Newspaper Page Text
“It will not do that without something worse
than disagreeable. That's the way these spells
usually wind np. These long, cloudy, foggy
spells. We’ll have a blow and a high tide about
the full of the moon. I've been fixing the
* Spray ’ to stand it. I was hard at work on her
yesterday.”
“Captain Head,” said Marian, speaking sud
denly what had been all along in her mind,
“you came home late last night, and went into
your room. I was on the piazza, and I heard
your wife exclaim—‘Why, Captain, what is the
matter? You look as white as if you had seen
a ghost.’ You answered something in a lower
tone. I only caught a few disconnected words.
May I know what your reply was? I do not ask
from impertinent curiosity; I have a motive.”
“Certainly miss, you may know. I am only
afeard you may think me foolish and supersti
tious; but, before God, I saw the t-iing, and” I
don’t know what it was any more than'the. man
in the moon, and I can’t account for it in no
way.”
"What was it?” asked Marian; breathlessly.
“Well, yesterday evening, after a hard day’s
work on the ‘ Spray,’Jep and I were pulling
into the bay a little before sunset, when V^*on,-.
eluded to go a little further down and dry kiie,
bass and catfish at the mouth of the river—the
Woclocnee, you know. They'll bite there when
they won’t bite anywhere else. We had but in-
diffent luck, and went considerably up stream
trying for better. After dark, the blue cat be
gan to bite livelier. The moon shone, and we
stayed late. We were pulling for home in the
cloudy moonlight, Jep steering and I at the
oars. Just as we were well out into the middle
of the bay, the boy cried out, low and fright
ened-like, and I looked up, and there—as sure
as you and I are living, miss,—there, crossing
our very track, was a boat, with no living crea
ture in it, but a woman dressed all in white,
sitting up as stiff a corpse, and paddling as
noiseless as a breath. Miss Marian, you will say
it was imagination, but as God shall judge me,
the tkee looked to me to be the same we put
away in the coffin two days ago.”
“Did you speak to it?”
“I couldn’t. I’ve weathered many a gale in
my time, but I could’t hail a craft manned like
that. I'll tell the truth, my heart came in my
throat. I never felt so awful in my life. The
boat shot past us like a gull, and I pulled at the
oars with all my might, muttering pater nosters
as fast as my tongue could patter. When I
looked back, there was nothing of the boat to
be seen.”
The apparition again!—this time upon the
water, and on the same night when it was seen
by Jeannette on shore. What did it mean?
Could it have any significance for her? any
bearing upon the one purpose that absorbed her
soul? The thought came to her with sudden
force. She turned and walked away. She must
be alone to revolve this new thing "in her mind.
She retraced her steps along the road that led
to the Shadowed House; she passed it, seeing
only Socrates sitting forlornly on the door-steps,
and walked on, stopping at last on a little ridge
behind a clump of palmetto trees in which the
evening breeze was rustling. Leaning against
one of these, she once more confronted the
query that had flashed into her mind with such
startling power. This apparition, might it not
have some connection with Adrienne's fate?
Could it be, indeed, a spirit? Was God send
ing a messenger from beyond the grave to reveal
the dark mystery hanging over Cedar Bay ?
To make an effort to see this spectre herself,—
this was what Marian determined upon. This
messenger might be sent to her. She resolved
to meet it—to speak to it—to follow it—to find
out if it was flesh and blood, or if indeed it
were incorporeal essence—and to discover, if
possible, the object of its appearance.
When Marian again turned her steps home
ward, the sun had set. Its last clouded reflection
touched luridly the gabled roof of the house and
the tops of its gloomy live oaks. She glanced at
the wing of the building occupied by Mr. De For
est. In his room the lamp was already lighted.
Through the open window she saw him sitting
within. At a point of the path nearest the
house she stopped still for one moment to look
at man, whose slightest movement and posture
had now a keen interest for her. He sat in his
luxurious chair, but its luxury 'seemed to im
part no ease to him. His attitude expressed at
once weary wretchedness and anxious thought.
His head was bent slightly forward, one arm
was thrown across the table, the other hung
from his side to the floor. As Marian watched
him, he rose suddenly to his feet and came and
stood at the window, raised a field-glass to his
eyes and swept the sea in the direction of the
Spanish Hole—the deep anchorage for vessels—
the direction in which, if a steamship had ar
rived, its sail or smoke might be seen.
"He is looking for the vessel he is to leave
on,” Marian thought. “I will not delay, I will
make the attempt this night to see this apparition
that is haunting Cedar Bay.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
LOST.
A ROMANCE.
BY JOHN C. FREUND, AUTHOR OF 44 BY THE ROADSIDE. ”
The Pleasure of Doing Good.
A miserly farmer returning home one day from
delivering a load of hay, was overtaken by a severe
rain. The only shelter near was a shed-like house
where a poor widow had lately died. Stopping his
team he ran to the front door, which was partially
protected by boards projecting from the roof.
Standing close to it he heard tender voices within,
and listened to ascertain what was being said, when
he was surprised by the following little prayer:
“ Heavenly Father, ma told us before she died that
you would take care of of us and give us some bread.
Now, sister and me are very hungry, and wr have
no one to help us. Please, Heavenly Father, send
us some bread. ” This hit the old man in a tender
part. Still he might have endured it had the
matter ended there, but it did not. When the boy
seemed exhausted, and knew not what more to say,
a little girl prayed in still more pathetic strains:
“ O Lord please send brother and me some bread,
ma said you would, and we are very hungry. ”
This was too much for the miser’s heart, hard and
selfish as it was. He could stand it no longer, and
hurried home. Without saying a word to his wife
he took his big basket and went down into the cel
lar and filled it with the best eatables he could find,
embracing pies, cakes, apples, etc., heaping it up
as he did not when he sold corn, and hastened
back to the door in the rain, and finding the suffer
ers still at prayer, he pushed right in and set his
basket before them and invited them to eat, which
they were more than willing to do. It was a good
time for them, but better for him. They said to
each other, “ We thought what mother told ns was
true, but we did not expect the Lord would answer
our prayers in thid way. ”
When they were fully satisfied, the old man
emptied his basket and told the dear orphans how
to take care of their food, and gave them many
kind words, for all of which they thanked him from
their inmost hearts. He then went home and in
formed his wife what he had done, and confessed
that though it had been a pretty hard day, it was
the happiest one of his life He had struck a mine he
hid never dreamed of before, and had proved that
there was something better than money. “ He
that watereth shall be watered also himself. ”—
Poier’s Winniny Worker.
Manners are the shadows of virtues: the mo
mentary display of those qualities which fellow
creatures love and respect. If we strive to become
then, what we strive to appear, manners would
often be rendered useful guides to the performance
of our duties.
CHAPTER I.
YOUTHFUL DAYS.
Castle Freiberg was a beautiful place; it lay
at the foot of the giant mountains in Silesia.
Beeches, elms, oaks, and limes overshadowed
the old grey building; the lovely terraces at the
back bore signs of superior floral culture, and
below, near the terraces, glimmered the roman
tic lake. Swans moved gracefully on it, and
round’it the reeds and rushes whispered fairy
secret, while harbouring the chaste, shy moor-
fowls, as it sombrely called to his mate. Beyond
rose in gradual heights the mountains, clad by-
thick verdure below, by the tall pine above, and
losing the#r blueish heads in the distance of the
j^skies. Round the castle extended no grand
£park; but yellow fields and green meadows;
cottages of red brick and thatched huts lay scat
tered about, as if under the very eye of their
I owner.
Castle Freiberg was a beautiful place; it look-
I ed like some mansion of the wealthy, not shut
out from the rest of humanity by aristocratic
surroundings, but protecting and embracing the
more modest homesteads near it, and oversha
dowing them with parental instinct.
May had just opened its cornucopia round
Castle Freiberg. It had clothed the trees with
sweet green leaves, it had dressed the meadows
with daisies and butter cups, had given to the
fields the swelling young corn, and to the rich
terraces behind the castle the dainty blossoms
of the earliest flowers; everywhere it spoke: it
spoke in the frog that gloated with protruding
eyes near the brook; it spoke in the May-beetle
as it fluttered hither and thither on the lime;
it spoke in the thrush as it trilled in the thicket;
and it spoke in the faint, little butterfly, that
was just drying its newborn wings in the soft
May sunbeam.
A boy was rushing after that one tender butter
fly on the terrace; such a boy ! The impersona
tion of boyish beauty and strength, the forehead
a little too much developed, the eye almost too
bright, making one fear for the tenderness of
the intellect within. Heated and flushed, the
little fellow stood still, listening to the sound of
approaching wheels, and calling out:
“ Hurrah ! hurrah ! here come my papa and
mamma!”
The carriage stopped; the boy ran down the
terrace, round the corner of the building, and,
looking towards the carriage, said disappointed
ly:
“Oh, how funny! It is uncle William and
Sergeant Christian. Where can they be? Uncle!
uncle ! here I am; don’t you see me? Uncle.it
is little Hermann.”
But uncle William did not seem to hear; he
went with heavy step into the lodge, from it fur
ther on, across the courtyard into the castle by
a side entrance; so little Hermann had to run on
towards the carriage and pull Sergeant Chris
tian’s coat, before he was noticed.
“Sergeant Christian, where are they, my papa
and mamma ?”
“ Where are they, Herman? where are they?
Well, they have not come.”
“And why have you left them?”
“Why have I left them? Ah, why have I
left them ?”
“ SergeanhChristian, why do you look so black,
and why did my uncle walk like that? Oh,
something is the matter !”
“Little Hermann should not ask so many
questions.”
“ Sergeant Christian, now I see you have got
tears in your eyes! Oh, take me up in your
arms—I will wipe them away; but tell me, where
is my papa and where is my mamma?’
Sergeant Christian took the boy up in his
arms, while the tears were fast running down
his cheeks.
“Oh, Sergeant Christian, I have never, never
seen you cry before; I see it, I know it, my papa
and mamma are dead !—oh, they are dead ! they
are dead ! The King and Queen never could
want them all that time.”
Hermann hid his curly head on the soldier’s
arm, and man and child wept together.
The next day the travelling carriage stood
again at the castle entrance; uncle William was
taking leave in the big library of little Hermann,
while tiny Mary, just one year old, was being
prepared to be taken away by old nurse Martha.
Sobbing and handshaking were going on, just
as when human chords are cut roughly asunder,
and the ends are left loose, bleeding and aching
with pain. Uncle William and Sergeant Chris
tian were standing near the window.
“ Christian, I can say no more. I confide
these children to you; stop with Hermann in
Breslau till I join you, but take Martha first to
little Mary’s aunts; they are prepared to receive
her. It will take me another week here to seal
up papers, to settle everything, and leave the
place under the care of Mrs. Dornbush, the
worthy old house-keeper. I shall discharge all
the other servants. The agent can manage the
estate. You, Christian, are alone aware of the
extent of this heavy calamity.”
One kiss for sobbing Hermann, one more for
unconscious little Mary, and uncle William was
left behind, alone in the castle of Freiberg.
Months after, the first snowflakes were whirl
ing and curling round Torgau, the sentries were
walking faster before the bastions to keep them
selves warm; the firm, smart soldiers were
marching out of the castle for exercise, looking
rather fresher and ruddier than usual, and the
officers a little less nonchalant, as they escorted
their companies. The early errant snowflakes
were struggling down, like the vanguard of the
dense regiments behind; they settled on the old
Gnildhali and the market-place, as it enjoyed
the busy turmoil of market-day; they rested on
the wagons loaded with potatoe, corn, and
wheat sacks, on the bags of rosy apples, on the
baskets filled with bright, fresh butter, and they
flew past the worthy housewives, who, with
sturdy maids by their sides, were buying their
provisions for the week. The snowflakes cares
singly touched the dainty officers' wives and
daughters, as they passed by in their new, warm
winter toilettes, to pay their morning visits, and
the flakes did not rest on dirty little street boys
for there were none to be seen.
The big clock in the Guildhall struck twelve;
and then immediately out poured the boys
and girls from the large school-house. The
girls from the high school did not stand and
look at the unloading of the new furniture oppo
site the pretty house on the esplanade—as daugh
ters of the gentry, they would have thought it
vulgar to have done so. The girls from the
burgher school did stand still and nudge each
other, as package after package was taken into
the house. The boys looked, stared, and ran on,
forgetful of the fact that new people were com
ing there, and rejoicing in the more pleasurable
faot of an hour's play in the sharp, crisp morn
ing.
A bright boy rushed about that house near
the Esplanade: looking from the window, he
called out:
“Oh, Sergeant Christian, this is a jolly place!
Look at the large school-house and the Esplan
ade, and the lots of boys and girls running out.
I do like this better than Breslau and Berlin,
and I shall like it almost as well as Castle Frei
berg; but I forgot I must not speak of that. Do
come, Sergeant Christian, and look out; it’s such j
a jolly, jolly, bright place! Shall I go to school
there, and will sister Mary come too, to go to
. school?” *
But Sergeant Christian was busy, and little
Hermann had to put question, give answer, and
satisfy his own curiosity os best he could.
By Christmas-time—for the snowflakes came
early in November—the house on the Esplanade
was ready—simple, cosy and warm. Major von
Zollwitz inhabited it with his nephew Hermann
and Sergeant Christian; having added to the
household but one comely female servant from
| the Torgau district. Christmas brought with
1 it a visitor, a tall, dignified gentleman in a long
black coat, called Professor Holmann, who shook
hands silently with the Major, nodded to Chris
tian, and had long consultations with both,
Christian always keeping respectful guard at the
door.
Christmas-day, that dear, old time, when
sorrow holds back for a day, when joy redoubles
its intensity for a period, when in a material
sense something like the universal harmony of
love seems to reign, when children live in the
j heyday of pleasure and delight, mixed with un-
definable secrets about presents—Christmas-day
came also to that house, near the Esplanade,
j The Major and the Professor talked and stood
at the frozen window, looking out on the snowy
landscape, and Christian made an effort to pro
duce a Christmas-tree for Hermann. It was lit
up in the evening. Hermann began to clap his
hands and enjoy the sigljU of the pretty play
things, but suddenly a whirl of sad remembrance
rushed over his childish heart, and, running to
Christian, with whom he always sought sympa
thy, he grasped with his little hands the old
Sergeant’s big ones, sobbing out:
“Oh, Christian, Christian, but baby-sister
Mary is not here, and papa and mamma are
gone, and I am alone; oh ! take me away from
the bright tree; it makes me feel all the sadder !
Hermann was carried, bitterly weeping, to
bed; and that Chrismas-day was over.
And time flew by, missing nothing, grasping
in its concentrated littleness the existence of the
atom, and kissing in its searching immensity the
very confines of eternity; over the house in Tor
gau it also flew, breathing a mournful cadence
as it hovered around its portals. With its flut
tering wings Time neither swept the sorrow
from the hearts of those men, nor did it stem
the youthful bound of that child’s spirit: still
Time flew on, and brought in its sixth yearly
round once morejoyous jSbristmas-tide, dashing
some flashes of hope inft> the bright room, that
was lit up by another Christmas-tree. Around
this tree sprang two children—Hermann, now
ten years old, and sister Mary, nearly seven;
gravely Major von Zollwitz stood by, compla
cently Professor Holmann enjoyed the children’s
glee, and respectfully Sergeant Christian kept
watch at the door.
Herman and Mary in Torgau—Torgau covered
by the snowflakes, harbouring the memories of
centuries, and proud and contented with its
present position—Herman and Mary danced
round the tree of light, and gathered bright re
miniscences from its bountifulness.
At play they were next day with their treasures
between them; Hermann had a wonderful camp
of Austrians and Prussians, and was again and
again performing the battle of Torgau, knock
ing over his enemies with the utmost ease and
bravery, winding up generally by a famous
speech of King Fritz, when he found, after a
doubtful night’s suspense, that his old general
had kept the field.
“But you shouldn’t play at soldiers at Christ
mas,” said sweet little Mafy. “Aunt Augusta
would say that it was wicked and un-Christian.”
“Nonsense ! Profess^" j^olni,ann. knows better
than aunt AugustaffeffiSyJf tuat has nothing
to do with it. It is in'human nature, he told
me only yesterday, to go to war; everybody
tries to cut out everybody else all the year round,
in a business-like way; and when lots of people
want to cut out lots of other people, then it
makes more noise, and they do it rather
rougher, cutting at each other’s throats instead
of at each other’s property; but business-like it
must be done, else it would be dishonest. And
don’t I do it right? Look, I give the Austrians
fair play ! Professor Holmann says the bigger
nations will get, the less war we shall have.
Why, we don’t have half so many wars, Professor
Holmann says, as the old Greeks and Romans
had; they were always at it. But you don’t un
derstand that; you are still a baby.”
“ I am not a baby! Look here, I have christen
ed my doll, Hermann, and the doll has had the
fever, and it has died, and I buried it, and did
not cry a bit; for aunt Augusta says I am a child
that must learn to bear anything, for I shall
have to do it one day, and I dont know what
she means.”
“ And you wouldn’t cry a bit if I, your brother
Hermann, were to die ?”
“ I don’t know that; but I mustn’t cry when
my doll dies, because aunt Augusta says I must
learn to bear anything, and not be weak-minded
like other people.”
“I think aunt Augusta is a fool to put such
things into a baby's head like yours, and I shall
tell her so.”
“No you won’t, because she is kind to me,
and I shall take her part ; and if you do, I won’t
cry when you really do die.”
“You hard-hearted little vixen! with your
sweet doll’s face, you are as bad as aunt Augusta
herself. Why, my soldiers are twice as soft:
they would all cry if they saw a brother die,
suppose they had shot him themselves. 1 shall
tell Professor Holmann how aunt Augusta
brings you up.”
“ I don’t care, I must learn to bear everything,
and I mean to; you may try to frighten me.
Look here, I have not a tear in my eye;” and
Mary dragged her eyes open with both her little
forefingers, as children are wont to do.
“Your bravery is all very well, but for a baby
like you it is put on, and won't last, trust me;
I am the boy for that, and I have promised Ser
geant Christian never to swerve, never to be a
coward, but to meet any trouble like an honest,
bave man, and not give up. That is the right
thing, not your false courage; I'll make you cry
novo, if you won’t do it a my death, you cruel
girl, and I will tco.”
Hermann rose up with threatening gestures;
Mary screamed, and both rushed ou( of the room
to Sergeant Christian for assistance and sympa
thy, always looking for it, and always finding it
there.
Mary had been on a visit for Christmas, and
Mary went again to her aunt Augusta in Breslau
—her destiny being foreshadowed by that pecu
liar education of renunciation. Hermann re
mained in Torgau, and grew up under the guar
dianship of Major Zollwitz and Sergeant Chris
tian, Professor Holmann coming now and then
from Halle to see his young favourite.
Hermann went to school at the big school-
house, and became the champion of his own set.
He was beloved, he was disliked, he was feared;
his masteis left his reins freer play than those
of any other boy in the school. For was he not
Hermann Zollwitz, the most outspoken, true
hearted, undaunted boy in the place? “Hur
rah for Zollwitz ” had long been a standard word
among the boys ! Hear him recite Kcerner's
“Black Brigade,” or Shiller’s “Diver”—it was
splendid, and the sympathies of the boys rose to
the pitch, to cry “Hurrah for Zollwitz,” again
and again.
But Hermann was the terror of cowards, and
an explosion between one of them and him came
one day. The boys were playing at ball before
the sciiool-house, and Captain Ernest’s son, a
big uncouth fellow of fourteen, had just taken
advantage of and thrashed a wiry little boy of
humbler parents, who came up crying to Her
mann.
“Look here, Ernest, this won’t do,” said
Hermann, red with rage; “it is disgraceful that
a big fellow like you should hurt a little one
merely for throwing a ball awkwardly. •’
“ It's not your business; I can do as I like, I
suppose.”
“But it is my business; I am in the play, and
Franz has appealed to me as his champion. "
“ A fine champion you are !’’ sneered the Cap
tain’s son.
“Pray, what is against my championship,
Mr. Ernest ?” Hermann exclaimed in thunder
ing tones, going up close to the coward's face,
and holding his fist in ominous proximity to
Ernest’s nose.
“ Your championship? Well, then, if people
want to be champions for others, they onght 1
first to have fathers and mothers that own
them!”
It cut sharp, and it cut quick, to the very
flesh of Hermann Zollwitz; crack, crack, crack,
thump, thump, thump, and Captain Ernest's
son lay sprawling on the ground.
“Give in! give in!” cried the other boys;
“ Zollwitz, don’t, don’t, please; you'll kill him.”
Hermann wiped his brow, looked at his hands,
and, standing over his antagonist, asked hoar
sely:
“ What did you mean, scoundrel, bv that foul !
talk ?"
“It isn’t my fault,” whimpered the other in
agony; “I heard my mamma say that it was
strange the Zollwitz children didn’t seem to j
have father or mother.”
A final kick for his cowardly enemy, a final
“Hurrah for brave Zollwitz,” from the boys, j
ended that day’s work.
There was a shindy in the school. Captain j
Ernest’s son was ill for a week; Hermann was !
reprimanded, and his uncle was privately told
that he had better take such a fiery spirit away.
On the evening of that self-same day, when the
notice came, Major Zollwitz was sitting in the
back room on the first floor, and Hermann, now j
grown to the age of fourteen, opposite him.
Hermann tried to occupy himself, but it would j
not do; at last he seemed to gather courage, and |
looked up at the Major with his big, honest j
eyes.
“Uncle William, you know all about it, and I
think I am old enough now for you to tell me.
Uncle, I don’t know how to bring it out, for it
chokes me almost—is there any dishonour on
my father or mother?”
Breathlessly Hermann awaited the answer.
The Major passed his hand across his brow,
thought for a moment, and then met Hermann’s
gaze.
“None to affect their children, my boy; what j
wrong they did was done in the heat of passion,
and recoiled upon themselves. They have suf
fered, leave them alone, you may look the world
straight in the face; but you must learn to curb
that spirit, which wrought their misfortune.
Learn to govern yourself.”
The Major stroked his nephew’s hair, and
pressed him close to his heart.
Holmann was sent to Halle under Professor
Holmann’s care, and the youthful days were
over.
The glasses clinked, the lights flickered, and
the shadows danced frantically about, as they
threw back the images on the walls.
“A ditty, a ditty.” they exclaimed, “''{to
will'sing to night?' Zollwitz, you must for the
1 Down went the hammer, and Zollwitz, throw
ing back his head, sang with glass in hand:
•jin*’ to liberty, liberty, liberty,
Sins to liberty as your aim:
Sin*’ to liberty, liberty, liberty,
Sing to liberty for your fame!
Hurrah 1
Let but worth o’ man, worth o’ man. worth o' man,
Let but worth o’man fan your soul;
Let but worth o’ man, worth o’ man. worth o man.
Let but worth o’ man be your goal!
Hurrah!
Give to woman dear, woman dear, woman dear,
Give to woman dear, love, her right!
Give to woman dear, woman dear, woman dear.
Give to woman love, holy, bright !
Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!
And the chorus joined, the chorus shouted,
the Enthusiasts embraced, singing again and
again:
Give to woman dear, woman dear, woman dear,
Give to woman love, holy, bright 1
Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!
The climax had been reached, the spirits
sank; the singer, the leader, the inspiration of
the Enthusiasts’ Club must go; no one dared
even question Zollwitz resolution: to them what
he did was well done, whatever the old Major
and the rector might think.
“But what will Professor Holmann say about
your going ?” asked some.
“Say? let me go; he will not stop me; but let
me work out my own way, trusting to me. Be
sides, he is away just now.”
“Professor Holmann, Hoch!” was the next
toast.
“I have written to my uncle, and I have
written to the rector, that I must get away.
Study od, brothers, study on, and keep your en
thusiasm fresh and undefiled: my soul is too
ardent for this. I must go and work, and learn
what the world is made of. I am drawn over
by some unseen power, some undefined sympa
thy; I must see England.”
Zollwitz sat down, shaded his eyes, and
waved his hand.
They understood him, they left; so noisy
before, so still now. The lights flickered, the
shadows crept to rest, and Zollwitz was left
alone—alone with the longings of his own burn
ing heart.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
CHAPTER II.
OLD ENGLAND.
The University of Halle had reckoned its age
by little more than a hundred years, having
during that time counted in its diadem of glory
men of the first stamp, when the fell swoop of
the invaders cast it under foot. Napoleon shut
its doors, after that miserable battle of Jena,
when Prussia succumbed to him. He turned
off the students, and led the professors off as
hostages. Halle never recovered from that blow;
true, its doors were opened again, and its pro
fessors’ chairs resuscitated, but it would not
do, the bright era of full benches at lectures was
gone. The professors proved too independent,
the students restive, under the foreign yoke,
and Napoleon shut again its halls of learning
and led away its professors to the Rhinelands;
but another battle—that of Leipzig—changed
all that, it cleared the German soil, and once
more Halle opened wide its gates, receiving
back professors and students as they returned
from the teeming battle-fields. Halle came into
favour; the Prussian kings heaped benefits on
it; it grew, was incorporated with the University
of Wittenberg, where poor Hamlet in anachro
nistic Shakespearianism is said to have studied
and—for all that, never quite recovered that
first period of renown.
The early September days of that month, when
Torgau lay lurid in the yellow haze, had spread
over Halle—the place was astir; the students
swaggering, the professors teaching, che people
buying and selling. Thought was at work and
would take fantastic shapes here and there, and
would gambol with men's fancies and women’s
loves, and thought had got into a nook at Halle,
playing odd harmonies to the old, old tune of
enthusiasm. Follow that spray of darkling
September evening light into the room there in
the old house near the market-hall, let your
vision ride slantingly on it among the guests.
A long room with shadowy haunts and odd
corners, low ceiling and whispered reminis
cences of bouts and meetings, songs and
speeches ad infinitum. A dozen young men or
so sit around, smoking, talking, reciting, laugh
ing, gesticulating, and enjoying to their utmost
the consciousness of life in their veins, life in
their hearts, perhaps life in their heads. You
hear again and again the refrain:
Edite, bibite, Collegiales,
Post multa secula, pocula nulla.
“What is the German’s fatherland?” breaks j
in in stirring strains; ” Ade, Ade, my love, I j
must go!" follows it up; and one Stentorian
voice exclaims:
“Where is he to-night? Where can Zollwitz
be ? Time is up, some one must take the chair.”
“Not yet, worth while to wait; there is none
like him here.”
And again those dozen bright spirits, with
long flowing hair and loose shirt-collars, begin
the refrain of the most favoured student song.
A hasty, light, but firm step, the door is pushed
open, and Zollwitz enters.
“Late, Zollwitz,” they call out.
“Lights !” is the rejoinder.
One younger than the others closes the shut
ters, brings lights, and the darkling shadows
flee farther off to watch and to wait for the
shapes might cast off in grotesque fantasie.
Three times the hammer is knocked on the
table, Zollwitz stands up and opens the proceed
ings.
“Enthusiasts, brothers, we can have but a '
short meeting to-night. I must take leave of
you; I am going to England !”
“What? What is the matter?”
“ I have had a wigging from my uncle, and I
have got a threat in my pocket that if I continue
to belong to liberty societies a complaint will be
made to the rector. I have made speeches, I ;
have led processions, I have sung and said that
which shows I have no idea of state authority.
I am being watched ! I shall leave. I am de
termine to see if Europe still holds something
of that old spirit of liberty, to let man talk and
act like a free man—a free man by nature, a free
man by thought, a free man by speech, and a j
free man by government. To Old England I
go; if I cannot find this spirit where the shades
of Saxon freedom waft over me, pereat rnuwlus
Europceus! I'll go to America, to New England,
and hunt the wild buffalo with the Red Indians
—to be free, free, free !"
And Zollwitz towered above his companions,
who rose to a man.
Freheit—liberty ! Hoch '
Manneswerth—worth o' man I Hoch !
Frauenlied—woman's loveHoch I
EXTRACTS
From the Alumnae Essay read by
Mrs. Lily Randall Clark at the
Commencement of College
Temple, Newnan.
Women and Science, Art, Litera
ture etc.
Woman it is said by some cavilers is incapa
ble of grasping the mighty volume of the abstract
science, yet there are illustrious women that
have drunk deep draughts at this fountain and
upon whose brow unfading laurels have been
placed. Instance, Gabrielle De Ch’atelet, the fel
low student of Voltaire. Maintaining her unwa
vering faith in Deity she traveled with him
through the sublime mazes of philosophy, and
wrote her name only lower than that of Newton.
And later, Miss Somerville expanding into inter-
lectual grandeur under an American sky,scanned
and measured the starry vault above us, and we
have as the fruit of her labor and reflection the
Geography of the heavens thoroughly and accu
rately mapped out for our instruction. Conspicu
ous for learning was Madam De Stael equal in
power but different in manifestation was Han
nah Moore, who was forced from the retirement
most congenial to her, to receive the homage
which her genius exacted. In poetry and song
woman’s name is illustrious; even in classic
Greece a woman won for herself the title of the
10th Muse. ’Twas there that Sappho loved and
sung while poets and philosophers hung enrap
tured on her strains and crowned her with ever
lasting bays. Enriched by the efforts of woman,
our own more rugged language has been turned
to rythmical numbers at once eloquent and
sublime. We are all familiar with the tender
ness and vigor of Mrs. Hemans, the pathos of
Mrs. Norton and the sublimity of Mrs. Brown
ing. In the fine arts, our country women Har
riet Hosmer and Vinnie Reames have demon
strated that modeling is not confined to strong
er hands and that woman can use the chisel as
skillfully as the needle of the housewife. Nor
has any painter ever represented the forms of
animal life more faithfully than Rosa Bonheur;
while Miss Thompson's three great battle pic
tures have wrung even from bitterly prejudiced,
fastidious Ruskin the praise of being the won
ders of the age, as bold in conception as they
are finished and fine in detail.
Beautifying Home.
It has been said truly that pictures in a house
are as necessary as windows; one gives light and
life to the body, the other life and light to the
soul. Every man, woman and child has some
taste for the beautiful in Nature and in art, and
this taste has only to be cultivated to become a
source of happiness as lasting as it is pure. Yet,
there are houses all over our land in which not
a picture is to be seen, not a poem read nor a
song sung, throughout the year. Should peo
ple wonder why the children are unrefined?
Brighten your homes with these ministers of
pleasure, these dumb teachers that speak so elo
quently, these swift—winged messengers of
thought and fancy, that never grow’ old and
weary us.
Easy Lesson in Physiology.
Supposing your age to be 15 or there-about.
You have 160 bones and 500 muscles; your blood
weighs 25 pounds, and your heart is 5 inches in
length and 3 inches in diameter, it beats TO times
per minute, 4,200 times per hour, 100,800 times
per day, and 36,772,200 times per year. At each
beat a little over 2 ounces of blood is thrown out of
it: and each day it receives and discharges about
7 tons of that wonderful fluid. Your lungs will
contain a gallon of air. and you inhale 24,000 gal
lons per day. The aggregate surface of the cells
of your lungs, supposing them to bespread out,
exceeds '29,000 square inches. The weight of your
brain is 3 pounds; when you are a man it will
weigh about 8 ounces more. Your skin is com- ,
posed of three layers, and varies from } to i of an
inch in thickness. The area of your skin is about
1,700 square inches. Each square inch contains
3,500 sweating tubes or perspiratory pores, each of
which may be likened to a little draintile } of an
inch long, making an aggregate length on the eutire
surface of your body of 201,166 feet, ora tile ditch
for draining the body almost 40 miles long .
When we know that the opinions of even the
greatest multitude are the standard of rectitude, I
shall feel obliged to make those opinions the mas
ter of my conscience. But if it may be doubted
whether Omnipotence itself i3 competent to alter
the essential constitution of right and wrong, sure
I am that such things as they and I are possessed
of no such power.—Burke. fit,
INSTINCT PRINT