What is the matter, Cuny?' I cried. He did not know, so we pushed open the door and there saw the fight. Ha! we did not wait long. I was on Fox at a bound, and then, 'Forward!' was the word. What luck!"

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"Ah!" said Catherine, "if we were only sure that matters were going as well on Donon, we might indeed rejoice."

"Yes; Frantz told me all about it; something is always going wrong," answered Marc. "But here we are standing in the snow. Let us hope that Pivrette will not let his comrades be crushed, and let us empty our glasses which are yet half full."

Four other smugglers came up, saying that the villain Yegof was likely to return with a swarm of thieves like himself.

"Very true," replied Dives. "We will return to Falkenstein, since Jean-Claude so orders; but we cannot bring our wagon with us; it would hinder our crossing the country, and in an hour all those wretches will be upon us. But let us go to Cuny's. Catherine and Louise will not object to a cup of wine, nor will the others. It will put back your hearts in the right place. Ho! Bruno!"

He took his horse by the bridle. Two wounded men were placed on the sledge. Two others killed, with seven or eight Cossacks, lay stretched upon the snow. They left them as they were, and all entered the old forester's house. Frantz was beginning to console himself for not being on Donon. He had run two Cossacks through the body, and the sight of the lodge put him in good humor. Before the door stood the wagon, laden with cartridges. Cuny came out crying,

"Welcome, Mother Lefevre. What a night for women to be out! Be seated. What is going on yonder?"

While they hastily emptied a bottle, everything had to be again explained. The good old man, dressed in a simple jacket and green knee-breeches, his face wrinkled and his head bald, listened with staring eyes, ever and anon clasping his hands as he cried,

"Great God! good God! in what days do we live! We cannot travel the high roads without fear of being attacked. It is worse than the old stories of the Swedes!"

And he shook his head.

"Come," said Dives, "time presses; forward!"

All went out; the smugglers drove the wagon, which contained several thousands of cartridges and two little casks of brandy, three hundred paces off, to the middle of the valley, and there unharnessed the horses.

"Forward, forward!" cried Marc; "we will overtake you in a few minutes."

"But what are you going to do with the wagon?" asked Frantz. "Since we have not time to bring it to Falkenstein, we had better leave it under Cuny's shed than to abandon it in the middle of the road."

"Yes, and have the poor old man hung when the Cossacks return, as they will in less than an hour," replied Dives. "Do not trouble yourself; I have a notion in my head."

Frantz rejoined the party around the sledge, who had gone on some distance. Soon they passed the sawmill of Marquis, and struck straight to the right, to reach the farm-house of Bois-de-Chênes, the high chimney of which appeared over the plateau, three quarters of a league away. When they were on the crest of the hill, Marc-Dives and his men came up, shouting,

"Halt! Stop a moment. Look yonder!"

And all, turning their eyes to the bottom of the gorge, saw the Cossacks caracoling about the wagon to the number of two or three hundred.

"They are coming! Let us fly!" cried Louise.

"Wait a moment," replied the smuggler; "we have nothing to fear."

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He was yet speaking, when a sheet of flame spread its purple wings from one mountain to the other, lighting the woods to their topmost branches, and the rocks, and the forester's lodge fifteen hundred feet below; then followed a crash that shook the earth.

And while with dazzled eyes they gazed at each other, mute with horror, Marc's peal of laughter mingled in the sound that yet rang in their ears.

"Ha, ha, ha!" he shouted; "I knew the beggars would gather round the wagon to drink my brandy, and that the match would have time to reach the powder. Do you think they will follow us further? Their limbs adorn the firs. So perish all of their kind who have crossed the Rhine!"

The entire party, partisans, the doctor, everyone, had become silent. So many fearful scenes, scenes which common life knows not, gave all food for endless thought. Each one murmured to himself, "Why must men thus torture, tear, ruin one another? Why should they thus hate each other? And what ferocious spirit urges them to such deeds, if not the spirit of evil, the archdemon himself?"

Dives alone and his men were unmoved, and galloped on laughing and applauding what had been done.

"Ha, ha, ha!" cried the tall smuggler; "I never saw such a joke! I could laugh a thousand years at it."

Then he became gloomy, and said,

"Yegof is at the bottom of all this. One must be blind not to see that it was he who guided the Germans to Blutfeld. I would be sorry if he were finished by a piece of my wagon; I have something better in store for him. All that I wish is, that he may remain sound and healthy until I meet him some day in a corner of the woods. Let it be one, ten, or twenty years--only let it come! The longer I wait, the keener will be my appetite; good morsels are best cold, like wild-boar's cheek in white wine."

He said all this with a good-humored air; but those who knew him knew that beneath that lay danger for Yegof.

Half an hour after, all reached the field of Bois-de-Chênes.

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Inscription On A Door.

Written By Theodulphus,
Bishop Of Orleans, A.D. 820.

Pauperibus pateat, Praesul, tua janua semper,
Cum miseris Christus intrat et ipse simul.
Deque tuis epulis pascatur pauper egenus,
Ut conviva queas lectus adesse Deo.

Translation.

Set wide thy portals ever to the poor,
So Christ shall enter with them at thy door.
And let the poor be feasted from thy board,
So mayest thou, blessed, banquet with thy Lord.

C. E. B.

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"Poor Mara!"

The celebrated Rosenthal, in Germany, was the retreat where Goethe passed so many hours of leisure when a student. It was indeed a valley of roses, especially in early summer, when flowers are most abundant, and the tender green of the rich foliage is freshest and brightest. It was a lovely afternoon, but not sultry; a large awning was spread for temporary use; and just in the shade of a group of trees was set out a table with refreshments. A dozen seats were arranged round it, evidently for a small and select company. Ere long, carriages drove up, and some ladies alighted, and began to arrange the collation. Two of them were the wife and daughter of Doles, the musician; they brought flowers which they had gathered, and decorated the table, placing a wreath of roses and laurels over the seat destined to be occupied by their honored guest, no less a person than Mozart, who had come to give his last concert in Leipsic. The rest of the company soon joined them; and it would be interesting, had we space, to relate the conversation that formed the most delightful part of their entertainment. They were a few choice spirits, met to enjoy the society of Mozart in an hour sacred to friendship. There was no lack of humor and mirth; indeed, the composer would have acted at variance with his character had he not beguiled even the gravest by his amusing sallies; but the themes of their discourse were the musical masters of the world, and the state and prospect of their art.

"Oh! could we only entice you to live here," said one of the company to the great composer.

"No; the atmosphere does not suit me," replied Mozart; "the reserve would chill my efforts, for I live upon the love of those who suffer me to do as I please. Some other time, perhaps, I may come to Leipsic; just now Vienna is the place for me. By the way, what think you of Bonn?"

"You cannot think of Bonn for a residence?"

"Not I. Had you asked me where art had the least chance of spreading her wings for a bold flight--where she was most securely chained down and forbidden to soar, I should have answered, 'Bonn.' But that unpromising city has produced one of the greatest geniuses of our day."

"Who? who?" eagerly demanded several among the company.

"A lad, a mere lad, who has been under the tutelage of the elector's masters, and shocked them all by his musical eccentricities. They were ready to give him up in disgust. He came to me just before I left Vienna; modest, abashed, doubting his own genius, but eager to learn his fate from my lips. I gave him one of my most difficult pieces; he executed it in a manner so spirited, so admirable--carried away by the music, which entered his very soul, forgetful of his faint-heartedness--full of inspiration! 'Twas an artist, I assure you; a true and noble one, and I told him so."

"His name?"

"Louis von Beethoven."

"I know his father well," said Hiller.

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"Then you know one who has given the world a treasure! For, mark me, railed at as he may be for refusing to follow in the beaten path, decried for his contempt of ordinary rules, the lad Beethoven will rise to a splendid fame! But his _forte_ will be sacred music."

The conversation turned to the works of Bach and Handel.

As the sun declined westward, the company rose and returned to the city. When they had left the grounds, a figure came forward from the concealment of the foliage, and walked pensively to and fro. He had heard most of the conversation unobserved. It was the artist Mara, a violoncellist of great merit--famous, indeed--but ruined by dissipation. His wife had left him in despair of reforming his intemperate habits; his friends had deserted him; all was gone but his love of art; and that had brought him to see the great Mozart.

"Well, well," he said to himself, "I have heard and know him now. His taste is the same with mine; he glories in Handel and old Sebastian. Ah! that music in my dream." He struck his forehead. "But I can keep nothing in my head; Mara-- Mara--_non e pen com era prima!_ If 'twere not for this vertigo, this throbbing that I feel whenever I strive to collect my thoughts and fix them on an idea; if I could but grasp the conception, oh! 'twould be glorious!"

The spirit of art had not yet left the degraded being it had once inspired; but how sad were the struggles of the soul against her painful and contaminating bonds!

"Why," resumed the soliloquist--"why was I not invited to make one among the company assembled here to welcome the great chapel-master? I, too, am a famous artist; I can appreciate music; the public have pronounced me entitled to rank among the first. But nobody will associate with Mara in the day-time!

It is only at night, at the midnight revels, where such grave ones as the director scorn to appear, that Mara, like a bird of evil omen, is permitted to show his face. Then they shout and clap for me, and call me a merry fellow; and I _am_ the merriest of them all! But I do not like such welcome. I would rather be reasonable if I could, and the wine would let me. The wine! Am I a slave to that? Ha, a slave! Alas! it is so; wine is my master; and he is jealous of every other, and beats me when I rebel, till I cry mercy, and crouch at his feet again. Oh! if I had a friend strong enough to get me out of his clutches. But I have no friends--none, not even Gertrude. She has left me; and there is no one at home now even to reproach me when I come back drunk, or make a noise in the house over the table with a companion or two. Heinrich--no; he laughs and makes game of me like the rest. I am sick of this miserable life; I am tired of being laughed at and shunned; I will put an end to it all, and then they will say once again, 'Poor Mara!'"

With a sudden start the wretched man rushed away, and was presently hid among the branches of the trees. A whistle was heard just then, and a lad, walking briskly, followed, hallooing after him. He came just in time. A stream, a branch of the Pleysse, watered the bottom of the valley; Mara was about to throw himself into it in the deepest spot, when his arm was caught by his pursuer.

"What the mischief are you about?"

"Let me alone!" cried Mara, struggling.

"Do you mean to be drowned?"

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"Yes; that is just what I want. I came here for that purpose; and what have you to say against it, Friedrich?"

"Nothing, if your fancy runs that way," replied the lad, laughing; "only you have plenty of leisure for it hereafter, and just now you are wanted."

"Wanted?"

"Yes; I came to look for you."

"Who wants the poor drunkard Mara?"

"They want you at Breithoff's, tonight, at the supper given to Mozart after the concert; and you must bring your instrument; we are to have some rare fun. Come, if you are obedient, you shall go with me to the concert."

Mozart's concert! Surprised and pleased that some of his acquaintances had remembered him, Mara suffered himself to be led away by his companion.

The concert was a splendid one, and attended by all the taste and fashion of Leipsic. The orchestra was admirable, the singers were full of spirit and good humor, the audience delighted, the composer gratified and thankful. Mozart thanked the performers in a brief speech, and as soon as the concert was at an end was led off in triumph by the connoisseurs, his friends.

Magnificent beyond expectation was the entertainment prepared, and attended by many among the wealthy and the noble, as well as the most distinguished artists. The revelry was prolonged beyond midnight, and, as the guests became warmed with good cheer, we are bound to record that the conversation lost its rational tone, and that comical sallies and uproarious laughter began to usurp the place of critical discourse. They had songs from all who were musical; Mara, among the rest, was brought in, dressed in a fantastic but slovenly manner, and made to play for the amusement of the company. When he had played several pieces, the younger guests began to put their practical jokes upon him, and provoke him to imitate the noises of different animals on his violoncello. Mara entered into all their fun, convulsing them with his grotesque speeches and gestures, drinking glass after glass, till, at last, he fell back quite overpowered and insensible. Then his juvenile tormentors painted his face and clipped his mustaches, and tricked him out in finery that gave him the look of a candidate for Bedlam, and had him carried to his own house, laughing to imagine what his sensations would be, next morning, when he should discover how ludicrously he had been disfigured. In short, the whole party were considerably beyond the bounds of propriety and sound judgment, Mozart included.

It was considerably after noon, the next day, that poor Mara, the victim of those merciless revellers, might be seen sitting disconsolately in his deserted home. He had no heart even to be enraged at the cruelties practised on him. Pale as death, his eyes sunken and bloodshot, his limbs shivering, sat this miserable wretch, dressed in the same mockery of finery which had been heaped upon him in wicked sport.

The door soon opened, and Mozart entered. At sight of the composer, Mara rose and mechanically returned his salutation. Mozart looked grave and sad.

"You are much the worse for last night's dissipation, my good fellow," said he.

"Ah Master Mozart!" said the violoncellist, with a faint smile, "it is too good of you to visit such a dog as poor Mara."

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"I have something to say to you, friend," answered the composer, in a voice of emotion. "In the first place, let me thank you for your music, last night."

The bewildered artist passed his hand across his forehead.

"I say, let me thank you. It is long since I have heard such music."

"You were pleased with it?" asked Mara, looking up, while a beam of joy shot into the darkness of his soul.

"Pleased? It was noble--heart-stirring! I must own I did not expect such from you. I expected to be shocked, but I was charmed. And when you played the air from _Idomenio--sacré!_ but it went to my soul. I have _never_ had my music so thoroughly appreciated--so admirably executed. Mara, you are a master of your art! I reverence you!"

"You?" repeated the artist, drawing his breath quickly.

"Yes; I own you for my brother, and so I told them all, last night."

The poor man gave a leap and seized the master by both hands; rapture had penetrated his inmost heart.

"Oh! you make me very happy," faltered he.

"I am glad of it, for now I am going to say something painful."

Mara hung his head.

"Nay, I reproach myself as much as you. We both behaved ill, last night; we both forgot the dignity of the artist and the man."

Again the poor violoncellist looked bewildered.

"We forgot that such as we are set up for an example to the uninitiated, and yielded to the tempter wine! Art--our mother--has reason to blush for us."

"For me," cried Mara, deeply moved; "but not for you."

"Yes, for me," repeated Mozart, "and for all who were there. It was a shameful scene. What," he continued, with rising indignation--"what would the true friends of art have thought of such beastly orgies, celebrated in her name? Why, they would have said, perhaps, 'These men are wild fellows, but we must let them have their way; we owe the fine music they give us to their free living; they must have stimulants to compose or play well.' No, no, no! it is base to malign the holy science we love. Such excesses but unfit us for work. I have never owed a good thought to the bottle. I tell you, I hate myself for last night's foolery."

"Ah master, you who are so far above me?" sighed Mara.

"And lo, here the wreck of a noble being!" said the composer, in a low voice and with much bitterness; then resuming: "Listen to me, Mara. You have been your own enemy, but your fall is not wholly your own work. You are wondrously gifted; you can be, you shall be, snatched from ruin. You can, you shall, rise above those who would trample on you now; become renowned and beloved, and leave an honored name to posterity. You have given me a lesson, Mara--a lesson which I shall remember my life long--which I shall teach to others. You have done me good--I will do something for you. Come with me to Vienna."

The poor violoncellist had eagerly listened to the words of him he so venerated--whom he looked on as a superior being. While he talked to him as an equal, while he acknowledged his genius, lamented his faults, and gave him hope that all was not yet lost, the spirit of the degraded creature revived within him. It was the waking of his mind's energies; the struggle of the soul for life against the lethargy of a mortal malady. Life triumphed! Mara was once more a man; but overcome by the conflict and by the last generous offer, he sank back, bowed his face upon his hands, and wept aloud.

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"Come," cried Mozart, after a pause, during which his own eyes moistened--"come, we have no time to lose. I go out to-night by the evening post for Vienna; you must accompany me. Take this purse, put your dress in order, and make haste. I will call for you at eight. Be ready then. Not a word more." And forcing a well-filled purse into his trembling hands, the master hastened away too quickly to hear a word of thanks from the man he had saved from worse than death.

The great composer was early summoned from this and many other works of mercy and benevolence. But if this noble design was unaccomplished, at least good seed was sown, and Mara placed once more within view of the goal of virtuous hope. Rescued from the mire of degradation, he might, by perseverance, have won the prize; if he did not, the fault was wholly his own. Whatever the termination of his career, the moral lesson is for us the same.

----------

Discipline.

A block of marble caught the glance
Of Buonarotti's eyes,
Which brightened in their solemn deeps,
Like meteor-lighted skies.

And one who stood beside him listened,
Smiling as he heard;
For, "I will make an angel of it!"
Was the sculptor's word.

And soon mallet and chisel sharp
The stubborn block assailed,
And blow by blow, and pang by pang,
The prisoner unveiled.

A brow was lifted, high and pure;
The wak'ning eyes outshone;
And as the master sharply wrought,
A smile broke through the stone!

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Beneath the chisel's edge, the hair
Escaped in floating rings;
And, plume by plume, was slowly freed
The sweep of half-furled wings.

The stately bust and graceful limbs
Their marble fetters shed,
And where the shapeless block had been,
An angel stood instead!

O blows that smite! O hurts that pierce
This shrinking heart of mine!
What are ye but the Master's tools
Forming a work divine?

O hope that crumbles to my feet!
O joy that mocks, and flies!
What are ye but the clogs that bind
My spirit from the skies?

Sculptor of souls! I lift to thee
Encumbered heart and hands:
Spare not the chisel! set me free,
However dear the bands.

How blest, if all these seeming ills
Which draw my thoughts to thee
Should only prove that thou wilt make
An angel out of me!

----------

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From The German Of Dr. B. Werneke.

The Teachings Of Statistics Concerning
The Freedom Of The Human Will.

The enemies of Christianity are, in our days, making war upon its dogmas more fiercely and more generally than at any previous period. Materialism--the teachings of which may be summed up in the following propositions: There exists no God as a spiritual, immaterial personality; there exists no spirit as a supersensible, self-existent, immortal substance--is finding its way into every rank of society. By clothing it in a popular garb, its advocates are meeting with no small degree of success in making converts to its errors, even among the working classes and the deluded _prolétaires_ who have a dread of labor. Materialism no longer goes to the trouble of exhibiting itself in the guise of a well-connected philosophical system: it prefers the more insidious method of appearing only occasionally, in writings and speeches whose theme is of quite another nature. It puts on an appearance of science and of devotion to genuine progress; and herein consists its principal danger. When doctrines, opposed to faith, are secreted in works on natural science, and placed side by side with evident facts, there must necessarily result a strong temptation for the unwary to look upon them all as undeniable truths.

The science of _moral statistics_ is one of those that have been most recently perverted to the purposes of materialism. The founder of this science is Quetelet, the celebrated Belgian astronomer and statistician. He first observed that, by considering large masses of men during a long period, a certain uniformity in the manner of their accomplishment could be traced, in such voluntary acts as come under the observation of statisticians, more especially in marriages, suicides, and crimes. He even reached the conclusion that acts elicited under the influence of free-will occur with a greater degree of regularity than events which depend exclusively on the influence of physical causes. This discovery was pursued still further. Observations were made upon different nationalities, the results were compared, and upon their evidence it was thought justifiable to speak of a law of nature by which all human acts were supposed to be controlled. This new law could not but be hailed with pleasure by the disciples of materialism. They immediately took it up and adduced it as evidence in favor of their doctrines. It requires but a small amount of perception to see that, if all human acts are controlled by a law of nature, there cannot be any free-will. The denial of free-will implies the elimination of one of the essential faculties of the human soul, and it, at the same time, shakes Christianity to its foundation.. For, if everything is subjected to an immutable necessity, sin and grace, redemption and sanctification, need no longer be mentioned.

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It is well worth our while to subject the new doctrine, founded on the evidence of moral statistics, to an examination and to test its tenability. We propose to do this in the following pages. Before entering, however, into the assertions and inferences of the materialists, it will be expedient to state a few of the principal results of the science of moral statistics, so that the reader may see the method by which such unexpected and surprising conclusions have been reached, and may thus be enabled to form a judgment for himself.

A glance at the statistical tables which record the sum-total of
marriages contracted in a single country reveals in reality that
their number is nearly the same, year after year. Even in
so-called anomalous marriages, that is, marriages in which a
young man allies himself to a woman much older than himself and
_vice versa_, as well as in marriages between widows and
widowers, there seems to be a certain uniformity. Thus, if we
take Belgium, with a population of about four and a half
millions, we find the total number of marriages, from the year
1844 to the year 1853, running as follows: 29,326,
29,210,
25,670,
24,145,
28,656,
31,788,
33,762,
33,169,
31,251,
30,636.
During the same years, the number of marriages between men of 30
years and under, with women of 30 years and under, stands thus:
13,024,
13,157,
11,578,
10,749,
12,642,
13,933,
14,440,
14,337,
13,488,
13,161.
Anomalous marriages, between men of 30 years and less, and women
of from 45 to 60 years, likewise evince a perceptible regularity
during the same years:
129,
102,
118,
98,
101,
140,
130,
128,
104,
115.
On the other hand, marriages between men of 60 years and over,
and women of 30 years and under, during the same series of years:
41,
36,
33,
42,
44,
47,
49,
42,
39,
32.
These figures are sufficient for an illustration. The result is
similar in the case of other countries.

If we consider, the age at which marriage is contracted, we discover considerable uniformity in a single country, but wide differences in different countries. The following table exhibits what percentage of men and women contract marriages in the different countries, at the different ages indicated:

Under 20 20-25 25-30 30-35 35-40 40-80

In England
Men 2% 46% 26% 11% 5% 10%
Women 12% 50% 20% 8% 4% 6%

In France
Men 2% 27% 33% 18% 9% 11%
Women 19% 38% 22% 10% 5% 6%

In Norway
Men 1% 23% 39% 20% 8% 9%
Women 5% 35% 33% 14% 6% 7%

In Bavaria
Men 0% 12% 32% 38% 38% 18%
Women 4% 25% 32% 29% 29% 10%

These figures show that in England 72 per cent of the men marry between the ages of 20 and 30 years; in France, 60 per cent; in Norway, 62 per cent; in Bavaria, however, only 44 per cent. In England, 82 per cent of the women contract marriage at and under the age of 30 years, whilst in Bavaria the percentage is only 61. It is hardly to be supposed that what Quetelet calls _la tendance an mariage_ (the tendency toward marriage) is less strong in Bavaria than in England: we may only infer that the conditions which render marriage practicable are more easily realized in England than in Bavaria, and a single glance at both these countries will show that such is really the case.

We shall now give a few figures from the statistics of suicide. The following table contains the annual aggregate of suicides, during a period of twenty years:

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France Belgium Denmark Austria Prussia Saxony
1836 2340 189 241 1436 214
1837 2443 165 269 534 1502 264
1838 2586 167 292 1453 261
1839 2747 192 297 486 1474 246
1840 2752 204 261 550 1480 336
1841 2814 240 337 1630 290
1842 2866 220 317 587 1598 328
1843 3020 242 301 588 1720 420
1844 2973 255 285 1575 335
1845 3082 216 290 596 1700 338
1846 3012 247 376 611 1707 373
1847 3047 251 345 1852 377
1848 3301 278 305 1649 398
1849 3583 275 337 452 1527 328
1850 3596 340 454 1743 390
1851 3598 165 401 552 1816 402
1852 3676 150 426 637 2073 530
1853 3415 161 419 705 1942 431
1854 3700 189 363 770 2198 547
1855 3810 166 399 2351 568

Making all possible allowance for increased population in each of these countries throughout the space of twenty years, and for greater accuracy in the later records than in the earlier ones, it still remains incontestable that in civilized countries suicide is on the increase, and that this increase exceeds that of the population.

By taking the annual proportion to a million of inhabitants, we shall perceive that this crime is more frequent in some countries than in others. The following figures comprise the period from 1856 to 1866:

In France, to one million of inhabitants, there
occurred yearly 111 suicides;
in Belgium, 47;
in Denmark, 276;
in Austria, 64;
in Prussia, 122;
in Saxony, 245;
in Bavaria, 72;
in Hanover, 137;
in Würtemberg, 85;
in Baden, 108;
in Hesse, 134;
in Mecklenburg, 162;
in Nassau, 102;
in Portugal, 7;
in England and Wales, 65;
in Hungary, 30;
in Dalmatia, 11;
in Europe generally, 84.

Very notable differences may be observed in these figures. The degree of intellectual culture and social refinement is about the same in Saxony as in Belgium, yet these two countries stand widely apart on the record of suicides, even if it be allowed that the estimate for Belgium is somewhat too low. There can be no doubt that religion exercises a decided influence in this matter. Saxony is a Protestant country, whilst Belgium is Catholic. Similar divergences exist in favor of Austria when compared with Prussia, and of Bavaria compared with Hanover.