The afternoon was drawing in toward evening; the air was crisp and cool, and the wind near the earth, steady but gentle; while above all was as calm as sleep, and the pale clouds—just beginning in the west to be softly gilded by the declining sun—hung light and motionless. The city, although not distant, was no longer visible, being hidden by one of the many hills which give such enchantment to the aspect of our city. There was altogether something singularly soothing in the scene—something that disposed not to gravity, but to elevated thought. As we looked upward, there was some object that appeared to mingle with the clouds, to form a part of their company, to linger, mute and motionless like them, in that breathless blue, as if feeling the influence of the hour. It was not a white-winged bird that had stolen away to muse in the solitudes of air: it was nothing more than a paper kite.

On that paper kite we looked long and intently. It was the moral of the picture; it appeared to gather in to itself the sympathies of the whole beautiful world; and as it hung there, herding with the things of heaven, our spirit seemed to ascend and perch upon its pale bosom like a wearied dove. Presently we knew the nature of the influence it exercised upon our imagination; for a cord, not visible at first to the external organs, though doubtless felt by the inner sense, connected it with the earth of which we were a denizen. We knew not by what hand the cord was held so steadily. Perhaps by some silent boy, lying prone on the sward behind yonder plantation, gazing up along the delicate ladder, and seeing unconsciously angels ascending and descending. When we had looked our fill, we went slowly and thoughtfully home along the deserted road, and nestled, as usual, like a moth, among our books. A dictionary was lying near; and with a languid curiosity to know what was said of the object that had interested us so much, we turned to the word, and read the following definition: Kite—a child's toy.

What wonderful children there are in this world, to be sure! Look at that American boy, with his kite on his shoulder, walking in a field near Philadelphia. He is going to have a fly; and it is famous weather for the sport, for it is in June—June, 1752. The kite is but a rough one, for Ben has made it himself, out of a silk handkerchief stretched over two cross-sticks. Up it goes, however, bound direct for a thunder-cloud passing overhead; and when it has arrived at the object of its visit, the flier ties a key to the end of his string, and then fastens it with some silk to a post. By and by he sees some loose threads of the hempen-string bristle out and stand up, as if they had been charged with electricity. He instantly applies his knuckles to the key, and as he draws from it the electrical spark, this strange little boy is struck through the very heart with an agony of joy. His laboring chest relieves itself with a deep sigh, and he feels that he could be contented to die that moment. And indeed he was nearer death than he supposed; for as the string was sprinkled with rain, it became a better conductor, and gave out its electricity more copiously; and if it had been wholly wet, the experimenter might have been killed upon the spot. So much for this child's toy. The splendid discovery it made—of the identity of lightning and electricity—was not allowed to rest by Ben Franklin. By means of an insulated iron rod the new Prometheus drew down fire from heaven, and experimented with it at leisure in his own house. He then turned the miracle to a practical account, constructing a pointed metallic rod to protect houses from lightning. One end of this true magic wand is higher than the building, and the other end buried in the ground; and the submissive lightning, instead of destroying life and property in its gambols, darts direct along the conductor into the earth. We may add that Ben was a humorous boy, and played at various things as well as kite-flying. Hear this description of his pranks at an intended pleasure-party on the banks of the Schuylkill: “Spirits at the same time are to be fired by a spark sent from side to side through the river, without any other conductor than water—an experiment which we have some time since performed to the amazement of many. A turkey is to be killed for dinner by the electrical shock; and roasted by the electrical jack, before a fire kindled by the electrical bottle; when the healths of all the famous electricians in England, Holland, France, and Germany, are to be drunk in electrified bumpers, under the discharge of guns from the electrical battery.”

We now turn to a group of capital little fellows who did something more than fly their kite. These were English skippers, promoted somehow to the command of vessels before they had arrived at years of discretion; and chancing to meet at the port of Alexandria in Egypt, they took it into their heads—these naughty boys—that they would drink a bowl of punch on the top of Pompey's Pillar. This pillar had often served them for a signal at sea. It was composed of red granite, beautifully polished, and standing 114 feet high, overtopped the town. But how to get up? They sent for a kite, to be sure; and the men, women, and children of Alexandria, wondering what they were going to do with it, followed the toy in crowds. The kite was flown over the Pillar, and with such nicety, that when it fell on the other side the string lodged upon the beautiful Corinthian capital. By this means they were able to draw over the Pillar a two-inch rope, by which one of the youngsters “swarmed” to the top. The rope was now in a very little while converted into a sort of rude shroud, and the rest of the party followed, and actually drank their punch on a spot which, seen from the surface of the earth, did not [pg 477] appear to be capable of holding more than one man.

By means of this exploit it was ascertained that a statue had once stood upon the column—and a statue of colossal dimensions it must have been to be properly seen at such a height. But for the rest—if we except the carvings of sundry initials on the top—the result was only the knocking down of one of the volutes of the capital, for boys are always doing mischief; and this was carried to England by one of the skippers, in order to execute the commission of a lady, who, with the true iconoclasm of her country, had asked him to be so kind as to bring her a piece of Pompey's Pillar.

Little fellows, especially of the class of brick-layers, are no great readers, otherwise we might suspect that the feat of the skipper-boys had conveyed some inspiration to Steeple Jack. Who is Steeple Jack? asks some innocent reader at the Antipodes. He is a little, spare creature who flies his kite over steeples when there is any thing to do to them, and lodging a cord on the apex, contrives by its means to reach the top without the trouble of scaffolding. No fragility, no displacement of stones, no leaning from the perpendicular, frightens Steeple Jack. He is as bold as his namesake, Jack-the-Giant-Killer, and does as wonderful things. At Dunfermline, not long ago, when the top of the spire was in so crazy a state that the people in the street gave it a wide berth as they passed, he swung himself up without hesitation, and set every thing to rights. At the moment we write, his cord is seen stretched from the tall, slim, and elegant spire of the Assembly Hall in Edinburgh, which is to receive, through his agency, a lightning-conductor; and Jack only waits the subsidence of a gale of wind to glide up that filmy rope like a spider. He is altogether a strange boy, Steeple Jack. Nobody knows where he roosts upon the earth, if he roosts any where at all. The last time there was occasion for his services, this advertisement appeared in the Scotsman: “Steeple Jack is wanted at such a place immediately”—and immediately Steeple Jack became visible.

In 1827 the child's toy was put to a very remarkable use by one Master George Pocock. This clever little fellow observed that his kite sometimes gave him a very strong pull, and it occurred to him that if made large enough it might be able to pull something else. In fact, he at length yoked a pair of large kites to a carriage, and traveled in it from Bristol to London, distancing in grand style every other conveyance on the road. A twelve-foot kite, it appears, in a moderate breeze, has a one-man power of draught, and when the wind is brisker, a force equal to 200 lbs. The force in a rather high wind is as the squares of the lengths; and two kites of fifteen and twelve feet respectively, fastened one above the other will draw a carriage and four or five passengers at the rate of twenty miles an hour. But George's invention went beyond the simple idea. He had an extra line which enabled him to vary the angle of the surface of his kites with the horizon, so as to make his aerial horses go fast or slow as he chose; and side lines to vary the direction of the force, till it came almost to right angles with the direction of the wind. His kites were made of varnished linen, and might be folded up into small compass. The same principle was successfully applied by a nautical lad of the name of Dansey to the purpose of saving vessels in a gale of wind on “the dread lee shore.” His kite was of light canvas.

In India, China, and the intermediate countries, the aggregate population of which includes one-half of mankind, kites are the favorite toy of both old and young boys, from three years to threescore and ten. Sometimes they really resemble the conventional dragon, from which, among Scotch children, they derive their name, sometimes they are of a diamond shape, and sometimes they are like a great spider with a narrow waist. Our Old Indian is eloquent on kites, and the glory of their colors, which, in the days of other years, made her girlish heart leap, and her girlish eyes dazzle. The kite-shop is like a tulip-bed, full of all sorts of gay and gorgeous hues. The kites are made of Chinese paper, thin and tough, and the ribs of finely-split bamboo. A wild species of silkworm is pressed into the service, and set to spin nuck for the strings—a kind of thread which, although fine, is surprisingly strong. Its strength, however, is wanted for aggression as well as endurance; and a mixture composed of pounded glass and rice gluten is rubbed over it. Having been dried in the sun, the prepared string is now wound upon a handsome reel of split bamboo inserted in a long handle. One of these reels, if of first-rate manufacture, costs a shilling, although coarser ones are very cheap; and of the nuck, about four annas, or sixpence worth, suffices for a kite.

In a Hindoo town the kite-flying usually takes place on some common ground in the vicinity, and there may be seen the young and old boys in eager groups, and all as much interested in the sport as if their lives depended upon their success. And sometimes, indeed, their fortunes do. Many a poor little fellow bets sweetmeats upon his kite to the extent of his only anna in the world; and many a rich baboo has more rupees at stake than he can conveniently spare. But the exhilarating sport makes every body courageous; and the glowing colors of the kites enable each to identify his own when in the air, and give him in it, as it were, a more absolute property. Matches are soon made. Up go the aerial combatants, and, with straining eyes and beating hearts, their fate is watched from below. But their masters are far from passive, for this is no game of chance, depending upon the wind. Kite-flying is in these countries an art and mystery; and some there be who would not disclose their recipe for the nuck-ointment, if their own grandfathers should go upon their knees to ask it.

Sometimes an event occurs on the common. It is the ascent of a pair of kites of a distinguÉ air, and whose grand and determined manner [pg 478] shows that the combat is to be À l'outrance, and that a large stake of money depends upon the result. The fliers are invisible. They are probably on the flat roof of some neighboring house; but the kites are not the less interesting on account of their origin being unknown. What a host of anxious faces are turned up to the sky! Some take a liking to the red at first sight, while others feel attracted by a mysterious sympathy to the green. Bets are freely offered and accepted, either in sweetmeats or money; and the crowd, condensing, move to and fro in a huge wave, from which their eager voices arise like the continuous roaring of the sea. Higher and higher go the kites. Well done, Red! he has shot above his antagonist, and seems meditating a swoop; but the Green, serenely scornful, continues to soar, and is soon uppermost. And thus they go—now up, now down, relatively to each other, but always ascending higher and higher, till the spectators almost fear that they will vanish out of sight. But at length the Green, taking advantage of a loftier position he has gained, makes a sudden circuit, and by an adroit manoeuvre gets his silken string over the silken string of the other. Here a shout of triumph and a yell of terror break simultaneously from the crowd; for this is the crisis of the fight. The victor gives a fierce cut upon his adversary's line. The backers of the latter fancy they hear it grate, and in an instant their forebodings are realized; for the unfortunate Red is seen to waver like a bird struck by a shot, and then, released from the severed string, he descends in forlorn gyrations to the earth.

Now rush in the smaller boys to play their part. Their object is that of the plunderers who traverse the field after a battle, to rob the dying and the slain. Off run the little Hindoos, like a company of imps from the nether regions, tearing and fighting as they fly; and on reaching the fallen kite, the object of their contention is torn to pieces in the scuffle. Presently the victorious Green is seen descending, and the gross excitement of the common pauses to watch his majestic flight. He is of the largest size of Indian kites called ching, and of the spider shape. Before being drawn in, he hangs for an instant high up over the crowd. It is not, however, to sing Io PÆans for his victory, but apparently rather to mourn over the ruin he has made; for a wailing music breathes from his wings as he passes. This is caused by the action of the wind upon some finely-split bamboo twigs arched over the kite without touching the paper, and which thus become a true Æolian harp. Sometimes a kite of this kind is sent up at night, bearing a small lighted lantern of talc; and the sleepers awakened, called to their balconies by the unearthly music, gaze after the familiar apparition not without a poetical thrill.

Upon the whole, it must be admitted, we think, that this is a somewhat interesting child's toy. But has the kite a future? Will its powers exhibit new developments, or has it already reached its pride of place? If a twelve-feet kite has the force of a man, would it take many more feet to lift a man into the air? And supposing the man to be in a strong cage of network, with bamboo ribs, and a seat of the same material, would he have greater difficulty in governing his aerial coursers by means of the Pocock cords, than if he were flashing along the road from Bristol to London? Mind, we do not say that this is possible: we merely ask for the sake of information; and if any little boy will favor us with his opinion, we shall take it very kind. Come, and let us fancy that it is possible. The traveler feels much more comfortable than in the car of a balloon, for he knows he can go pretty nearly in what direction he chooses, and that he can hasten or check the pace of his horses, and bring them to a stand-still at pleasure. See him, therefore, boldly careering through the air at the rate of any number of miles the wind pleases. At a single bound he spans yonder broad river, and then goes bowling over the plantation beyond, just stirring the leaves as he passes; trees, water, houses, men, and animals gliding away beneath his feet like a dream. Now he stoops toward the earth, just to make the people send up their voices that there may be some sound in the desert air. Now he swings up again; now he leaps over that little green hill; now he—Hold! hold, little boy! that will do: enough, for a time, of a Child's Toy.

On the outskirts of the little town of Bernau, with a garden between it and the road, stands the house of Master Baptist Heinzelmann, a respectable citizen and cabinet-maker, or Tischlermeister, as the Germans call it, so surrounded and overshadowed by tall trees and shrubs, that it reminds you of true contentment, which is always quiet and retiring where it reigns in the heart. Nimble vine-branches climb up the walls and over the roof, so thick and shady, that birds build their nests among them, and rest every night under the sheltering leaves. Besides this there is no other garnishment or decoration to be seen about the dwelling, although Master Heinzelmann is in very comfortable circumstances. As it had come down from his father and grandfather, so stood the house at the time of our tale; one story, compact and solid. From the garden you entered the spacious outer room, the ordinary play-place of the children, and from that into the living-room, and from that into the large workshop, where Master Heinzelmann kept his ten or a dozen journeymen at work from one year's end to another, without reckoning the apprentices. His business flourished greatly, for the townsfolk preferred to go to him whenever they had orders to give or purchases to make. His workmanship was tasteful and durable, and what was more than all, he overcharged no one, which pleased people, and on that account they did not mind the walk to his house, although it was, as before said, a little off the road, and out of the way.

What the house wanted in grandeur and ornament, was made up by the contentment and the gentle and full-hearted happiness which had taken up their abode within it. Free from cares of whatever sort, Master Heinzelmann passed his days in the circle of his family. Providence had bestowed on him a good-looking, intelligent wife and three healthy and lively children, on whom his whole affections hung, and when they assembled each evening, after the labors of the day, none looked comelier and happier than they. At seven o'clock, Master Heinzelmann left off work, and dismissed his men; the noise of saws, hammers, and planes ceased, and a peaceful stillness reigned in the house; and he, having put on his comfortable in-doors jacket, filled a pipe, and looked about for his family. In summer, he found them nearly always in the garden, or in the outer room, near the open door, from whence there was a pleasant view over the sweet-scented flower-beds. His wife welcomed his coming with a friendly nod and a cheerful smile, and the children ran to meet him, clung to his hands, and strove to climb up for a kiss. Such was Baptist Heinzelmann's daily pleasure, abounding in all that makes life happy. After lifting up and embracing his children, he would sit and listen to their lively prattle, or watch their simple sports, in which he himself often took a part, while their mother made ready the evening meal. When this was over, they went and sat in the pretty summer-house, and talked about the little occurrences of the day. There was always something to relate, concerning the children, or the housekeeping, or the garden, or of other matters, nor was there any lack of simple gossip, which, however insignificant it might seem, yet had a meaning and an interest for a family bound together by the strongest ties of love. Father, mother, children, enjoyed the quiet gladness of a household into which the noise of the great world without seldom penetrated. And in what else does happiness consist, than in gladness and contentment? He who possesses them needs to ask for nothing further. Had Master Heinzelmann always remembered that, he would have saved himself from much toil and vexation.

One fine summer evening the Tischlermeister left his workshop as usual, put on his lounging-jacket, lit his pipe, and turned his steps toward the front room, from whence came the noise of merry laughter and shouts of fun. Softly he approached behind the open door which concealed him from his wife and children, leant himself at his ease on the lower half, and looked smilingly down on the frolics of his little ones. The mother, with the youngest girl on her lap, sat on the doorstep, while Fritz and Hans crawled about the floor. They were playing a hundred tricks with the kitten, which had come into the world only a few weeks before. Fritz had got a piece of colored cloth for a plaything, and flung it across the room, but with a thread cunningly fastened to it, so that he might pull it back again. The kitten, according to the manner of young cats, leaped and seized the lure with comical antics, [pg 486] but just as she fancied it was fast between her paws, came a sudden pull, and away flew the prize, while she looked after it with ludicrous astonishment. Then rose bursts of merriment and shouts of delight, and the mother, glad in her children's pleasure, laughed with them, and took care that the old cat should not disturb their sport by any sudden outbreak of ill-temper.

Master Heinzelmann looked on for a little while, and amused himself, without being seen, with his children's diversions. All at once, however, he made a grave face, and said, “Enough, little ones; let the kitten go, and come to supper. Come, dear wife, it is all ready.”

As soon as the children heard their father's voice, they thought no more about the kitten, but sprang up and ran toward him with merry faces. But he did not hug and kiss them as he was accustomed to do; he gave them only a short salute, and the same to his wife, who came toward him with her hand held out, and the youngest child on her arm.

“Baptist,” she said, “dear husband, we have had rare fun this afternoon; you should see how cleverly Fritz can spring about with the kitten! But what is the matter? You look angry. Has any thing happened to vex you?”

“Not exactly vexatious,” replied Heinzelmann, “and yet as I saw you sitting there so pleasantly, I was a little fretted to think that I had promised Master Vollbracht to go into town this evening. I would much rather stay at home with you.”

“Go to town, Baptist, to-day?” asked Frau Margaret in astonishment. “And what have you to do there?”

“Oh, it is about some town affairs,” answered Baptist; “I don't myself know rightly what they are; when Master Vollbracht told me, I did not altogether understand, but, at all events, I promised to go for a short hour, so as to be quit of him. You know well, Margaret, that to speak truly, the locksmith is no special friend of mine—he is too fond of the public-house. Still a promise is a promise, and I must keep my word; so let us have supper quickly, for the sooner there, the sooner shall I be back again.”

Frau Margaret said nothing, although it could be seen in her face, that her husband's going out in the evening was not at all agreeable to her. She went and got the supper ready, Master Heinzelmann ate a few mouthfuls hastily, and then rose up and put on his coat.

“Good-by, Margaret,” he said, “good-night, children! I expect to be at home again soon, wife.”

“Go, then,” she answered with a cheerful look, “and I will wait for you; but do not stay too long.”

Baptist promised, and went. Frau Margaret felt uneasy as she looked after him. It was the first evening since their marriage that she had been left alone in the house. When she heard the garden gate shut behind her husband, she became fearful, and pressed her hand over her eyes, out of which a few tears had forced their way. Presently, however, she said to herself—“Timid heart! what matters it if you are left alone for once? It will not happen often, for he loves me; yes, and the children too. How can I be so silly!”

So she thought, and then put on a cheerful face, and played and talked to the children, as though nothing had happened. But that pure gladness, which leaps from the care-free heart as a clear spring, was wanting. She sent the youngsters to bed earlier than usual, and placed herself at the window, and looked silently forth into the garden, which the moon, with its pale light, seemed to have covered with a vail of silver. Thus she waited for her husband's return. At ten o'clock she hoped he would come; by-and-by eleven struck, he was still absent; an other anxious half-hour passed—at last he came. She heard his footsteps still far off, heard the garden-gate creak, and flew to meet him.

“So late! you bad man,” she cried merrily, but with a slight reproach in the tone of her voice.

“I could not do otherwise, dear wife,” replied Baptist, who was visibly a little excited “You should only have been there! They paid me great honor, and when I was coming away at ten o'clock, they all cried out for me to stay, that my opinion had great weight with them, and so, really I could not leave. But you should have gone to bed, Margaret.”

“No; I was not at all tired,” answered the wife. “But, now, make haste in; you are heated, and the cool night air may do you harm.”

Lovingly she drew him into the house, and listened patiently to all that he had to tell about the matters that had been talked over in the town, and how he had settled and determined nearly every question, because of his consequence and station.

“There's only one thing vexes me,” he said lastly, “I was obliged to promise to go again. Two evenings in the week are fixed on for the meetings, and as every body was in favor, I could not well say no. However, it is but two evenings; the whole history won't last longer.”

If Frau Margaret was alarmed at the beginning of the evening, she was now doubly fearful Her quiet in-door happiness seemed to be all at once threatened by some great danger. She trembled to think that her husband could find pleasure away from home—away from his children, and she had the sense to foresee the consequences. But she remained silent, for she was too bewildered to find words to express her apprehensions, and then, she knew that when her husband had once made a promise, nothing would lead him to break it. This made her sorrow the greater, and for the first time since her marriage, her pillow was wet with tears. She, however, concealed her sadness from her husband; she hoped that the good old habits would rule again, and make him dislike passing his evenings away from home.

Although Frau Margaret was prudent and sensible, she deceived herself in this matter. Truly enough, Baptist at first went out for the evening [pg 487] unwillingly, and not without a struggle, but gradually this resistance disappeared, and at last he longed for the hour which led him among his companions. He was a man of clear judgment, knew how to deliver his words neatly, and his comfortable circumstances gave him a certain importance, so that, quite naturally, in course of time he gave the tone to the company, and his sayings were received as oracles. That flattered his vanity, which therein got full satisfaction, and before long, he wondered in secret how he could have lived so many years in the background, and had so little to do with the world. The political and religious questions of the day, about which he had never before troubled himself, began to excite his eager attention. He read newspapers, journals, pamphlets, and became a great politician—at least in the eyes of himself and his companions. The magic circle of his calm and peaceful happiness was broken. Baptist himself had done it, but without a foreboding of what he had destroyed. He fancied himself happier than ever, and could not see that all his household joys were blighted.

But Margaret saw and felt it. She mourned in secret; the evenings when she sat at home alone were sad and sorrowful for her, and at last, as Baptist left off observing any rule in his outgoing, but longed more and more to be away from home, she plucked up a heart, and begged of him to leave her no more.

“But why not!” rejoined Heinzelmann; “we do nothing wrong. We debate about matters for the good of the town and of the state. There must be great changes, Margaret, before things can be better with us. But, presto, it will come.”

“Oh, Baptist, what concern have you with the town and the state?” answered Frau Margaret. “Look at your family, that is your town and state. When you are with it, and fulfill your duty rightfully, then are you one of the best of citizens. Consider well: the skin is nearer than the fleece.”

“Yes, wife, but what do you mean by that?” said Baptist, a little angrily. “Perhaps I am not fulfilling my duty?”

“No longer the same as formerly, dear husband. Don't take it ill, Baptist, but my heart and conscience compel me—I must tell you. You neglect your business a little. Yesterday, you know, the town-clerk wanted his coffer; but you—you went out at five, and the coffer was not finished.”

“Eh, what!” cried Baptist, snappishly. “I had business in town—we were to lay a memorial before the magistrates about the pavement, and that could not be done without me; and the town-clerk can have his coffer to-day.”

“No, dear husband,” replied the wife, “he sent a little while ago to say that he had got one; and now, you see, the coffer must be kept on hand unsold.”

“The town-clerk is an old fool,” continued Baptist, fretfully. “These aristocrats!—they always want to ride on the necks of us honest traders. But patience! Our turn will come someday.”

“But, dearest husband,” said Margaret, soothingly, “the town-clerk has always been very agreeable and friendly with you, and it is certainly not his fault, that the coffer was not ready at the right time. Many go out for wool and come home shorn. Had you thought more of the skin than of the fleece, you would have saved yourself all this trouble. You understand: your business—that's the skin; the street paving—that's the fleece.”

“Yes, I understand well enough what you mean,” rejoined the Tischlermeister, “but I understand it quite otherwise! You, however, do not understand me: men were meant for general affairs, for great matters. Their mind stretches far beyond the narrow circle of housewifery. Only let me alone, and don't mix yourself up in things which don't concern you, and which you don't understand.”

Frau Margaret saw plainly that her remonstrance made no impression, and she remained silent. But her sad and downcast looks spoke more loudly to the heart of her husband than her words. Heinzelmann found that her view was not far wrong, after all, and made an attempt to withdraw from his companions, and again live a domestic life. But his attempt failed. Vanity, and the desire to appear somebody, led him back again to his crooked ways, and soon they became worse.

The insurrection at Paris broke out—the Republic was proclaimed—and the news of these events fell on the minds of the German people like a spark in a barrel of gunpowder. Blow followed blow, feelings grew hot, and almost every town had its own revolution. That was something for Master Baptist Heinzelmann. He was called to the head of the Democratic party, and made the leader of a revolutionary club, and spouted speeches full of fire and flame; the mob cried hurrah! held up their hands for him—he became drunk with triumph—was chosen town-councilor—a great man, as he thought, and leader of the people. He was near being elected Deputy to the Diet, and sent as representative to the Parliament at Berlin. Master Baptist swam in pleasures—Frau Margaret swam in tears. Her husband triumphed—she sat at home and wept. Her husband walked proudly about, and looked radiant with joy—she was full of mournfulness, and the feeling of happiness seemed to have disappeared from her heart forever.

Master Heinzelmann appeared to be totally changed. He troubled himself no longer about his business, but left every thing to his work men. Every morning early, he left home to fulfill his new vocation as leader of the people, and to labor for their happiness. He saw not that his own happiness was going to ruin in the meantime. He used to return home late, worn-out, weary, and hoarse with much speechifying and shouting, and ill-tempered into the bargain. Scarcely had he exchanged a few sulky words with his poor wife, than he betook himself to bed. He rarely saw his children: the pleasant evenings in the front-room had all vanished as a [pg 488] dream, and could not be recalled. Instead of merry laughter, and joyful cries, and glad shoutings, there was nothing to be heard but the low, sad sobs of Frau Margaret. Peace and contentment seemed to have fled from the house, as well as from the hearts of all its inmates. Yes—all! for to confess the truth, Master Baptist Heinzelmann found, little by little, that although his new life in the busy current of politics brought plenty of excitement, it by no means brought contentment; and instead of making him happy, it laid upon him rather a burden of cares, vexations, hardships, and losses of many kinds. At first it went well enough—but how went it afterward? His party, which in truth was not a small one, listened to him right willingly when he held forth and displayed his political knowledge, but they also had no objection to a cool drink now and then between the fiery speeches. So Master Baptist, from time to time, in order to keep up his popularity, was obliged to let a cask of ale go the rounds, and that was not quite so pleasant to him as to be listened to with attention, and to hear the hurrahs when he said something a little more violent than usual. Besides, there were other leaders of the people as well as he, who stood in high favor with the mob, but who had very little money, while Master Heinzelmann was well-to-do, and could afford to offer a sacrifice on the altar of his country, and—he offered it. Only, somehow or other, the sacrifice was wanted so often, and that was not much to the liking of the Tischlermeister. In the end—and that worried him the most—his journeymen became refractory all of a sudden. They wished also to have property of their own, and demanded higher wages. Baptist Heinzelmann liked revolutions very well, but not against himself, and so he told all his hands to go to Jericho, and for a time his business went to sleep. From this it happened that orders did not come in quite so numerously as before, which puzzled Baptist not a little. He began to turn it over in his mind, and all at once he bethought himself of what his good-hearted wife had said to him one day: “Remember! the skin is nearer than the fleece.” Never had the truth of this proverb come before him so strikingly and forcibly, as now that his delusions were losing their strength. A singular and irresistible longing to return once more to his former tranquil and retired, and yet happy life, overcame him. What was the selfish love of the mob, against the pure and true love of wife and children? a painted bubble in comparison with a bright and costly jewel. Baptist Heinzelmann plucked up a heart; toward evening he left the council-house and went home. No one was in the garden; it lay there in deep stillness. He stole down a by-path to his workshop, where now but three hands were employed out of the dozen that formerly worked therein, and threw off his Sunday clothes, put on his dear old comfortable jacket, his cap on his head, reached down the clay pipe which had had such a long rest, lit it, and then went softly through the inner to the outer room. Wife and children sat, as often before, on the threshold, not lively as they used to be, but particularly quiet and downcast—even merry Fritz had scarcely a word to say for himself. The sun was dropping down to his setting, and cast golden streams of light through the thick foliage of the vine which enwreathed the door and window, down upon the clean boards of the floor. Sweet odors were borne in on the air from the garden, the birds chirped and twittered their last evening notes, and peace and tranquillity reigned around, except in the hearts which once knew nothing else than joy and contentment.

Heinzelmann leant over the door, and for a time looked at his family in silence. The past came before his mind as pleasant pictures. “What a fool was I!” he said inwardly to himself; “what more blessed happiness can there be, than the happiness in the circle of one's own family! What a fool was I, not to see this long ago: that I could so long be blinded by stupid vanity and foolish pride! But there is yet time, and I will not let it escape.”

“Margaret,” he said aloud, and with friendly voice.

“Baptist—is that you? and so early!” she cried, and sprang up; “and what do I see? in the old cap and jacket! Are you not going out again?”

“Not to-day, nor to-morrow, nor afterward,” answered he, smiling. “With the old dress, I have found again my old heart. The skin is nearer than the fleece, my Margaret, my good, dear wife!”

“Oh, goodness!” she exclaimed, “what do you say? what do I hear? am I not in a dream?”

“If you are dreaming that the old contentment has come back again,” replied Baptist, “then is your dream a true one. I have grown wise at last, Margaret.”

“Thank God!” stammered the Frau; “and instead of handling the pen, you will now work with the plane—will you?”

“Yes, Margaret, stick to that which I know, and leave it to others to bungle at politics. In short, I have given up my post—I am no longer town-councilor. I am now only what I was before—Tischlermeister Baptist Heinzelmann! Am I welcome to you as such?”

With a shriek of delight, Frau Margaret fell into her husband's open arms. Long and close was their embrace, and the sense of newly-quickened joy brought sweet tears from the wife's heart. The children understood not what was going on; but they saw that their father was glad and contented, and they were glad and contented too. Until late at night, they sat together in the garden, rejoicing in their new-found happiness.

Baptist became truly the Tischlermeister of former days, and suffered himself to be no more drawn into temptation. A burnt child shuns the fire; and he knew now the difference between family joys and worldly joys. His late friends and companions came entreating him to take part once more in their proceedings, but Baptist [pg 489] put them off with a laugh, and answered, “Not so, dear friends—the skin is nearer than the fleece! In-doors there, at the work-bench, is my post. Other people understand politics and government better than I—I leave the task to them.”

The friends and companions tried again two or three times—Heinzelmann, however, remained firm; they gave up and came no more. But the old customers returned, and the old journeymen also, who had thought better of their strike—and above all, the old joy of tranquil, domestic life.

Baptist would not change with any one. And Frau Margaret?—only go by the house some day toward evening, when she is playing with the children, or sitting with them and her husband in the garden; then, when you hear her clear, silvery laugh, then, I can believe, you will no more ask if she is happy. Such a laugh can come only from a truly happy heart.

One evening in the autumn of the year 1842. seven persons, including myself, were sitting and chatting in a state of hilarious gayety in front of SeÑor Arguellas' country-house, a mile or so out of Santiago de Cuba, in the Eastern Intendencia of the Queen of the Antilles, and once its chief capital, when an incident occurred that as effectually put an extinguisher upon the noisy mirth as if a bomb-shell had suddenly exploded at our feet. But first a brief account of those seven persons, and the cause of their being so assembled, will be necessary.

Three were American merchants—Southerners and smart traders, extensively connected with the commerce of the Colombian archipelago, and designing to sail on the morrow—wind and weather permitting, in the bark Neptune, Starkey master and part owner—for Morant Bay, Jamaica; one was a lieutenant in the Spanish artillery, and nephew of our host; another was a M. Dupont, a young and rich creole, of mingled French and Spanish parentage, and the reputed suitor for the hand of Donna Antonia—the daughter and sole heiress of SeÑor Arguellas, and withal a graceful and charming maiden of eighteen—a ripe age in that precocious clime; the sixth guest was Captain Starkey, of the Neptune, a gentlemanly, fine-looking English seaman of about thirty years of age; the seventh and last was myself, at that time a mere youngster, and but just recovered from a severe fit of sickness which a twelvemonth previously had necessitated my removal from Jamaica to the much more temperate and equable climate of Cuba, albeit the two islands are only distant about five degrees from each other. I was also one of Captain Starkey's passengers, and so was SeÑor Arguellas, who had business to wind up in Kingston. He was to be accompanied by SeÑora Arguellas, Antonia, the young lieutenant, and M. Dupont. The Neptune had brought a cargo of sundries, consisting of hardware, cottons, et cetera, to Cuba, and was returning about half-laden with goods. Among these, belonging to the American merchants, [pg 495] were a number of barrels of gunpowder, that had proved unsalable in Cuba, and which, it was thought, might find a satisfactory market in Jamaica. There was excellent cabin-accommodation on board Captain Starkey's vessel, and as the weather was fine, and the passage promised to be a brief as well as pleasant one—the wind having shifted to the northwest, with the intention, it seemed, of remaining there for some time—we were all, as I have stated, in exceedingly good-humor, and discussing the intended trip, Cuban, American, and European politics, the comparative merits of French and Spanish wines, and Havanna and Alabama cigars, with infinite glee and gusto.

The evening, too, was deliciously bright and clear. The breeze, pronounced by Capt. Starkey to be rising to a five or six knot one at sea, only sufficiently stirred the rich and odorous vegetation of the valleys, stretching far away beneath us, gently to fan the heated faces of the party with its grateful perfume, and slightly ripple the winding rivers, rivulets rather, which every where intersect and irrigate the island, and which were now glittering with the myriad splendors of the intensely-lustrous stars that diadem a Cuban night. Nearly all the guests had drunk very freely of wine, too much so, indeed; but the talk, in French, which all could speak tolerably, did not profane the calm glory of the scene, till some time after SeÑora Arguellas and her daughter had left us. The seÑor, I should state, was still detained in town by business which it was necessary he should dispose of previous to embarking for Jamaica.

“Do not go away,” said SeÑora Arguellas, addressing Captain Starkey, as she rose from her seat, “till I see you again. When you are at leisure, ring the sonnette on the table and a servant will inform me. I wish to speak further with you relative to the cabin arrangements.”

Captain Starkey bowed. I had never, I thought, seen Antonia smile so sweetly; and the two ladies left us. I do not precisely remember how it came about, or what first led to it, but it was not very long before we were all conscious that the conversation had assumed a disagreeable tone. It struck me that possibly M. Dupont did not like the expression of Antonia's face as she courtesied to Captain Starkey. This, however, would, I think, have passed off harmlessly, had it not been that the captain happened to mention, very imprudently, that he had once served as a midshipman on board the English slave-squadron. This fanned M. Dupont's smouldering ill-humor into a flame, and I gathered from his confused maledictions that he had suffered in property from the exertions of that force. The storm of angry words raged fiercely. The motives of the English for interfering with the slave-traffic were denounced with contemptuous bitterness on the one side, and as warmly and angrily defended on the other. Finally—the fact is, they were both flustered with wine and passion, and scarcely knew what they said or did—M. Dupont applied an epithet to the Queen of England, which instantly brought a glass of wine full in his face from the hand of Captain Starkey. They were all in an instant on their feet, and apparently sobered, or nearly so, by the unfortunate issue of the wordy tumult.

Captain Starkey was the first to speak. His flushed and angry features paled suddenly to an almost deathly white, and he stammered out, “I beg your pardon, M. Dupont. It was wrong—very wrong in me to do so, though not inexcusable.”

“Pardon? Mille tonnerres!” shouted Dupont, who was capering about in an ecstasy of rage, and wiping his face with his handkerchief. “Yes, a bullet through your head shall pardon you—nothing less!”

Indeed, according to the then notions of Cuban society, no other alternative save the duello appeared possible. Lieutenant Arguellas hurried at once into the house, and speedily returned with a case of pistols. “Let us proceed,” he said, in a quick whisper, “to the grove yonder; we shall be there free from interruption.” He took Dupont's arm, and both turned to move off. As they did so, Mr. Desmond, the elder of the American gentlemen, stepped toward Captain Starkey, who with recovered calmness, and with his arms folded, was standing by the table, and said, “I am not entirely, my good sir, a stranger to these affairs, and if I can be of service I shall—”

“Thank you, Mr. Desmond,” replied the English captain; “but I shall not require your assistance. Lieutenant Arguellas, you may as well remain. I am no duelist, and shall not fight M. Dupont.”

“What does he say?” exclaimed the lieutenant, gazing with stupid bewilderment round the circle. “Not fight!”

The Anglo-Saxon blood, I saw, flushed as hotly in the veins of the Americans as it did in mine at this exhibition of the white feather by one of our race. “Not fight, Captain Starkey!” said Mr. Desmond, with grave earnestness, after a painful pause: “you, whose name is in the list of the British royal navy, say this! You must be jesting!”

“I am perfectly serious—I am opposed to dueling upon principle.”

“A coward upon principle!” fairly screamed Dupont, with mocking fury, and at the same time shaking his clenched fist at the Englishman.

The degrading epithet stung like a serpent. A gleam of fierce passion broke out of Captain Starkey's dark eyes, and he made a step toward Dupont, but resolutely checked himself.

“Well, it must be borne! I was wrong to offer you personal violence, although your impertinence certainly deserved rebuke. Still, I repeat I will not fight with you.”

“But you shall give my friend satisfaction!” exclaimed Lieutenant Arguellas, who was as much excited as Dupont; “or, by Heaven, I will post you as a dastard not only throughout this island but Jamaica!”

Captain Starkey for all answer to this menace [pg 496] coolly rang the sonnette, and desired the slave who answered it to inform SeÑora Arguellas that he was about to leave, and wished to see her.

“The brave Englishman is about to place himself under the protection of your aunt's petticoats, Alphonso!” shouted Dupont, with triumphant mockery.

“I almost doubt whether Mr. Starkey is an Englishman,” exclaimed Mr. Desmond, who, as well as his two friends, was getting pretty much incensed; “but, at all events, as my father and mother were born and raised in the old country, if you presume to insinuate that—”

SeÑora Arguellas at this moment approached, and the irate American with some difficulty restrained himself. The lady appeared surprised at the strange aspect of the company she had so lately left. She, however, at the request of the captain, instantly led the way into the house, leaving the rest of her visitors, as the French say, plantÉs lÀ.

Ten minutes afterward we were informed that Captain Starkey had left the house, after impressing upon SeÑora Arguellas that the Neptune would sail the next morning precisely at nine o'clock. A renewed torrent of rage, contempt, and scorn broke forth at this announcement, and a duel at one time seemed inevitable between Lieutenant Arguellas and Mr. Desmond, the last-named gentleman manifesting great anxiety to shoot somebody or other in vindication of his Anglo-Saxon lineage. This, however, was overruled, and the party broke up in angry disorder.

We were all on board by the appointed time on the following morning. Captain Starkey received us with civil indifference, and I noticed that the elaborate sneers which sat upon the countenances of Dupont and the lieutenant did not appear in the slightest degree to ruffle or affect him; but the averted eye and scornful air of Donna Antonia as she passed with SeÑora Arguellas toward the cabin, drawing her mantilla tightly round her as she swept by, as if—so I perhaps wrongfully interpreted the action—it would be soiled by contact with a poltroon, visibly touched him—only, however, for a few brief moments. The expression of pain quickly vanished, and his countenance was as cold and stern as before. There was, albeit, it was soon found, a limit to this, it seemed, contemptuous forbearance. Dupont, approaching him, gave his thought audible expression, exclaiming, loud enough for several of the crew to hear, and looking steadily in the captain's face: “LÂche!” He would have turned away, but was arrested by a gripe of steel. “Ecoutez, monsieur,” said Captain Starkey: “individually, I hold for nothing whatever you may say; but I am captain and king in this ship, and I will permit no one to beard me before the crew, and thereby lessen my authority over them. Do you presume again to do so, and I will put you in solitary confinement, perhaps in irons, till we arrive at Jamaica.” He then threw off his startled auditor, and walked forward. The passengers, colored as well as white, were all on board; the anchor, already apeak, was brought home; the bows of the ship fell slowly off, and we were in a few moments running before the wind, though but a faint one, for Point Morant.

No one could be many hours on board the Neptune without being fully satisfied that, however deficient in dueling courage her captain might be, he was a thorough seaman, and that his crew—about a dozen of as fine fellows as I have ever seen—were under the most perfect discipline and command. The service of the vessel was carried on as noiselessly and regularly as on board a ship of war; and a sense of confidence, that should a tempest or other sea-peril overtake us, every reliance might be placed in the professional skill and energy of Captain Starkey, was soon openly or tacitly acknowledged by all on board. The weather throughout happily continued fine, but the wind was light and variable, so that for several days after we had sighted the blue mountains of Jamaica, we scarcely appeared sensibly to diminish the distance between them and us. At last the breeze again blew steadily from the northwest, and we gradually neared Point Morant. We passed it, and opened up the bay at about two o'clock in the morning, when the voyage might be said to be over. This was a great relief to the cabin-passengers—far beyond the ordinary pleasure to land-folk of escaping from the tedium of confinement on shipboard. There was a constraint in the behavior of every body that was exceedingly unpleasant. The captain presided at table with freezing civility; the conversation, if such it could be called, was usually restricted to monosyllables; and we were all very heartily glad that we had eaten our last dinner in the Neptune. When we doubled Point Morant, all the passengers except myself were in bed, and a quarter of an hour afterward Captain Starkey went below, and was soon busy, I understood, with papers in his cabin. For my part I was too excited for sleep, and I continued to pace the deck fore and aft with Hawkins, the first-mate, whose watch it was, eagerly observant of the lights on the well-known shore, that I had left so many months before with but faint hopes of ever seeing it again. As I thus gazed landward, a bright gleam, as of crimson moonlight, shot across the dark sea, and turning quickly round, I saw that it was caused by a tall jet of flame shooting up from the main hatchway, which two seamen, for some purpose or other, had at the moment partially opened. In my still weak state, the terror of the sight—for the recollection of the barrels of powder on board flashed instantly across my mind—for several moments completely stunned me, and but that I caught instinctively, at the rattlings, I should have fallen prostrate on the deck. A wild outcry of “Fire! fire!”—the most fearful cry that can be heard at sea—mingled with and heightened the dizzy ringing in my brain, and I was barely sufficiently conscious to discern, amid the runnings to and fro, and the incoherent exclamations of the crew, the sinewy, athletic figure of the captain leap up, [pg 497] as it were, from the companion-ladder to the deck, and with his trumpet-voice command immediate silence, instantly followed by the order again to batten down the blazing hatchway. This, with his own assistance, was promptly effected, and then he disappeared down the forecastle. The two or three minutes he was gone—it could scarcely have been more than that—seemed interminable; and so completely did it appear to be recognized that our fate must depend upon his judgment and vigor, that not a word was spoken, nor a finger, I think, moved, till he reappeared, already scorched and blackened with the fire, and dragging up what seemed a dead body in his arms. He threw his burden on the deck, and passing swiftly to where Hawkins stood, said in a low, hurried whisper, but audible to me; “Run down and rouse the passengers, and bring my pistols from the cabin-locker. Quick! Eternity hangs on the loss of a moment.” Then turning to the startled but attentive seamen, he said in a rapid but firm voice: “You well know, men, that I would not on any occasion or for any motive deceive you. Listen, then, attentively. Yon drunken brute—he is Lieutenant Arguellas' servant—has fired with his candle the spirits he was stealing, and the hold is a mass of fire which it is useless to waste one precious moment in attempting to extinguish.”

A cry of rage and terror burst from the crew, and they sprang impulsively toward the boats, but the captain's authoritative voice at once arrested their steps. “Hear me out, will you? Hurry and confusion will destroy us all, but with courage and steadiness every soul on board may be saved before the flames can reach the powder. And remember,” he added, as he took his pistols from Hawkins and cocked one of them, “that I will send a bullet after any man who disobeys me, and I seldom miss my aim. Now, then, to your work—steadily, and with a will!”

It was marvelous to observe the influence his bold, confident, and commanding bearing and words had upon the men. The panic-terror that had seized them gave place to energetic resolution, and in an incredibly short space of time the boats were in the water. “Well done, my fine fellows! There is plenty of time, I again repeat. Four of you”—and he named them—“remain with me. Three others jump into each of the large boats, two into the small one, and bring them round to the landward side of the ship. A rush would swamp the boats, and we shall be able to keep only one gangway clear.”

The passengers were by this time rushing upon deck half-clad, and in a state of the wildest terror, for they all knew there was a large quantity of gunpowder on board. The instant the boats touched the starboard side of the bark, the men, white as well as colored, forced their way with frenzied eagerness before the women and children—careless, apparently, whom they sacrificed so that they might themselves leap to the shelter of the boats from the fiery volcano raging beneath their feet. Captain Starkey, aided by the four athletic seamen he had selected for the duty, hurled them fiercely back. “Back, back!” he shouted. “We must have funeral order here—first the women and children, next the old men. Hand SeÑora Arguellas along; next the young lady her daughter: quick!”

As Donna Antonia, more dead than alive, was about to be lifted into the boat, a gush of flame burst up through the main hatchway with the roar of an explosion; a tumultuous cry burst from the frenzied passengers, and they jostled each other with frightful violence in their efforts to reach the gangway. Dupont forced his way through the lane of seamen with the energy of a madman, and pressed so suddenly upon Antonia that, but for the utmost exertion of the captain's Herculean strength, she must have been precipitated into the water.

“Back, unmanly dastard! back, dog!” roared Captain Starkey, terribly excited by the lady's danger; and a moment after, seizing Dupont fiercely by the collar, he added: “or if you will, look there but for a moment,” and he pointed with his pistol-hand to the fins of several sharks plainly visible in the glaring light at but a few yards' distance from the ship. “Men,” he added, “let whoever presses forward out of his turn fall into the water.”

“Ay, ay, sir!” was the prompt mechanical response.

This terrible menace instantly restored order; the colored women and children were next embarked, and the boat appeared full.

“Pull off,” was the order: “you are deep enough for safety.”

A cry, faint as the wail of a child, arose in the boat. It was heard and understood.

“Stay one moment; pass along SeÑor Arguellas. Now, then, off with you, and be smart!”

The next boat was quickly loaded; the colored lads and men, all but one, and the three Americans, went in her.

“You are a noble fellow,” said Mr. Desmond, pausing an instant, and catching at the captain's hand; “and I was but a fool to—”

“Pass on,” was the reply: “there is no time to bandy compliments.”

The order to shove off had passed the captain's lips when his glance chanced to light upon me, as I leaned, dumb with terror, just behind him against the vessel's bulwarks.

“Hold on a moment!” he cried. “Here is a youngster whose weight will not hurt you;” and he fairly lifted me over, and dropped me gently into the boat, whispering as he did so: “Remember me, Ned, to thy father and mother should I not see them again.”

There was now only the small boat, capable of safely containing but eight persons, and how, it was whispered among us—how, in addition to the two seamen already in her, can she take off Lieutenant Arguellas, M. Dupont, the remaining colored man, the four seamen, and Captain Starkey? They were, however, all speedily embarked except the captain.