THE OLD CHURCH BELL
             (WRITTEN FOR THE SCHILLER ALBUM)


    IN the country of Wurtemburg, in Germany, where the
acacias grow by the public road, where the apple-trees and the
pear-trees in autumn bend to the earth with the weight of the
precious fruit, lies the little town of Marbach. As is often
the case with many of these towns, it is charmingly situated
on the banks of the river Neckar, which rushes rapidly by,
passing villages, old knights' castles, and green vineyards,
till its waters mingle with those of the stately Rhine. It was
late in the autumn; the vine-leaves still hung upon the
branches of the vines, but they were already tinted with red
and gold; heavy showers fell on the surrounding country, and
the cold autumn wind blew sharp and strong. It was not at all
pleasant weather for the poor. The days grew shorter and more
gloomy, and, dark as it was out of doors in the open air, it
was still darker within the small, old-fashioned houses of the
village. The gable end of one of these houses faced the
street, and with its small, narrow windows, presented a very
mean appearance. The family who dwelt in it were also very
poor and humble, but they treasured the fear of God in their
innermost hearts. And now He was about to send them a child.
It was the hour of the mother's sorrow, when there pealed
forth from the church tower the sound of festive bells. In
that solemn hour the sweet and joyous chiming filled the
hearts of those in the humble dwelling with thankfulness and
trust; and when, amidst these joyous sounds, a little son was
born to them, the words of prayer and praise arose from their
overflowing hearts, and their happiness seemed to ring out
over town and country in the liquid tones of the church bells'
chime. The little one, with its bright eyes and golden hair,
had been welcomed joyously on that dark November day. Its
parents kissed it lovingly, and the father wrote these words
in the Bible, "On the tenth of November, 1759, God sent us a
son." And a short time after, when the child had been
baptized, the names he had received were added, "John
Christopher Frederick."

    And what became of the little lad?- the poor boy of the
humble town of Marbach? Ah, indeed, there was no one who
thought or supposed, not even the old church bell which had
been the first to sound and chime for him, that he would be
the first to sing the beautiful song of "The Bell." The boy
grew apace, and the world advanced with him.

    While he was yet a child, his parents removed from
Marbach, and went to reside in another town; but their dearest
friends remained behind at Marbach, and therefore sometimes
the mother and her son would start on a fine day to pay a
visit to the little town. The boy was at this time about six
years old, and already knew a great many stories out of the
Bible, and several religious psalms. While seated in the
evening on his little cane-chair, he had often heard his
father read from Gellert's fables, and sometimes from
Klopstock's grand poem, "The Messiah." He and his sister, two
years older than himself, had often wept scalding tears over
the story of Him who suffered death on the cross for us all.

    On his first visit to Marbach, the town appeared to have
changed but very little, and it was not far enough away to be
forgotten. The house, with its pointed gable, narrow windows,
overhanging walls and stories, projecting one beyond another,
looked just the same as in former times. But in the churchyard
there were several new graves; and there also, in the grass,
close by the wall, stood the old church bell! It had been
taken down from its high position, in consequence of a crack
in the metal which prevented it from ever chiming again, and a
new bell now occupied its place. The mother and son were
walking in the churchyard when they discovered the old bell,
and they stood still to look at it. Then the mother reminded
her little boy of what a useful bell this had been for many
hundred years. It had chimed for weddings and for
christenings; it had tolled for funerals, and to give the
alarm in case of fire. With every event in the life of man the
bell had made its voice heard. His mother also told him how
the chiming of that old bell had once filled her heart with
joy and confidence, and that in the midst of the sweet tones
her child had been given to her. And the boy gazed on the
large, old bell with the deepest interest. He bowed his head
over it and kissed it, old, thrown away, and cracked as it
was, and standing there amidst the grass and nettles. The boy
never forgot what his mother told him, and the tones of the
old bell reverberated in his heart till he reached manhood. In
such sweet remembrance was the old bell cherished by the boy,
who grew up in poverty to be tall and slender, with a freckled
complexion and hair almost red; but his eyes were clear and
blue as the deep sea, and what was his career to be? His
career was to be good, and his future life enviable. We find
him taking high honors at the military school in the division
commanded by the member of a family high in position, and this
was an honor, that is to say, good luck. He wore gaiters,
stiff collars, and powdered hair, and by this he was
recognized; and, indeed, he might be known by the word of
command- "March! halt! front!"

    The old church bell had long been quite forgotten, and no
one imagined it would ever again be sent to the melting
furnace to make it as it was before. No one could possibly
have foretold this. Equally impossible would it have been to
believe that the tones of the old bell still echoed in the
heart of the boy from Marbach; or that one day they would ring
out loud enough and strong enough to be heard all over the
world. They had already been heard in the narrow space behind
the school-wall, even above the deafening sounds of "March!
halt! front!" They had chimed so loudly in the heart of the
youngster, that he had sung them to his companions, and their
tones resounded to the very borders of the country. He was not
a free scholar in the military school, neither was he provided
with clothes or food. But he had his number, and his own peg;
for everything here was ordered like clockwork, which we all
know is of the greatest utility- people get on so much better
together when their position and duties are understood. It is
by pressure that a jewel is stamped. The pressure of
regularity and discipline here stamped the jewel, which in the
future the world so well knew.

    In the chief town of the province a great festival was
being celebrated. The light streamed forth from thousands of
lamps, and the rockets shot upwards towards the sky, filling
the air with showers of colored fiery sparks. A record of this
bright display will live in the memory of man, for through it
the pupil in the military school was in tears and sorrow. He
had dared to attempt to reach foreign territories unnoticed,
and must therefore give up fatherland, mother, his dearest
friends, all, or sink down into the stream of common life. The
old church bell had still some comfort; it stood in the
shelter of the church wall in Marbach, once so elevated, now
quite forgotten. The wind roared around it, and could have
readily related the story of its origin and of its sweet
chimes, and the wind could also tell of him to whom he had
brought fresh air when, in the woods of a neighboring country,
he had sunk down exhausted with fatigue, with no other worldly
possessions than hope for the future, and a written leaf from
"Fiesco." The wind could have told that his only protector was
an artist, who, by reading each leaf to him, made it plain;
and that they amused themselves by playing at nine-pins
together. The wind could also describe the pale fugitive, who,
for weeks and months, lay in a wretched little road-side inn,
where the landlord got drunk and raved, and where the
merry-makers had it all their own way. And he, the pale
fugitive, sang of the ideal.

    For many heavy days and dark nights the heart must suffer
to enable it to endure trial and temptation; yet, amidst it
all, would the minstrel sing. Dark days and cold nights also
passed over the old bell, and it noticed them not; but the
bell in the man's heart felt it to be a gloomy time. What
would become of this young man, and what would become of the
old bell?

    The old bell was, after a time, carried away to a greater
distance than any one, even the warder in the bell tower, ever
imagined; and the bell in the breast of the young man was
heard in countries where his feet had never wandered. The
tones went forth over the wide ocean to every part of the
round world.

    We will now follow the career of the old bell. It was, as
we have said, carried far away from Marbach and sold as old
copper; then sent to Bavaria to be melted down in a furnace.
And then what happened?

    In the royal city of Bavaria, many years after the bell
had been removed from the tower and melted down, some metal
was required for a monument in honor of one of the most
celebrated characters which a German people or a German land
could produce. And now we see how wonderfully things are
ordered. Strange things sometimes happen in this world.

    In Denmark, in one of those green islands where the
foliage of the beech-woods rustles in the wind, and where many
Huns' graves may be seen, was another poor boy born. He wore
wooden shoes, and when his father worked in a ship-yard, the
boy, wrapped up in an old worn-out shawl, carried his dinner
to him every day. This poor child was now the pride of his
country; for the sculptured marble, the work of his hands, had
astonished the world.* To him was offered the honor of forming
from the clay, a model of the figure of him whose name, "John
Christopher Frederick," had been written by his father in the
Bible. The bust was cast in bronze, and part of the metal used
for this purpose was the old church bell, whose tones had died
away from the memory of those at home and elsewhere. The
metal, glowing with heat, flowed into the mould, and formed
the head and bust of the statue which was unveiled in the
square in front of the old castle. The statue represented in
living, breathing reality, the form of him who was born in
poverty, the boy from Marbach, the pupil of the military
school, the fugitive who struggled against poverty and
oppression, from the outer world; Germany's great and immortal
poet, who sung of Switzerland's deliverer, William Tell, and
of the heaven-inspired Maid of Orleans.

    * The Danish sculptor Thorwaldsen.

    It was a beautiful sunny day; flags were waving from tower
and roof in royal Stuttgart, and the church bells were ringing
a joyous peal. One bell was silent; but it was illuminated by
the bright sunshine which streamed from the head and bust of
the renowned figure, of which it formed a part. On this day,
just one hundred years had passed since the day on which the
chiming of the old church bell at Marbach had filled the
mother's heart with trust and joy- the day on which her child
was born in poverty, and in a humble home; the same who, in
after-years, became rich, became the noble woman-hearted poet,
a blessing to the world- the glorious, the sublime, the
immortal bard, John Christoper Frederick Schiller!


                            THE END