Chapter VIII: Part 8

The youngsters in ragged clothing, who run about under our feet in the streets, carrying their bags of books to school, are often a very saucy brood. They banter, chaff, sneer, and think themselves far wiser than their elders. We meet with this principally in cities. In their homes they are accustomed to bitter words. Many methods of education aim to transform the little ones rapidly into cool-headed, sensible men. The children must know and think, only this; all warm feeling is stifled, and then one wonders why there is so little ability and creative power! When such a youth has sated himself with the works of art and nature, which have become for him merely toys and objects of derision, he grows disheartened, fretful, and young men and maidens of twenty are weary of the world. They have soon convinced themselves that their own abilities and ambitions are no higher than those which they have so often scorned--nor scarcely so high; they become impotent and lose faith in themselves; and now they are fully convinced of that which they have so often heard, and in their inexperience have so often maintained: The world is thoroughly bad--and they are _unhappy_. This element of pessimism, to which they have accustomed themselves, so disturbs their power of action that they have not even sufficient courage to take that step which seems to them the most desirable: suicide.

The second method is not inexpedient, indeed for progress in life it is often really necessary. We might show the children the world as it appears to us; relate to them our own experiences, that they may profit by them. Still this way, although perhaps necessary, is not the best; it too soon disturbs the ideals of youth which warm the child-heart like a breath of God and can never be replaced in later years. Therefore we must not initiate children into the hardships of life prematurely. Then again, this method is not always as useful as one would think; indeed, every day we see children who give no heed to the precepts which are the results of their parents' experiences and who pay for their carelessness and learn wisdom only by their own failures. Even were they able to profit by the trials of their parents, how shall they instruct _their_ children, if not forced to undergo any experiences of their own? Such things cannot be handed down; only where they originate and grow, do they bear fruit.

My opinion is, that we should guard the fresh rosebud called "child-heart" as long as we are able. Let us interfere as late as possible with the intellectual life and vocation of the child. For indeed, even three-year-old children have often already chosen their life work. They hunt up and make toys for themselves, they hammer, they dig, they draw, plane, and build and are as much in earnest as we elders in our efforts. It is a great disadvantage to the children of the rich to receive their playthings ready made, the result of which is, that they simply destroy them; and this often happens even in the case of well-disposed children. How can the little ones become inventive and ingenious, how can they practise the art of acquiring and saving, of patience and perseverance, when everything which their hearts desire and which they often do not really desire, comes to them as if by the aid of a wishing-rod? It may partly account for the fact--and this is within my own knowledge--that children of the poor, who from their earliest youth must seek and make everything that they wish to have, are often intellectually superior to the children of the rich. But we should encourage and guide the little ones in their occupations and small creations.

It is wiser to check speech than action in children. And if they have done something wrong, or produced something faulty, then give them the opportunity to do it again and better.

Many parents and teachers have the custom of speaking disparagingly and critically of their children before strangers; that is almost more dangerous than pushing them forward and praising them in the presence of others. An embittered disposition is apt to follow wounded ambition.

Instead of analysing the excellences and defects in the works and standards of mankind, I consider it better to recognise their worth unconditionally, that the children may learn to honour and admire them. Critical knowledge of one's ideal has never been sufficient to inspire a man to strive to imitate it, although it may have caused respect and enthusiasm. The critical, fault-finding element means only too often repudiation--it is the chief characteristic of incapable natures and never imparts strength, but rather impedes the creative power. Whatever works upon the reason, chills; that which works upon the heart, warms; especially with children.

Children should hear only of the beautiful, the good, and the great. Our own ideals, the bright visions of our youth and our guiding star, even though they be now extinct, let us rekindle them in the children's hearts; or if Nature has herself performed this work, then let us feed and fan the flame; at such a fire we shall warm ourselves again. Human history is exceedingly rich in great deeds--I do not mean the campaigns and destruction wrought by victorious generals, nor the intrigues of land-greedy princes, with which one ordinarily seeks to _improve_ our youth--I mean the blessed, beautiful deeds of noble men. Let us surround the child with these, and with them we shall plant in him a garden full of roses and glorious fruits!

And when the high and noble things in the earthly kingdom are exhausted, then let us with confidence open the gates to those eternal regions whence mankind for a thousand years has drawn courage and inspiration. The true man of culture, familiar with all the successes and failures of the human intellect, the man acquainted with the world, who knows that tolerance is a chief characteristic of noble minds, will not hesitate to portray to the child the great ideals of poetic souls.

But there are certain people in the world outside against whom I would make the charge that they are as lenient toward the weaknesses and sins of mankind as they are intolerant of religious opinions. These people are adherents to a doctrine asserting the animal supremacy in man, and make freedom of will and action wholly dependent on natural or accidental outward circumstances--modern fatalists, who are still more dangerous than those of the romantic school. They believe that they are satisfying their love for mankind, if they excuse the criminals and fallen ones according to prescribed precepts, thus justifying the crime to their children. That means making the criminal interesting to the children. However, we should instil into their minds neither hatred nor pharisaical pride, although the mistakes and crimes themselves cannot be too severely censured before the little ones. Even as nobility should be represented to them as worthy of their entire respect, so should evil be unconditionally condemned. One only confuses children with such subtle reasoning and philosophical explanations--everything must be distinct, clear, and tangible.

One more word in regard to the love of fatherland.

Child and home--how natural! We well know that the little ones long to go forth into the world, but still stronger is their desire to return home. So we might add, teach them love of home. A hearth of one's own, a family; here man is guarded from the greatest evils; here industry, self-sacrifice, self-confidence, and contentment are developed; here love for the parish and fidelity to the fatherland thrive. The attitude which many people in the outside world are now assuming toward the fatherland is said to be becoming somewhat revolutionary. This must be followed by results which I do not like to mention to the children here! I am consequently obliged to counteract these reports by telling them that it is difficult to remain on friendly terms with people who are always discontented and unthankful. How shall one demand of a citizen of the state that he shall work for the perfection, the strengthening, and freedom of his native land, when he is perfectly indifferent towards it! And the continual denunciations of the conditions of the country, of its rulers and laws, all combine to undermine gradually the love for the fatherland. I do not care for that patriotism which sends our sons upon the battle-field, chosen for them by leaders of the state, but rather for that which teaches how to _live_ for the fatherland. Resist hostile invasions, for that is manly and right. But patriotism often springs from prejudice; the children should therefore be taught where it ceases to be a virtue.

Besides the love of one's native land, there is fortunately in mankind room for love of the whole world. Instead of inspiring children with admiration for the warrior heroes of history, it were better to instil into them the greatest horror for the profession of war. The idea that, for any reason whatever, we may kill innocent people must gradually be eradicated from the human race.

The school alone cannot of course do everything; it teaches youth but is unable to educate it. With which organs does the young tree absorb the more nourishment and life, with its branches and leaves from the free air, or with its roots from the ground, whence it springs? What the child acquires at school must be carefully digested, but the example and guidance of the parents are involuntarily absorbed into the flesh and blood. It remains then with the parents to lay in the child the foundation for a sound conception of the world.

I was once acquainted with the father of a family, who so strictly carried out the principle of presenting to his children a bright conception of the world, that he kept them away from all existing evil. That I do not consider necessary. It is not so much what they see as _how_ they see it. Children seldom tremble in the presence of danger. One should call their attention to it, not in a startling manner, which only disheartens, but rather in a tone of calm self-reliance which rests on the consciousness of its own power. And after unfortunate accidents, where man is powerless, one should never show despair or apathetic discouragement before children, but always the open countenance full of resignation and hope; everything will be well again! These are magic words for us as well. There is a constant interchange of light and shadow everywhere in life, and each misfortune brings us new expectation of good; he who lives in this hope already enjoys the interest of a capital not yet due.

The five-year-old daughter of the stone-cutter, when her only brother was buried, whom she loved so dearly that it was thought she could not live an hour without him, gazed down into the deep little grave surrounded by the mourning bystanders and said: "God keep thee, Hans, we will meet in heaven," and hastened away over the flowery meadow. Yes, thus should it be and thus should it continue among us men.

And that boy from Schirmtanner's house, who built a little hut, a mill, and a variety of things on the hillside, working at it one whole summer, when an avalanche destroyed his playthings, cried: "It's gone! It did not please God that I should build on the hill, now I will go and build my house down by the barn fence." He might just as well have clenched his fist and snarled: "Why did it not please God?" But it has been said to him: "God is far stronger and wiser; against Him thou canst do nothing, but He does not mean ill by thee." And sometime in later years of life, when the heart is broken and faith is dead, that which is best and most enduring in such a conception of life shall still remain by us,--resignation.

I have nothing against knowledge, but I like wisdom better. Wisdom does not come so much from the head as from the heart. Let childishness and confidence in the world be fostered as long as possible; childishness is fruitful soil for the beautiful, confidence in the world for the good. I do not mean that a generation of idealists should be developed, who cannot think and work practically. But they should have confidence in the world and in themselves, for that is the most fruitful ground for right thinking and practical deeds. A simpler and happier race must arise than could ever be imagined by the crabbed philosophers, who are so vain of their lofty reasoning and so hopeless in their human mission.

However, the heart of man is good; from generation to generation he approaches perfection. There are indeed periods which are not favourable to him; often the blossoms grow too luxuriant, the fruit becomes too large. In the midst of the most auspicious May, frosts, blights, insects, and plagues of all kinds arrive---but gradually--gradually the day shall dawn of which all nations have dreamed and which all prophets have foretold.

*WALDLILIE IN THE SNOW*

WINTER, 1830.

We are relieved of a great anxiety. The storm has subsided. A light wind has arisen and gently released the trees from their burden. There have been a few mild days, during which the snow has settled and with snow-shoes we can now walk where we please.

But during this time a curious incident has taken place over in Karwaesser. Berthold, whose family increases from year to year, while their supply of food grows less, has become a poacher. The Holdenschlag priest, although a weak-hearted hypocrite, pretends to understand life better than we, and says, poor people should not marry. According to conventional ideas and customs, Berthold and Aga are not married, but they have knelt before me in the woods ... and--now the whole family are starving. Am I responsible? Alas, the blessing which I gave them is of no avail! Oh, my God, Thine is the power; as in my youth I have already committed one crime, grant that _this_ may not prove to be one as well.

So Berthold has become a poacher. The profits of wood-cutting do not reach far in a house full of children. I have sent him what I can in the way of food. Whenever he wishes a nourishing broth for his sick wife and a bit of meat for the children, he shoots the deer that come in his way. And as misfortune often changes one's character, Berthold, who as shepherd was such a good and happy lad, has, through poverty, spite, and love for his family, grown to be a lawbreaker.

I have already begged the forester, for God's sake, to look after the poor man a little, assuring the former that Berthold would certainly improve and that I would stand bail for him. But up to the present time there has been no change for the better; and that which has happened during these wild winter days has made him weep aloud, for he loves his Waldlilie above everything.

It is a dark winter evening. The windows are covered with moss; outside, the fresh flakes fall upon the old snow. Berthold is staying with the children and the sick Aga, until the eldest daughter, Lili, shall return with the milk, which she has gone to beg from a hermit near by in Hinterkar; for the goats in the house have been killed and eaten; and as soon as Lili arrives, it is Berthold's intention to go up into the forest with his gun. In such weather one need not seek far to find the deer.

But it grows dark and Lili has not yet returned. The fall of snow becomes heavier and denser; night approaches, and still no Lili. The children are already crying for the milk; the father is eager for the game; the mother raises herself in bed. "Lili!" she cries. "Child, where art thou straying in this pitch-dark forest? Come home!"

How can the weak voice of the invalid reach the ear of the wanderer through the wild snow-storm?

The darker and stormier the night becomes, the stronger is Berthold's longing for the game and the deeper his anxiety for his Waldlilie. She is a delicate twelve-year-old girl; to be sure she knows the paths and the ravines, but the former are covered with snow, the latter concealed by the darkness.

Finally, the man leaves the house to seek for his child. For hours he wanders about calling through the storm-swept wilderness; the wind blows the snow into his eyes and mouth; he is obliged to use his entire strength to regain the hut.

And now two days pass; the storm abates and Berthold's hut is nearly snow-bound. They comfort themselves with the thought that Lili is surely with the hermit. This hope is destroyed on the third day, when, after a long struggle through the drifts, Berthold at last succeeds in reaching the hermitage.

Lili had indeed been there three days ago and had started in good time on her homeward way with her jug of milk.

"So my Waldlilie lies buried in the snow!" Berthold cries. He then goes to the other wood-cutters and begs, as no one has ever heard this man beg before, that they will come and help him seek for his dead child.

On the evening of the same day they find Waldlilie.

In a wooded ravine, in a dark tangled thicket of young firs and pines, through which no flake of snow can force itself and above which the mass of snow has piled and drifted, so that the young trees groan with the weight, upon the hard pine-needles on the ground, surrounded by a family group of six deer, sits the sweet, pale Waldlilie.

It was a most remarkable circumstance. The child had lost herself in the ravine on her way home, and, as she could no longer resist the drifting snow, she crept into the dry thicket to rest. But she was not long alone. Her eyes had scarcely begun to close, before a herd of deer, old and young, joined her; they sniffed about the girl and gazed at her with their mild eyes full of intelligence and sympathy, for of this human being they were not afraid. They remained with her, laid themselves upon the ground, nibbled the trees, licked one another, apparently undisturbed by her presence; the thicket was their winter home.

The next day the snow had enveloped them all. Waldlilie sat in the dim light and drank the milk which she was to have carried to her family, nestling against the good creatures to keep from freezing in the chilling air.

Thus the terrible hours passed by. And just as Waldlilie was about to lay herself down to die and in her simplicity was begging the deer to remain faithfully by her side in the last hour, they suddenly began sniffing in a most curious manner, raising their heads and pricking up their ears, then with wild leaps and startled cries they burst through the thicket, scattering in all directions.

The men forced their way through the snow and underbrush and with a shout of joy discovered the child, while old Ruepel, who was also there, called out: "Did I not say, come here, come here, for we may find her with the deer!"

Thus it happened; and when Berthold heard how the creatures of the forest had saved his little daughter and had kept her from freezing, he cried out wildly: "I will never do it again as long as I live!" And his gun with which he had been shooting the game for many years he dashed in pieces against a stone.

I saw it myself, for the priest and I were in Karwaesser, assisting in the search for the child.

This Waldlilie is very gentle and as white as snow, and her eyes are like those of the deer.

WINTER, 1830.

The reports about our master's son do not cease. If only the half were true which is told concerning him, then he is indeed a bad man. No sensible being would act thus.

I will make a note of it and write to his father soon. Hermann should visit our forest and see how poor people live.

Such a journey into the mountains is sometimes very beneficial.

THE WINTER SEASON.

Lazarus Schwarzhuetter is often seen casting loving glances at Grassteiger's little daughter, and the girl is growing fond of the lad; so they coquette with one another although the priest has forbidden the young people to do this. Certainly it is his privilege to preach, but they continue in their gazing all the same and think they have the right, a right which Lazarus declares they will never relinquish.

"Very good," says the priest, "they shall be united even though they afterwards regret it."

CHRISTMAS, 1830.

On holy Christmas eve the people come hither from all directions. The sparks from the lighted torches glide over the crust like shooting stars.

Many of the woodsmen, in their anxiety to see the midnight celebration, have arrived much too early. As the church is not yet open and it is cold out-of-doors, they come to me in the schoolhouse. I strike a light and the room is soon filled with people. The women have tied white shawls, folded like sashes, about their chins and over their ears. They huddle around the stove, blowing their fingers to soothe the pain caused by chilblains.

The men stand closely wrapped in their fustian jackets. Without removing their hats they sit upon the tables or benches and observe with an air of important deliberation the school apparatus, which the children explain to their elders. Some of them walk up and down, knocking their frozen boots against each other at every step, with a clattering sound. Nearly all are smoking their pipes. The primeval forest may be exterminated, but the smoking of tobacco--never.

I hastily put on my coat, for it is my duty to be the first one in the church.

Suddenly there is a loud knocking at the door. An old wrinkled face crowned with snowy locks, covered by a white sheep's wool cap peers in, and I recognise the forest singer. He wears a long coat reaching below the knees and fastened with brass hooks. Over it hangs a knapsack and a flute, and the old man leans upon a shepherd's staff, holding in his hand his capacious brown hat. This is his house and his home and his whole world. A good hat, he thinks, is the best thing in life, and he adds, "the earth's hat is the sky."

"Why do you idle your time away?" cries Ruepel in a loud, exultant tone; "long have the stars been shining without. Praised be the Lord, for upon this day, wonderful news I bring you about that which in Bethlehem happened of late. Hear ye no music, no joyful sound? Look from the windows, haste, do not wait, bright rays of light the houses surround."

And the people hasten to the windows; but there is nothing to be seen except the dark forest and the starry heaven. Why should there be anything else?

The old man gazes smilingly about him, counting his listeners, then taking his place in the middle of the room, he knocks several times on the floor with his stick and thus begins to speak:

"Alone and heavy-eyed with sleep, out on the heath I stood and gazed about, while gathering in my sheep; and watched the flock, among which grazed a sacrificial lamb. Then heard I echoing in the heavens high, a sound, while tones of music stirred the air. I heard, but knew not why these strains, nor who such joy expressed. The whole flock leaped about and when it heard the wonder, with the rest, the lamb most sweetly bleated. Then saw I--it must a vision be, I thought--child angels fly about high in the air. Straight down to me one cherub came, whom I, in doubt, asked, 'What is happening to-day?' Then cried he, joyous, 'Gloria in Excelsis Deo!' by my fay, to say I understood, were sin. 'Come, lad, thou must to German keep; an unlearned parish shepherd, I, nor aught of Latin know the sheep.' He answered, 'Quickly rise and hie to Bethlehem, and thou shalt find a new-born infant lying there among the cattle and their kind, a child most beautiful and fair. Not in a kingly palace high, but in an ox-stall mean and poor, in swaddling-clothes our Lord doth lie, whose help is in our need most sure.'"

This is the old singer's "message" which he proclaims in all the houses during the Christmas season.

We give him a small remuneration, whereupon he repeats a few more cheering words and hobbles out at the door again.

The people have become quite silent and reverent; and not until the church bells begin to ring, do they regain their merry mood and with awkward words and gestures leave the room.

I extinguish the candles, close the house and enter the church. This is the night, when from the Orient to the Occident is heard the ringing of bells, and a cry of joy re-echoes throughout the world, while lights are shining like a diamond girdle around the terrestrial globe. In our church, also, it is as bright as day, and only through the windows stares the black night. Each person has brought a bit of candle, or even a whole taper, for on Christmas eve everyone must be armed with his faith and his light. The people crowd about the little manger, which to-day has been erected in place of the confessional. A number of years ago I carved the numerous tiny figures out of linden- and oak-wood, and set them up as a representation of the birth of Christ. Here are the stall and the manger with the Child, Mary and Joseph, the ox and the ass, the shepherds with the lambs, the wise men with the camels; there are a few other droll figures and groups which are designed to express joy, goodness, and love for the Christ child according to the conception of the people, and in the background are the stars and the town of Bethlehem.

That which Ruepel understands putting into words, I will suggest by means of these images. And the people are really edified by this representation. But they take it, thank God, merely as a symbol, and they know that, save as a reminder, it is both meaningless and useless.

It would be otherwise with the image of a saint upon the altar; that would be before their eyes daily and on every occasion, until they came to look upon it as God Himself.

In the choir there was an unfortunate occurrence to-night. The priest had already begun the _Te Deum_, while I at the organ, in celebration of the joyous festival, turned on all six stops--when suddenly the bellows burst, the organ creaked and groaned, and ceased to give forth a single resounding tone. In my whole life I have never been in a more embarrassing situation. I was the schoolmaster, the leader of the choir, and as such was expected to provide the music, for this is really the essential part of the celebration, and without it there can be no Christmas eve in the church. Just as all hearts were palpitating, all ears awaiting the melodious tones, the devil took it upon himself to render the bellows useless. I covered my face with my hands and felt like hiding my head in mortification. In vain my fingers wandered over the keys; the instrument was dumb and lifeless.

Paul Holzer, his wife, and Adelheid from the black hut, were sitting with me in the choir and, noticing my annoyance, they moved about in their seats, coughed, cleared their throats and with loud voices began to sing "We praise Thee, oh, God!"

That was like balm to my spirit.

The chant was soon over and the high mass was to follow, where music, choral music, was absolutely necessary.

Old Ruepel came stumbling up the stairs, saying: "Schoolmaster! if the organ be silent to-day, then why not on the fiddle play?"

"_Mein Gott_, Ruepel, it is in Holdenschlag being repaired!"

"And if then the fiddle be away, the hymns on the zither would I play."

For this suggestion I embraced the old man so violently that he was completely overwhelmed. I hastened to my room, fetched the zither, and during high mass, tones from a stringed instrument filled the church, the like of which were never before heard in this or in any other house of God. The people listened, and even the priest turned a little, casting a quiet glance up in my direction.

So the Christmas festival was celebrated during the long winter night in Winkelsteg. The music trembled and vibrated softly; it sang the cradle song for the newly born child Jesus and proclaimed peace to mankind. It called and awakened the sleeping child, warning it against the coming of the false Herod; and it trilled a _Wanderlied_ for the flight into Egypt.

I played the music for the mass, played the songs which my mother and my foster-father, the good umbrella-maker, used to sing to me, and which in the Baron's house the daughter----

And at last I scarcely knew what, in my excited mood, I was playing for the Holy Child and for the parish on that Christmas eve.

The Winkelstegers will think me as insane as Rhyme-Ruepel.

After the midnight mass the priest asked me to invite the old, the deserted, the poorest and most unfortunate people of the parish to the parsonage.

Here it is even brighter than in the church! In the middle of the room stands a tree, gleaming in all its twigs and branches with points of light.

The old men and women gaze at it in amazement; giggle and rub their eyes, thinking it only a foolish dream. That real tapers should be growing on a tree from the forest, is something which in all their days they have never seen before.

"That wonder-bird, which appears every thousand years," says the priest, "has flown through the forest again, and planted a seed in the ground, whence this tree with its flaming blossoms has sprung. This is the third tree of life. The first was the tree of knowledge in paradise; the second, the tree of sacrifice on Golgotha; and this, the third, is the tree of human love, which has transformed the Golgotha of this earth into paradise once more. In the burning bush God once proclaimed the law, and He repeats it in _this_ burning bush to-day: 'Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself!'"

The priest now distributes the food and clothing to those for whom it is intended, saying: "Do not thank me; the _Christkind_ brought it."

"How wonderful!" the people exclaim. "Now the Christ child even comes down to us in the woods! That is because we have a church and such a good priest!"

Ruepel, also one of the recipients, is more childish than all the rest. He runs around the tree as though searching for the Christ child among the branches. "Ah!" he finally cries, "e'en though the sun be wroth with me, I could not name, I do not know, a light upon the earth below, that shines so brightly as this tree. Be quiet, list, do you not hear the rustling branches, and on high, how like the birds the cherubs fly; they 're building for the Christ child dear a nest, in which to celebrate the holy feast. And yonder, see that cherub white; no wings has he, he nearly fell. Child, do not wait, but hasten for thy feet to find some climbing-irons, for which I'll pay, for see, I have received to-day, a jacket warm and thalers line each pocket. Angels haste to all the other trees within our wood and let your light so pure and good, upon their myriad branches fall."

Old Ruepel does not eat a mouthful while the others are enjoying a warm soup provided by Grassteiger. And when straw is brought into the room and a resting-place prepared, that the people may not be obliged to return in the night to their distant huts, old Ruepel goes out under the open sky, and counts the stars, giving to each one a name. And the rising morning star he calls "Father Paul."

The priest has several times, applied to the owner of the forest, asking that the peasants here--who, with much exertion have made the poor soil productive--might without payment receive this land as their own property. But no decisive answer has come. It is said that the old Baron is travelling and the son is in the capital, and the world is so wide and the city so noisy that such a message from the forest could not be heard there.

So we Winkelstegers remain vassals.

JANUARY 14, 1831.

To-day I have received news of the death of my relative, Aunt Lies. She has made me her heir. Old acquaintances, who have not troubled themselves about me for twenty years, congratulate me upon my inheritance. But I have heard no further particulars. How much can the old lady have had? I know she was rich, but she wasted everything in games of chance.

And should it be only one groschen, or, indeed, nothing at all--by my soul, I am pleased that she thought of me. She always meant well by me. Now my last relative is dead.

EASTER, 1831.

In the Winkel forest the church festivals must take the place of that which in the outside world they call art.

As, according to my poor ability, I set up a manger for the Christmas celebration, so Ehrenwald and his sons have now made a sepulchre for Easter.

In the side aisles of the church stand, as entrance gates, four high wooden arches, covered with pictures from the story of the Passion. The innermost arches are narrower than the outer ones, and in a niche in the shadowy background is the grave of Jesus. Above it is the table for the sacred utensils, surrounded by a circle of bright-coloured lamps. On either side of the grave stand two Roman slaves as sentinels. During the celebration of the Resurrection, the dead Christ disappears, and within the circle of lamps rises the scarred body of the risen Saviour with the palm of victory in His hand.

There is a great charm in the whole celebration. It is preceded by the period of fasting which, day by day, increases in solemnity; for weeks there is no music, the pictures are veiled. Good Friday approaches. First the imposing Palm Sunday, then the mysterious Maundy Thursday, the gloomy, sad Good Friday, and the quiet Saturday. In this calm one feels a foreboding and longing and the word of the Prophet gently reminds us: His grave shall be glorious!

Once more the house of God is obscured like Golgotha in the darkness; then the red and green lamps gleam, and the festival tapers sparkle--and suddenly the joyful cry is heard: "He is risen!" Now the bells are rung, guns are fired and the air is filled with joyous melodies, the flaming red banners are waved, and the people go forth into the open air, their lanterns glowing in the twilight as they disappear in the woods.

In the cities the celebration is much greater and far more imposing. But where is the feeling, the true, hopeful joy in the Resurrection, which inspires the believing poor! Seeking for inward peace, the dwellers in the city turn away from the churchyard, murmuring: "In truth we _hear_ the message."

SPRING, 1831.

I am already beginning to design houses which are to be built from the proceeds of my inheritance. In Winkelsteg I shall erect a large, beautiful mansion, larger than the parsonage. I have the plans all completed. But as long as I remain schoolmaster, I have no desire to live in it myself. Sometime I shall give a little room in this house to the invalid Reutmann from Karwasserschlag; and I shall ask the old, childless Frau Bruennhuetter, and the sick Aga from Karwaesser, and Markus Jager, who is blind, and Joseph Ehrenwald, who has been injured by a falling tree. And I shall welcome many others, until, by degrees, the great house is filled. There are a number of wretched creatures wandering about in the Winkel woods.

I shall place a doctor and medicine at the disposal of these people, that is, if the money goes far enough. Then I will invite in jesters and musicians who understand providing all kinds of entertainment. An almshouse is dreary enough, without sad and lonesome surroundings in addition; the merry world should look in at all the windows and say: "You still belong to me, and I will not let you go!"

I do not need to pay for the land now, as at present I am merely building my castle in the air. The inheritance has not yet arrived. But the report is that my aunt won large sums of money at play.

I shall give the pleasantest room in the new alms-house to old Ruepel. The poor man is really quite deserted. For his rhymes the people pay him now with scarcely a bit of bread. They have forgotten how, in former times, they have been edified by his cheering and uplifting songs on festive occasions, how they have laughed and wept, often saying to one another: "It is as though the Holy Ghost were speaking through him."

To be sure the old man has not much to offer now, and he has already become quite childish. He has bent a piece of wood, across which he has stretched straws for strings, and this is his harp. He rests it against his breast, and his fingers wander over the strings as he murmurs his songs.

He is a strange old figure, as he sits upon a stone in the dark forest, wrapped in his wide, faded cloak, with his long, luxuriant, snow-white beard and shimmering hair, which falls unkempt about his shoulders. He raises his tearful eyes toward the tree-tops and sings to the birds, from whom he once learned his songs.

The creatures of the forest do not fear him; a squirrel often hops down upon his shoulder from the branches and, standing on its hind-legs, whispers something into the old man's ear.

His words, like his songs, are becoming more and more incomprehensible. They are no longer in keeping with the people or with the circumstances. He sings foolish love songs and children's ditties, as though dreaming of his youth. When in summer the white-bearded man is sitting motionless upon some hill-top, he looks from the distance like a bunch of _Edelweiss_.

The beetles and ants run over his coat and scramble up his beard; the bees fly about his head as though seeking wild honey there.

The priest has confided something to me which seems to cause him anxiety.

He says it is possible that I may become a rich man, and as such I would probably go forth into the world, to fulfil all the wishes which I have formed and nourished in the wilderness. No one is entirely unselfish.

This communication has cost me a restless night. I have searched my heart and in truth I have found there one desire, which is far away from the Winkel forest. But it could not be fulfilled with money. She is married.

Why should I demur? My wish is fulfilled. She is happy.

MARCH 24, 1831.

To-day Sturmhanns from Wolfsgrubenhohe was found dead in Lautergraeben. His beard was badly singed. The people say that a blue flame which issued from his mouth was the cause of his death. They explain it thus: Sturmhanns had been drinking a great quantity of gin, then, as he was lighting his pipe, his breath had taken fire instead of the tobacco, and thus the man's soul was burned out of him. There is probably some truth in the story.

APRIL 1, 1831.

To-day my inheritance has been officially forwarded to me. It consists of three groschen and a letter from my Aunt Lies, which is as follows:

"DEAR ANDREAS:

"I am old, sick, and helpless. Thou art in the mountains, God only knows where. During my illness I have been thinking over everything. I have undoubtedly done thee a wrong and I beg thy pardon. This money weighs upon my mind more than all else; it is thy christening-money, which thou wouldst have sent to thy father in heaven. I took it from thee, but now I beg thee to take it back and to forgive me; for I wish to die in peace. God bless thee, and I must say one more word: if thou art in the mountains, then do not come away from there. All is vanity. In prosperous days my friends remained true to me; now they leave me to die in poverty.

"Many thousand kisses for thee, my dear, my only kinsman. When God takes me to Himself in heaven, I will greet thy parents for thee.

"Until death
"Thy loving aunt
"ELISE."

THE FEAST OF CORPUS CHRISTI, 1831.

For three years we have been collecting money for a baldachin. But we Winkelstegers have not yet been able to buy one; we must make it ourselves.

Old Schwamelfuchs has made a portable canopy from green birch-boughs, that in celebrating this festival, we may carry the sacred relics out of the church in a fitting manner.

The procession in the bright sunshine is a festive one. And the people, finally freed from the hard winter, sing joyful hymns. We rest in the woods and the priest pronounces the benediction, sending the holy blessing to all parts of the world.

It is unusual that in the midst of the service a layman should raise his voice, but old Ruepel is an exception, and this is his Corpus Christi song:

"Let all the bells ring, let all the birds sing, the Lord cometh forth from His heavenly gates. In green woods He walks, and upon the fresh grass, where the young deer doth graze, sweet rest He awaits. His first mighty word He speaks, and when heard, all the flowers spring up from the earth where they lie. Again He doth speak with re-echoing sound, each seed in the valley is wakened thereby. And when the third word He utters is heard, the thunder is silent, the lightning obeys; with the touch of His breath deadly hail doth He melt. To Thee, mighty Lord, be both honour and praise. And with Thy last word all nature is stirred; the mountains shall tremble, the rocks shall be hurled, the heavens shall crash and waken the dead, and fire shall descend to destroy all the world."

The strange old man understands reaching the heart with his words. Impressed and exalted we return to the church. And the green birch baldachin with its white poles shall stand over the altar until its thousand tender leaves are withered.

AUTUMN, 1831.

The answer in reference to the granting of land in our parish has finally arrived.

The Baron has given the priest to understand that such a conscientious pastor as he should not, in addition to his other anxieties, burden himself with worldly cares.

Further particulars we do not know.

*A DYING SON OF THE FOREST*

WINTER, 1831.

Who in former times would have thought that the hermit from the Felsenthal could have become what he now is? The inactivity after such a stirring life, the isolation from people might well have made him insane.

It has come about in a wonderful way. Only the great cares and petty troubles of a forest priest, only the monotonous, yet many-sided and significant life of a forest parish in its infancy and loneliness could have saved him.

He has now adapted himself to the place, is intimately acquainted with each one of his parish children, and leads them by his example.

A terrible epidemic is raging in the Winkel woods; our graveyard is becoming too small and we are unable to secure the services of the grave-diggers; the powerful men are themselves ill.

The priest is away from home night and day, sitting with the sick people in the most distant huts, caring for their bodies as well as for their souls, even though the Baron has advised him not to trouble himself with worldly cares.

At last, as he is sleeping one night in his own warm bed, there comes a sudden knock on the window.

"It 's too bad, sir!" calls a voice from the darkness without. "There 's trouble over in Lautergraeben. We don't know what to do. Will you help us? My brother Bartelmei is dying."

"Who is it out there?" asks the priest.

"I am Anna Maria Holzer; Bartelmei is going to leave us."

"I am coming," says the priest. "But wake up the schoolmaster that he may make ready the lanterns and the sacrament. He need not toll the bells, for everyone is asleep."

However, the woman begs me to ring the bells, so that others may pray for the dying man. And as the priest now comes out and walks away among the houses, preceded by the woman with her lantern and little bell, men, heavy with sleep, are kneeling before their doors praying.

It is a stormy winter night; the wind blows in gusts across the cliffs and whistles through the bare, frozen branches of the trees. A fine snow whirls about us, blocking the path and drifting into all the folds of our clothing.

The woman hastens on ahead, and the reflection from the red glass of the lantern dances up and down upon the snowy ground, while the little bell which she carries rings incessantly, although the tones are lost in the storm, and the people in the village have gone to their rest once more. I, too, after watching the pair for a while, return to my room.

But I will write down that which happened to the priest on this night; for the story which was told him was not under the seal of the confessional.

As our Father Paul stands by the bed of the sick man, the latter says: "Does the Priest remember still how he came into Karwaesser? Does he remember? It 's long ago; we both have experienced much since then, and, by my faith, we have both grown grey!"

The priest warns the old charcoal-burner not to excite himself by exhausting conversation.

"And can he remember what I said to him then: that I had my own desires and that sometime a priest could do me a great service? That time has now come. I am lying on my death-bed. I have already arranged with Ehrenwald-Franz to make a coffin for me. My body will be properly cared for;--but my soul! Priest, God pardon me, but that is as black as the devil."

The priest seeks to soothe and comfort the man.

"Why do you do that?" asks Bartelmei, "I'm not at all discouraged. I 'm sure that everything will come out all right.---Why is the Priest putting on his white robe? No, I don't want that; let us finish up the affair as quickly as possible. When a man is nearing his end, he does n't want to do anything unnecessary. I beg you to sit down, sir.--I 'll say at once, that all is not well with my religious faith; to tell the truth, I believe in nothing any longer. God Himself is to blame for my having been brought so low. He denied me something, which, by my soul, in His almighty power He might have done so easily! I should like to tell you about it. When Marian Sepp, who in a way belonged to me, was dying, I said to her at her death-bed, 'Marian,' I said, 'if thou must die now, thou poor young thing, and I have to remain alone all my days, then God in heaven is doing a most cruel thing. But I should like to know, Marian, and I should like to know it before my death, how it is with eternity, which, they say everywhere, has no end, and in which the soul of man lives on forever. Nothing definite can be learned about it, and even though we may believe what other people say, it is not at all sure that they know anything about it either. And now, Marian,' said I, 'when thou hast to leave us and if thou shouldst enter the everlasting life as soon as we have buried thee, then do me the favour and, if thou canst, come back to me sometime, if only for a few moments, and tell me about it, that I may know what to believe; Marian promised, and if she could have come I know she would have done so. After she died, I could not sleep for many nights and I was always--always thinking, now, now the door will open and Marian will appear and say: 'Yes, Bartelmei, you may indeed believe it, it is all right, there is an eternity over yonder and you have an immortal soul!'

"What does the Priest think? did she come?--She did _not_ come, she was dead and gone. And since then--I cannot help it--I believe in nothing any more."

He is silent and listens to the roaring of the winter storm. For a while the priest gazes into the flickering flames and finally says:

"Time and eternity, my dear Bartelmei, are not divided by a hedge, which we may cross at will. The entrance into eternity is death; in death we lay aside all that is temporal, for eternity is so long, that nothing temporal can exist there. Therefore thy importunate request to the dying girl was forgotten and all memory of this earthly life extinguished. Freed from the dust of this earth she went to God."

"Never mind, Priest," interrupts the sick man, "it does n't trouble me any more. Be that as it may, it will all be right. But there is another difficulty; I 'm not at peace with myself. I 've not been what I should have been; however, I should like to arrange my affairs properly, even as other people do. I 've not much more time, that I well know, and so I had you frightened out of your warm bed, and now, Priest, I earnestly beg you to intercede for me. Well--it has been a secret, but I will out with it: I have been a wicked poacher; I have stolen many deer from the master of the forest."

Here the charcoal-burner stops.

"Anything else?" asks the priest.

"What! Is n't that enough!" cries the old man; "truly, Priest, I know of nothing else. I was going to ask you to beg the Baron's forgiveness. I should have done it myself, long ago, but I always kept thinking I would wait a little while; I might perhaps need something more from the forest, and to ask pardon twice, would be unpleasant. Better wait and do it all at once. But I have waited much too long; I can never do it now. The Baron is, who knows how far away. But no matter, the Priest will be so good and make everything all right, telling him in a Christian speech that I have indeed repented, but not until too late to alter matters.

"Now, this is the way it was: to be sure the charcoal business yields a bit of bread, but when on a feast day a man wants a bite of meat with it, then he has to go straight out into the woods with his gun. He can't leave it alone, no matter how long he may resist the temptation, 't is a great pity, but he can't leave it alone. If the hunters had once arrested me, then this conversation would not have been necessary and I should not be obliged to ask such a painful favour of the Priest.--Ah! but I 'm tired now. I already feel the death pangs."

They revive him with cold water. The priest takes his hand and promises him, in a few kind words, to obtain pardon from the Baron. He then pronounces absolution to the sick man.

"Thank you, thank you very much," says Bartelmei with a weak voice; "soon I shall be done for, and--Priest, now, by my soul, I should be glad myself, if it were true, that about eternity, and if, after my restless life and bitter death, I might quietly slip into heaven. 'T would be such a pleasant thing to do!"

Thus does the deep need and the longing for faith and hope express itself in the poor, sick man. Our priest now asks him if he wishes to receive the holy sacrament.

"It's no use," is the answer.

"But thou must, brother, thou must," says Anna Maria; "a priest who returns home with the sacrament untouched will be followed by devils as far as the church door!"