Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

John Durer belonged to the family of a poor shepherd. He worked hard as a scholar, but even when he was at play he showed a violent disposition to domineer over the rest. He seemed to be devoured with ambition: at all events he carried off every prize at school. By the time he was fifteen he was the admiration, he was the pride, of all his masters. But John was not loved by his schoolmates; he displayed a vanity which repelled them, which sometimes provoked them. He made few friendships, spoke freely with few, and looked haughtily down on such of his little companions as were less happily gifted than he was. His words were short, his look was cold, and the pride in which he shut himself up on purpose, made him unapproachable. He lived by himself.

One evening this young Durer, feeling, even more than usually, the necessity of solitude and meditation, went out into the country, dreaming, no doubt, of the grandeur to which his pride aspired, and which he was hopeless of ever reaching; for his face was sad, and he walked with a slow step, as does some discouraged traveler on a road without end, toward something in the distance that perpetually escapes him. At last he stopped in a hollow, called the Valley of Bushes, on account of the gigantic white-thorn trees that grew there. He sat down in their shadow: a small bird was fluttering about, and singing blithely overhead; but he did not hear her.

When the storm is loud, all natural sounds are silenced. Thus it was with Durer; the throbbing of ambition in every vein with him absorbed all the sweeter melodies which should charm the heart and fancy of youth.

He was dreaming of fame and fortune. How to rise was his sole thought; and it was not probable, except by some very rare circumstance and chance, that his dream should be realized; for in those days of the world, at least, it was thought that a shepherd's son should have a shepherd's tastes. The young man did not see a single path open in which he could plant his foot--one was barred by wealth, another by position, another by birth. All that he could dream of was some blest chance that should break down for him one of these barriers. He was sullen, afflicted, ashamed, indignant, and alarmed,--above all, when he thought of one thing--that thing was his poverty.

For this had the shepherd of the village near Haerlem labored twenty years; for this had he spent the savings of those twenty years, in giving an education to this young nobleman.

John was buried deep in these reveries--too deep for his age--when some one came up smiling to him. This was a little, fat, chubby-faced man, as round as a barrel, with a low brown hat on his head. He had on a large brown cloak, a handsome yellow doublet, black breeches in the old fashion, and square-toed glossy shoes, with large roses of purple ribbon. The glance of this man, whose hair was already becoming gray, was keen and penetrating. Though his lips were thick, there was an open, honest expression about his mouth; while his clear eyes and sharply-cut eyebrows seemed to belong to a man of strict uprightness.

"I do not like to see youth melancholy," said the little man, coming close to John Durer, and examining him--"it is a sign of the disease too common among young people--which is a desire to be something and somebody before they are well born into the world. I would bet my fortune against this boy's dreams that he is already an old scholar. Plague take those parents who fill their children's heads with learning ere they have made men of them! who neglect all care to form a character, and think only how to bring forward the understanding!--Vanity kills right feeling!"

Mumbling thus to himself, the little man went up to John, and began to question him. The dreamer started as if a thunderbolt had fallen close to his elbow.

"Young man, how far is it from the earth to the sun?"

"Thirty-three millions of leagues," replied John, without the least hesitation.

"As if I did not know that he would know," said the little man to himself, with a smile.

"And how long would it take a humming-bird who could fly a league in a minute to get there!"

"Twenty-eight years, sir," was Durer's answer.

"When one calculates so well, and so rapidly, no wonder one is melancholy," said the little man to himself. Then going on--"Who was the greatest man of antiquity?" asked he.

"Alexander."

"Who was the wisest?"

"Socrates."

"Who was the proudest?"

"Diogenes."

"Which of these do you like the best?"

"Alexander."

"What do you think of the neighbor who obliges his neighbor?"

"I think that the first has the advantage of the second."

The little gentleman considered a moment, and began again--

"What is your father's trade, young man?"

This simple question made Durer blush. He did not say a word in answer. The little man, who was very clear-sighted, said--"This young fellow is ashamed to own that he belongs to a poor shepherd in the village hard by. Bad heart--strong head--detestable nature! This boy will never make anything but a diplomatist." Then, after a moment's reflection, he said to himself--"But it's of no consequence."

The end was, that young Durer went back to the cottage wild with joy. He took leave of his father and his mother, who shed torrents of tears at his leaving them. John was turning his back on the shepherd's cabin for ever: he was to go to Vienna, to finish his studies there. For the little man had put into his hand three purses full of gold, and had said, "I am Counsellor Werter, favorite of his Majesty the Emperor. Your assiduity in study has become known to me. Work on--for aught you know, you may be on the high road."

Three years afterward, Durer entered the office of the Emperor's secretary. Later, he became, himself, private secretary. Later still, he received a barony and a handsome estate.--So much for the prophecies, so much for the secret influence of the Counsellor Werter!

Durer was on the highway paved with gold;--but he forgot his father, and he forgot his mother, too.

One day, when Counsellor Werter was going to court, he met Durer on the staircase of the palace. He said to him,--

"Baron Durer, I sent yesterday, in your name, twelve thousand crowns to a certain old shepherd in a village not far from Haerlem."

The Counsellor said this in rather a scornful voice; and he saw that Baron Durer turned as red as the boy had done in the Valley of the Bushes, on the evening when he was asked what his father's trade was. The two men looked steadily at each other: the Baron with that hatred which is never to be appeased--the Counsellor with bitter indignation.

On the evening of that very day, the Emperor received his faithful old friend, the incorruptible Counsellor, coldly. On the morrow, Werter was not summoned to the palace--nor the day after. Disgrace had fallen on him. He had nourished a serpent in his bosom. He left court, and retired far away, to a small estate which he, too, chanced to possess in the neighborhood of Haerlem.

III.

As to John Durer, he rose to higher and higher dignities. The Emperor, after having made him minister, married him to a noble heiress. About that self-same time, the old shepherd and his wife died. Their village neighbors accompanied them in silence to the humble churchyard. A little man, whose hair was now white as snow, followed the dead with his head uncovered. When the priest had cast on their coffins that handful of dust which sounds so drearily, the old man murmured--

"There are bad sons, who, when they become fortunate, forget the aged parents who cherished them when they were children. May they be requited! for of such is not the kingdom of heaven."--Then he knelt down by the side of the grave and prayed.

This old man was Counsellor Werter. Wearied of the world, he had retired into obscurity, after having divided the larger part of his splendid fortune among the poor. He was gay, nimble--in the enjoyment of robust health; and many a time would he thank heaven that no children had been born to him, when he thought of the hard-heartedness of John Durer.

Not long after this, on the spot where the shepherd's cabin had stood was seen a magnificent château. It had been built so quickly, that it seemed like an enchanted palace. Toward the middle of summer, a fine young lord, a fair noble lady of the castle, and two lovely children, entered the village near to Haerlem in pride and triumph, escorted by the peasants, who had assembled in their honor. That fine young lord was John Durer, first Minister to his Majesty the Emperor of Germany.

It had chanced that heavy losses had befallen Counsellor Werter, which brought him within an inch of ruin. Had it not been for a sister left him who took care of him, the poor old gentleman would have been, indeed, in a miserable plight. A single word spoken by John Durer would have restored his ancient benefactor to court, and replaced him in the Emperor's favor. But vanity is without a heart; and wounded pride never forgives him who has wounded it.

IV.

One day the fine young lord took a fancy to go and visit all the spots in which, once on a time, he had dreamed away so many anxious hours. But he would go alone, not choosing that any should witness his meeting with those old friends, the haunts which might reveal to a companion the poverty of his early life. He set forth without attendants, mounted on a magnificent courser. He rode here, he rode there, not feeling even surprised to see everything so much as it was when he had quitted the country. The day began to go down--it was evening--when at last he came to the Valley of Bushes. There was a small bird singing there, just as it sang on that evening long ago. The sight of the white-thorn trees awakened painful recollections in his mind,--no doubt, perhaps, even a pang of remorse; and he spurred his courser in order to get clear of the place. But the animal trembled, snorted, and refused to move a step. He spurred his courser: the animal began to neigh violently.

"Is it some serpent that he sees?" said the fine young lord.

It was a little old man, who stepped out from among the bushes. He was dressed in a black mantle. Out he came, right into the middle of the road, closed his arms on his breast, and said in a dull voice, "Baron Durer, can you tell me what is the distance from a shepherd's hovel to a king's palace?"

"That which there is betwixt the earth and the sun," was the reply of the haughty upstart.

At this, the old man threw his cloak open, and showed himself to the Minister, as he had shown himself twenty years before, on that very spot, to the scholar John Durer. The Counsellor was little changed in appearance, except in his hair, which had been black, and was now white as the snow of winter.

John Durer's visage was mostly pale; but when he recognized that old man, it became as red as blood. It was the third time that he had blushed face to face with his former patron. Then the old man cried in a louder voice,--

"Does the scholar of the village remember one Counsellor Werter?"

"The Minister remembers nothing of the scholar," was the cold and arrogant answer.

"What, then, does he remember?" said the old man, pressing a little nearer.

"NOTHING!" cried the fine young lord, and he buried his spurs in the sides of his courser. They went off at a fierce gallop.

V.

But the fine young lord had only answered the truth. Whether it was from that sudden struggle of pride, and his hard-hearted resolution not to remember the Counsellor who had befriended him formerly or whether the labor of many years had caused it, from that evening, from that moment, the memory of the Emperor's great Minister began to decay. The ambitious designs of the shepherd boy of twenty years ago came back to him; but of all that had befallen him since, John Durer remembered nothing. The hour of requital was begun!

VI.

Thanks to his good courser, Baron Durer, the Minister, got home in safety to his château. The first person that he met was the baroness. He turned abruptly away from her.

"Whither are you hurrying so fast, my dear baron?" said she, seeing her husband running away from her, which was not his custom, for he was fond of his wife.

"Baron!" was his reply; "to what baron were you calling? I am no baron, madame--though one day, perhaps, I may be. Let us hope I may."

The tone in which he spoke these words terrified the baroness. Her husband immediately afterward left the château, and began running as fast as his legs could carry him, neither stopping nor slackening his pace. His head was bent down, like the head of a miser who is seeking about everywhere for the treasure which some one has stolen from him. From that day forward his face assumed a gloomy expression, his color became sallow, his eye haggard; and he began bitterly to complain that heaven had thought fit to send him on earth in a shepherd's form and a shepherd's dress.

Some days later, a messenger from the Emperor's court arrived at the château: "May it please my lord Minister," he began--

"I am no Minister," replied Durer, impatiently; "but have patience, sir, have patience; I may be Minister one day." Then he began to walk up and down hastily in the gallery of the château, perpetually saying, "I might have been a Minister by this time, sir, if your great ones did not leave men of strong intellect, and ability, and purpose, in the jaws of a misery which eats away the very brain as rust eats away the steel. Why--why, I ask, debar these men from high offices--these men who have nothing--merely out of a prejudice, which is as fatal to the individual as it is deadly to the state?" Then turning sharply on the Emperor's emissary, "Go, and tell your master, sir," said he, "that yesterday I was--I was--I was"--pressing his hand, as he spoke, above his forehead, as though he was trying to find a coronet which had belonged to it. Then rushing away distractedly--"Minister!" cried he, "I am--I was--No, no--I was not--but I soon will be!--Leave me, sir! leave me! leave me!"

Another day, his wretched family, who watched him with terror, overheard him talking to his gardener: "What a magnificent piece of work you are laying out, my good boy," said Durer; "a garden admirably designed, if there ever was such a thing." Then casting a disturbed glance toward the château, "'Tis a grand place, this," said he; "rich and elegant, and capitally situated--to whom does it belong, Joseph?"

"My lord baron knows right well that park, gardens, and château, belong to his noble self," said the gardener, leaning on his spade, and raising his cap.

Durer began to laugh to himself--but it was a piteous laugh--"Belong to me, my good boy!" said he; "not yet--not yet--and yet it seems to me as if I had owned--as if I had owned"--and he passed his hand over his forehead, as if he could call back some recollection which had drifted away out of his reach--murmuring, after a pause, "Is it to be this shepherd's hovel--for ever?--for ever?--for ever?" He fell on a turf seat, sobbing bitterly; then raising his head, he saw his two fair little children, who were at play in one of the alleys of the park.

"What lovely children!" sighed he; "ah!--he must, at least, be happy, whoever he be, that is father to such a pair of angels!"

The children came and flung themselves, laughing, into the Minister's arms, and hung about him with all manner of tender caresses. In return, he could but press their tiny hands in his, or let his lean, feverish fingers play with their golden curls. They kept calling him "Father."

"What are they saying!" murmured the Baron; "the blessing of being called father I shall never know! What is life--without a home, without a family round me! But these gifts only belong to fortune, and come with it." Then looking from one lovely little creature to another, with his dim and bloodshot eyes, he said, "And yet these children--these children--" He could not finish his sentence, but again passed his hand over his forehead; and the children became silent and awe-stricken, for they saw that he was weeping to himself.

Not long after this, he ceased to know his wife, whom he called for without ceasing; then he would bury himself deep in reading, without recollecting a word of what he had read when he had ended. All that was left to him was the memory of his young desires; the power of retaining anything had passed away utterly. His ardor began to change into frenzy; he was devoured with fever, and haunted with dream after dream that tempted him to pursue them, and mocked him at the very moment when he thought that he had reached them. The struggle wore him out, life and limb. He was seen day by day to wither, and grow weaker. The end was not far. On the last day of his illness, a strange fancy seized him: he would get up--rushed out of the château, and began to run wildly across the country, as if he were chasing something before him that no one, save himself could see. "Sire!" cried he, hoarsely, "deliver me from the obscurity of this shepherd's life! Sire! do listen to me! I am John Durer! I have studied everything! I have learned everything! I have fathomed everything! Raise me from my lowly condition, sire! Who knows? one day you may have no one among your servants more devoted, more enlightened, than your poor John Durer!"

The thing that he pursued, fled--fled. Durer ran after it more wildly as he grew weaker, trying to raise his voice higher and higher, and stretching out his arms more and more eagerly. They were now at the Valley of Bushes. "Sire!" cried he once again.

"John Durer, scholar, of the village near Haerlem," replied a voice from the shadows of the wood, "his Majesty the Emperor does not love people who have lost their memory."

The whole past--the long, long, years of his ambitious and glorious and ungrateful life--seemed in one instant to come back, as in a flash of lightning, before the weary, distracted man; and with this, too, the consciousness of his present state. He uttered one terrible cry, and fell down dead.

VII.

Three months later, when his orphans were led by their mother a second time to visit the humble cemetery of the village near Haerlem, they found a little old man writing rapidly, with a piece of charcoal, a few strange words on the stone under which the body of their father, the Minister, had been laid. When they came close to the spot, the old man ceased, and pointed out to them, with an awful look, that which he had written. After the inscription, "John Durer, formerly Minister to his Majesty the Emperor of Germany," the old man had written--

"Heaven requites ingratitude."

THE STORY OF A WEDGE.

BY REV. C. H. MEAD.

For more than a hundred miles, I had traveled, having the entire seat to myself.

Aside from the selfishness of the average traveler, who, while unwilling to pay for more sitting, is more than willing to monopolize the whole seat, I was glad of plenty of elbow room to enable me to answer some pressing letters.

But as the car began to fill up, I knew the bag at my side must soon give way to another kind of neighbor, and presently down the aisle he came. From a perpendicular standpoint he was small, but horizontally, he was immense, and I viewed his approach with some alarm.

There was a merry twinkle in his eye, and his face beamed with good nature as he said, "Ah, I see you have room for a wedge at your side; allow me to put it in place." With considerable effort and a good deal of tight squeezing, he at last settled down in the seat, remarking, with a merry laugh, "Here I am at last;" and there I was too, and there I was likely to remain, if that wedge did not fly out, or the side of the car give way.

"Have you room enough?" I slyly inquired.

"Plenty of room, thank you," he replied; "I trust you are nice and snug."

"Never more snug in my life."

"That's right; the loose way in which most people travel is a continual menace to life and limb. I believe in keeping things snug, spiritually, physically, socially, financially and politically snug. And if things are spiritually snug, all the others must be so, as a matter of course. I learned that fact years ago in England."

"Are you an Englishman," I inquired.

"No, sir; I'm a Presbyterian" he laughingly replied; "my father was born in England, my mother was born in Ohio, and I was born the first time in New Jersey. Then on a visit to England I was 'born again.' My father was a Methodist; my mother was a Quaker, so of course I had to be a Presbyterian."

His unctuous laughter made the seat tremble. "Not a blue one, mind you. Blue? Not a bit of it. Why, bless you, when I became a Christian, all the blue went out of my heart and went into my sky.

"My father was physically large--I take after him. My mother--" he stopped abruptly and lifted his hat reverently; the tears filled his eyes and coursed down his cheeks, and presently, with choking voice he continued:

"My mother, God bless her memory, was the best woman and the grandest Christian I ever knew. She lives in heaven, and she lives in my heart. I would that I were as much like mother spiritually as I resemble father physically."

The tender pathos of his voice, as he said this, made me feel that his sainted mother, were she present, would have no reason to feel ashamed of her son.

As he was about to replace his hat on his head, I noticed in large letters pasted on the lining, these words, "Hinder nobody--help everybody."

"Excuse me, sir;" I said, as I pointed to the words, "what is the meaning of that?"

Quickly the tears on his cheeks, were illuminated by a smile as he said--"That's my watchword; I carry it in my hat, have it hung up on my wall at home, and since I went into my present business, I've tried to make it the daily practice of my life."

"May I inquire what your business is?"

"Certainly, sir, my business is serving the Lord, and there is no business like it in the universe. It pays good dividends, brings me no worry, insures me a good standing in the best society; feeds me on the fat of the land, fills my heart with peace and makes me an heir to a kingdom, a robe and a crown. Bankruptcy and bad debts never stare me in the face, and every draft I draw is honored at the bank. Thus, I 'hinder nobody,' and am able to 'help every body.'"

"Where do you reside?" I asked.

"On Pisgah's top"--and his face fairly shone as he repeated it--"on Pisgah's top. At first I lived down in the valley among Ezekiel's dry bones, and used to help the multitudes sing--

"'Could we but climb where Moses stood,
And view the landscape o'er:
Not Jordan's stream nor death's cold flood,
Should fright us from the shore.'

"But I moved on and up to my present residence, and now I sing--

"'From Pisgah's top, the promised land,
I now exult to see:
My hope is full, oh, glorious hope,
Of immortality.'

"But I beg your pardon, sir; am I crowding you?"

"Crowding me? not a bit of it. I trust I shall always have room for company like you."

"Thank you, sir, thank you. I'm only a wedge"--with a merry laugh--"but I try to fill every opening the Lord shows me. Excuse me but how far are you going?"

"I get off at Albany," I replied. He looked at me as if taking my measure, and, after a moment he said:

"I hope you are not a member of the legislature."

"No, sir," I said, "I'm a Methodist."

"Give me your hand. I am so glad to know you are going in the opposite direction. A man may go to heaven by way of the legislature, but I would as soon think of going where I could get cholera in order to secure good health, as expect to serve God by becoming a member of the legislature. Ah, here is Albany! Good day, sir; don't forget the wedge. And if you will, I wish you would remember the watchword--'Hinder nobody--Help everybody.'"

PRINCE EDWIN AND HIS PAGE.

A TALE OF THE ANGLO-SAXONS.