So my misgivings concerning the hermit were happily dispelled.When a man renounces the world, let it be to him what it may, and lives for years in the wilderness, enduring unspeakable privations, and with an iron will subdues the longings of his heart—he is supremely in earnest. For what other reason would he have come into the forests, long before even a stone had been laid for the churchAm Steg; for what other reason would he have caused himself to be avoided by the people or have sought to satisfy in solitude his impulse to do good? And before me, a poor man, he has torn away the very fibres of his heart, that I might look into the depths of his innermost soul, as it stands there in its sin.I have often thought to myself, the first priest in Winkelsteg should not be a righteous, but a penitent man. Let him not be one who has never fallen, but one who has risen from his fall. In the depths and darkness of the forests he must be able to stand and find his way, that he may lead these people to the shining heights.SUMMER, 1819.How strange! How absurd! I have laughed and cried the whole day.It can be nothing but a humorous report, but it is told seriously everywhere. And combined with what we have already heard, it may indeed be possible.The wicked man is said to have gambled us all away,—the whole Winkel forest, with every stick and stone, every man and mouse, together with Andreas Erdmann,—gambled us away at the green table in one single night. And he lost us to a Jew.A FEW DAYS LATER.Be that as it may, we will proceed with our daily work. To-day I was in the Miesenbach woods to look at the trees which are destined for the school-building.As I passed by the black hut, the Einspanig came out. He had been to visit Lazarus, but the boy was not at home. He is now goatherd with the wood-cutters in the Upper Winkel. Adelheid reproached the Einspanig bitterly at first; but then she hid her face in her apron and sobbing, said: "I know it well, you deserve the Kingdom of Heaven for what you have done for my child!"The Einspanig and I walked together toward Winkelsteg. The people whom we met were laughing over the story that we had been gambled away. Old Rüpel said: "In honour of Moses my beard I 'll retain, and as long as I live, I 'll not cut it again.""Yes, yes," I said to my companion. "So now we are Jewish, and we shall have a Polish Rabbi in our temple. Our young master, Judas Schrankenheim, has betrayed us so neatly!"The Einspanig stopped and stared at me in astonishment, finally saying: "I did not think you so stupid, Erdmann." And after a little he added: "A respectable man should not believe such foolish reports. How then could young Schrankenheim have gambled us away? He is not yet master of his father's possessions, and has not even reached his majority."I looked at him quickly.My heart was freed from a great burden; but the next moment I was troubled. Only yesterday, within the hearing of everyone, I had called the young Baron a wicked man.But as I am a man of honour I will make amends. Of course he may be a wild fellow; still thou art honest and kind-hearted, Hermann, and the people must know it. For three Sundays in succession I will proclaim it from the chancel: "Our young future master, Hermann von Schrankenheim, is honest and good. May God preserve him!" And until death will I beg his pardon for my slanderous words.The Einspanig entered my house with me. One of my windows opens towards the church and the parsonage. Sitting down by it, we fell into a conversation which lasted two hours.We are now able, when the weather is fine, to measure the time by the hour; Franz Ehrenwald has painted a sun-dial on the southern side of the tower.When the Einspanig had gone my housekeeper cried: "Wie närrisch, now theKukukhas broughthiminto the house again!""TheKukuk?" I answered gaily. "Yes, indeed, this man is himself like the cuckoo; he has no nest and must restlessly flutter from tree to tree, is avoided everywhere, and is at home nowhere. But all the same we are glad to see him in the spring, for he brings it with him; he is a soothsayer who can count our years for us.""Yes," screamed the woman, "and tell us all sorts of extravagant tales, as he did me once; and if for him perhaps the world is not fastened in with boards, his own head surely is. Get away with your Einspanig!"If the good Winkel-warden's wife could only have known what kind of a letter I wrote to the Baron an hour later!MAY, 1820.Here in the woods are day and night, winter and summer, peace and suffering, care and sometimes a little comfort in resting from our toil. And so it drags along. Our Chariot of Time has lost its fourth wheel, and it often goes badly and unevenly, but it goes.Outside, they say, they are trying to overturn the world again. There are rumours of war. No one troubles himself any longer about us Winkelstegers. But I am pleased with one thing. Many of our young men wish to enlist and become soldiers. That is a sign of their awakened consciousness that they have a home and a fatherland which they must defend. It is the first good fruit of the young parish.For a time the destruction of the forest has ceased; the foundries outside are closed. Many are now beginning to remove the stumps from the cleared land and to convert it into fields for planting. The wood-cutters and charcoal-burners are becoming tillers of the soil. That is right; the wood-cutter disappears, but the peasant arises in his place.In reply to an appeal from me, a letter has come from the Baron. Now is no time for churches and priests; we must help ourselves.That is very wise advice. But the people will no longer go to church. "When there is no mass and no sermon," they say, "one can pray for one's self under the green trees." However, they do not remain under the green trees, but in the tavern. The flock is scattered when there is no shepherd.The forester is also away, for he has other regions to look after. So I am alone with my Winkelstegers, as Moses was alone with the Israelites in the wilderness.The commandments have been proclaimed, but the people are again working at the golden calf. And manna falls no longer from heaven.PENTECOST, 1820.To-day the hermit from the Felsenthal stood before the altar of our church and read mass.The church vestments and sacred utensils we had from Holdenschlag, as they were lying there in the vestry unused. The mice had eaten holes in the robe, but the spiders had woven them together again.I played the organ. The church is not so large but that from the choir one can see if tears are standing in the eyes of the priest at the altar.The people prayed little and whispered, much. This Einspanig,—he must indeed be a second St. Jerome.After the service the forest singer said these words to me: "Have you seen the Wandering Jew? For the suffering Christ he has borne to-day the heavy cross to Golgotha's heights. Hosanna, he thus casts his sins away!"I repeated the words to the hermit, adding: "May they make you happy; the man is filled with the Holy Ghost!"THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS, 1820.I have urged the people to choose a chief officer from among themselves, that there may be someone to issue orders, settle disputes, and keep the parish united.They have chosen Martin Grassteiger, and he is now called Judge.At this same meeting the new Judge introduced the future schoolmaster of the Winkelsteg parish, who had been acknowledged as such by the master of the forest.I then am this schoolmaster. The people declare that I might have known it for a long time, but Grassteiger says that everything must be done according to legal form.A few days after the above occurrence the Judge ordered me to call a parish meeting to elect a priest. Everyone laughed over this. "Shall we choose him from among the pitch-makers and charcoal-burners? But there is n't one that would be fit for it. There is just one man who is learned enough for us Winklers, but our men have such foolish notions, that they would be scandalised at the idea of a priest being his own housekeeper."So they make their jokes, knowing very well for whom they are meant.And they have chosen him, too.We must help ourselves, the owner of the forest has said; and that we have done.The hermit from the Felsenthal is the priest of Winkelsteg.THE FEAST OF ST. MARTIN, 1820.Russ-Kath is dead. She was ninety years old. Her last wish was that after her death strong, nailed shoes should be put on her feet; she would be obliged to traverse the road back to earth many times, to see how her children and grandchildren were faring. And the road was full of sharp thorns.Russ-Kath is the first one who will rest in our new forest burying-ground.Two men brought her over from Lautergräben on a bier consisting of two poles. The white pine-board coffin, still fragrant with resin, was fastened upon the bier with strips of alder-boughs. Russ-Bartelmei and his brother-in-law, Paul Holzer, accompanied by a little boy, walked behind the bearers. They prayed aloud, at the same time looking out for the roots of the trees which lay across their pathway. The bearers were also obliged to walk cautiously, for the ground was already slippery with the late autumn hoar-frost.There is a story that years ago as some men were carrying a shepherd to the Holdenschlag cemetery, one of the bearers stumbled on the narrow path and the coffin rolled over the precipice, plunging into the abyss, so that no splinter of it was ever seen again. This was exceedingly trying for the people, they say, for the grave-digger had to be paid all the same.We Winkelstegers have no grave-digger. We could not maintain one, and besides no one dies here until his last groschen is spent. So a few wood-cutters are obliged to come and do this work. They charge nothing for it. They are glad if they can crawl out of the grave again, well and hearty.During the mass for the dead the coffin stood quite alone upon the hard ground before the church. A little bird flew hither, hopped upon the coffin-lid and pecked and pecked and then fluttered away again.When Rüpel saw it he was almost sure that it was the bird that flies into the forest once in every thousand years.After the mass we carried Russ-Kath up to the grave which had been prepared for her. The family stood about gazing fixedly into it.When the burial service was over, the priest spoke briefly. The words which impressed me the most were these: "By the death of our dear ones we gain fortitude to bear the adversities of this life, and a calm, perhaps even a joyous, anticipation of our own death. Each hour is one step towards our meeting again; and until that gate of reunion is opened for us, our departed ones live on in the sacred peace of our hearts."He is well able to expound it. Indeed, we all feel it also, but do not know the words by which to express it. He has not forgotten his vocation, although he has lived for years up in the Felsenthal.But now another man appears. Rüpel comes quietly forward, and the people make way for him: "Let us see what Rüpel knows to-day."And as the forest singer stands upon the mound, supporting himself by the handle of the spade, so as not to make a misstep upon the loose earth, and as he looks down upon the coffin, he begins to speak: "Born ninety years ago; on her own feet o'er vales and mountains she has walked to meet those who in sorrow and in troublous ways might need her succour; for in all her days a horse she never rode, and thus outwore a hundred pair of shoes. And yet a hundred more in earning children's bread she wore, and other hundreds still, alas, she rent upon the paths of pain o'er which she went. But ne'er for dancing and like mirth, forsooth, was used a single pair, e'en in her youth. Then, when her whole long, weary life was o'er, she put her last shoes on her feet once more, and went away into eternal rest. The holy angels, at the Lord's behest, will lead her soul through purgatory straight, then on and up unto the heavenly gate. Beneath the ground shall the poor body rest within its wooden coffin, calm and blest. Sleep well, Kathrin, within thy cradle new; soon by thy side shall we be sleeping, too. Till to His heavenly hosts we hear God's call, and we may enter heaven, soul, body, all.""Rüpel would be the right priest for the Winkelstegers!" said the man whom they have called the Einspanig.Yes, if he had not grown up among them!When we, the priest and I, had thrown a few clods of earth upon the coffin, Russ-Bartelmei, very sad, came to us and asked what then had his mother done, that we should fling dirt after her. We then explained to him that it signified a last act of love, and that the earth was the only offering which one could bestow upon the dead.Thereupon Bartelmei began to shovel in the earth until not a trace of the white coffin could be seen, and the people took the spade from him to fill the grave.After the funeral they retired to Grassteiger's inn, where they refreshed themselves with brandy, just as the ancients offered libations after laying their dead to rest.God counts His people, even in Winkelsteg, and not one escapes Him.The little grave in the burying-ground was scarcely closed when the baptismal font in the church was opened. The first death and the first baptism in one day—in one family.Over the same forest path where a few hours before the coffin was carried, two women brought a newly born babe from Lautergräben.The child is a granddaughter of Russ-Kath and belongs to Anna Maria.Someone knocks at the church door, requesting baptism, and the name of the child is to be Katharina. Her grandmother's name shall not be denied her, although we have the choice of all the saints in heaven.PART THIRDWINTER, 1830.During all the sixteen years since I have been in the Winkel forests, I have seen no such snow as we have this winter. For days not a single child has come to school. The windows of my room resemble targets. Should this state of things last much longer, we shall all be snowed in together. From here to the parsonage a path is shoveled twice a day, passing by Grassteiger's house, where we, the priest and I, take our midday meal. Each prepares his own breakfast at home. In the evening we always meet either at the parsonage or at the schoolhouse. I wonder how the people are faring over at Karwässer and Graben! There the snow-storms are much more furious than in the Winkel. Just now many poor souls are lying sick in their huts, and it is impossible to keep the paths open, so that the people may help one another. And crossing the Lauterhöhe is quite out of the question. The signposts which stand by the cliffs are nearly buried in the snow; the branches and trunks of trees are torn off and broken by the heavy burden. There is no end to the snow. It falls no longer in flakes; it is like a heavy, dense whirlwind of dust. The caps upon the branches and sign-posts and upon the gables of the roofs are growing higher every moment.If the wind should rise, it might perhaps save the forest, but it would be our destruction. One hour of wind over the loose banks of snow, and we should be buried.The priest has engaged all the workmen that are accessible to make paths in Lautergräben, Karwässer, and even from one hut to another. They succeeded in breaking the path in one direction, but were obliged to perform their labour a second time on their return. However, the snow-bound people over there will not suffer; their world is within their huts. In a cabin in Karwässer the corpse of an old man is said to have been lying for five days.To-day the priest bound snow-shoes on his feet in order to make visits among the sick. But the snow was too soft, and he was obliged to turn back. Now he is making up little bundles from our landlord's pantry, and some sturdy wood-cutters are to carry them to the sick people in Lautergräben.These are short days and yet so long. I have my zither, I have the new violin given to me by the priest on my last birthday, I have other things with which to distract myself. But now nothing interests me. For hours at a time I walk up and down the room and wonder what the result of this winter will be. There are many huts in Graben where the men have not been with their shovels. We are anxious about the condition of things over there.In order to relieve myself from the oppressive inactivity, I opened to-day the chest which is under the bench by the stove, and took out the leaves of my old journal, to see what had been the fortunes of this parish since its beginning.And I find that nothing has been written for ten years. There may have been two reasons for this interruption in my records. In the first place, I no longer felt the need of writing out my thoughts and feelings, for in our priest I have found a friend in whom I can confide unreservedly, as he has confided in me, telling me the strange story of his life before we were even acquainted. He is one of the few who, refined by suffering, have emerged from the entanglements and mistakes of the world pure and noble. The woodspeople love him devotedly; he leads them not by words alone but by his deeds. His Sunday sermons he puts into practice during the week. He sacrifices himself, he is everything to the people. His hair is no longer black, as at that time in the Felsenthal; his face is earnest, and bright as the gleam of a rainbow. Those who are sorrowful gaze into his eyes and find comfort there.When we are all sitting together, he likes to tell us of the distant, beautiful world—of strange foreign countries, of the wonders of nature. Pipes grow cold while he talks, for everyone listens with the greatest eagerness. Only the old woman from the Winkelwarden's house declares that the priest's stories are silly fables; a proper priest, she thinks, should talk of heaven and purgatory, and not always of the world. Nevertheless she listens and smiles.A number of years ago the church authorities brought up the question of our parish, and refused to recognise our Father Paulus, wishing to install a new priest in his place. Oh! but the Winkelstegers rebelled against such a change and the attempt was finally abandoned. To offset this, however, Winkelsteg is not acknowledged outside as parish and curacy, but simply as a settlement of half-savage, ruined men, such as it was in former times.At first this was a great trial to me, we would so gladly have united with the main body; but since they repulse us, I am finally reconciled and say: All the better; then they will leave us in peace.The second cause of neglecting my journal is the great amount of work which my calling imposes upon me.At first it was the building of the schoolhouse, which gave me no rest. For everything has been built exactly as I considered most suitable for an important project like this. The house is made of wood, for that retains heat better than stone, and allows of freer ventilation. It was important that I should erect an appropriate and tasteful wooden building as a model for the people. To my joy, the light, graceful, and yet solid design of my schoolhouse, with its convenient arrangement, has already been copied many times. My windows, doors, masonry, and locksmith's work are considered as models by the entire population.About the schoolhouse is an extensive playground fitted out with implements for physical exercise. The building is provided with a broad, projecting roof to guard against injury from storms, but in such a way that the interior is in no way darkened. In the schoolroom, before everything else, thought has been taken for the health of the children.As to my apartment in the schoolhouse, it is not large but cosey. And it is made a thousand times cosier by the memory of that winter march through Russia, which comes back to me sometimes like a wild dream. Since that dream, however, I have grown many years younger; even as the storms of the world crushed me to the earth, have I risen again in the primeval freshness of the forest.A far more difficult office than that of keeping the school, and a much greater duty, is the supervision of the spiritual health of those confided to my care. Easily enough they learn prudence, and how to think and act to their own advantage; but it is far more difficult for them to learn to adjust themselves to the whole, and to make their existence harmonious with that of their fellows and with the outside world in general. It is a fact, that self-love is the first sign of life which is revealed in the budding soul of the young child. Whether love for humanity or selfishness be the result, the education decides.I have my special ideas in regard to dealing with children and the conception of the world which should be presented to them. I am not thinking of the little ones in the Winkel parish alone, but of the children who are obliged to dwell in cities, where the happiness of their childhood and the pure pleasures of this world are often embittered.REFLECTIONS[#][#] Under this title an essay was found in the manuscript, the pages of which were neither dated nor numbered. It had probably been written in the winter of 1830, and since it bears upon the subject in hand I insert it here.THE EDITOR.The child is a book from which we read, and in which we should write.Once upon a time a magician wandered about in these woods creating no little excitement among the peasants. He carried a book containing blank pages, which upon being held to his lips were immediately covered with legible script, as though his breath had been a pen. I then discovered that the words had previously been written with a colourless liquid which left no trace and became visible only when he had breathed upon it.Children are like this book. Indifferent eyes discern nothing worthy of notice in them, and not until they are touched by the warm breath of love do the traits appear which frequently surprise, delight, or alarm us. And it rests largely with us which traits shall be called forth.That is to say, the personal peculiarities must be taken into account. In children this individuality is perhaps not great, but it nevertheless exists. Up to a certain point we enjoy the pliant natures which appeal to our own, but when the real character once discloses itself, we must give it due regard. It may be absurd, yet I must say that I have a certain dislike for many of the educational institutions which now exist in the world outside, where all the pupils are cast in the same mould and then polished off, in the end producing but ordinary men. These, to be sure, constitute the best building material for society and the state, even as houses are most conveniently constructed with bricks. But characters, sturdy types which develop under unusual circumstances, sometimes seem to me preferable. A grindstone does not suit all knives; many scholars learn more in life than in school.We should first test that which we intend to employ with the child, the physical care, games, moral and mental instruction, in order to be sure that they harmonise with his nature and with the conditions and demands of his future life. Cherish childhood tenderly; it is quite different from our riper age; thoughtlessly forgetting our own childish happiness, we regard as unreasonable and foolish much of that which is in reality of great benefit to the little ones, and which they lose all too soon, never to find again.I do not share the opinion of that philosopher who maintains that parents should allow themselves to be brought up by their children, although I acknowledge that we might learn much from them that is to be found in no book of worldly wisdom. Children seem to be born for a heaven, their young minds being constituted solely for happiness. We have to educate them for this earth, to which they must now adapt themselves, but not prematurely. Let the little hearts strengthen themselves with childish pleasure, warm themselves with faith in God and the world, for they may need this warmth and strength when, in later years, many things turn cold and fall in ruins about them. Their faith in God will change and become more spiritual, but if you—oh, teacher of a new school—do not instil this faith into the growing mind, then in the matured intellect there will be no room for belief in the divine, the ideal. Whoever has once prayed with all his heart before the cross, will never forget the image of love and self-sacrifice. Whoever has once been thrilled by the sweet worship of the Mother of God, whoever has been awed by the resurrection of the dead and the eternal glory of heaven, he, I think, must be armed for all time against the demon of unbelief and have unshaken faith in the final victory of the good and beautiful.Each fortunate man upon whom nature has bestowed in his children the prospect of an earthly future, will wish that they may be as happy as he himself now is, or happier.Human content and discontent depend greatly upon our view of the world. As the world enters our souls through our minds, such it is to us. It is not a question of truth for truth's sake, but of happiness, or rather of contentment. Only those pursue the truth for itself who either find or fancy they find in the search or in its resultscontentment.We cannot greatly alter our own view of the world; our eyes are accustomed to their spectacles, be they dark or rosy. But the child who calls us father, although he does not yet know why we are responsible to him, with clear eyes gazes questioningly into the bright world and questioningly looks at us. Which glasses shall we give him—rosy, dark, magnifying, or diminishing?Children wear no spectacles! In regard to this, the schoolmaster from Holdenschlag recently said to me that one should allow children to gaze upon the world with their natural eyes.Here again I think differently. The gypsy boy on the heath looks at the world with his natural eye. Is he hungry, he takes what lies nearest him; he knows nothing of mine or thine. Our children must have instruction and education, the former to show them what the world is according to our experience, the latter to teach them how to bear themselves towards it and how far they are to yield to its influence. The objection might be urged that the nature of the world itself determines one's conception of it, and a thing cannot be taken for other than it is. I answer: The contemplation of an object depends entirely upon the observer's point of view. It is not to be expected of man that, forgetting self, he should rise above himself and the world at large, for the eye with which he sees and the brain with which he thinks is far too human.Our point of view is optional; the colour through which we look at the world is for the most part also optional; but the choice must be made sufficiently early. Children, as soon as they are conscious of their existence and their surroundings, consider their parents and teachers faultless beings; as a matter of course everything is good and perfect to them. They joyously gravitate towards all things as the flowers of the field turn towards the sun. Their first look into the world is full of trust.Thinking over the numerous books of the modern school, which I occasionally receive from the owner of the forest, I often ask myself: What conception of the world should we teach children?Should we say to them: The plan of the world is by no means good; mankind is imperfect, miserable; existence is aimless; life is a misfortune?Should we show them the bad and good sides, and soberly explain everything to them, just as it seems to us?Or should we acquiesce in their belief and strengthen them in their view, that everything is desirable and for the best?A teacher who had neither sense nor heart would do the first; one who had sense alone, the second; one who had both sense and heart, the third.The youngsters in ragged clothing, who run about under our feet in the streets, carrying their bags of books to school, are often a very saucy brood. They banter, chaff, sneer, and think themselves far wiser than their elders. We meet with this principally in cities. In their homes they are accustomed to bitter words. Many methods of education aim to transform the little ones rapidly into cool-headed, sensible men. The children must know and think, only this; all warm feeling is stifled, and then one wonders why there is so little ability and creative power! When such a youth has sated himself with the works of art and nature, which have become for him merely toys and objects of derision, he grows disheartened, fretful, and young men and maidens of twenty are weary of the world. They have soon convinced themselves that their own abilities and ambitions are no higher than those which they have so often scorned—nor scarcely so high; they become impotent and lose faith in themselves; and now they are fully convinced of that which they have so often heard, and in their inexperience have so often maintained: The world is thoroughly bad—and they areunhappy. This element of pessimism, to which they have accustomed themselves, so disturbs their power of action that they have not even sufficient courage to take that step which seems to them the most desirable: suicide.The second method is not inexpedient, indeed for progress in life it is often really necessary. We might show the children the world as it appears to us; relate to them our own experiences, that they may profit by them. Still this way, although perhaps necessary, is not the best; it too soon disturbs the ideals of youth which warm the child-heart like a breath of God and can never be replaced in later years. Therefore we must not initiate children into the hardships of life prematurely. Then again, this method is not always as useful as one would think; indeed, every day we see children who give no heed to the precepts which are the results of their parents' experiences and who pay for their carelessness and learn wisdom only by their own failures. Even were they able to profit by the trials of their parents, how shall they instructtheirchildren, if not forced to undergo any experiences of their own? Such things cannot be handed down; only where they originate and grow, do they bear fruit.My opinion is, that we should guard the fresh rosebud called "child-heart" as long as we are able. Let us interfere as late as possible with the intellectual life and vocation of the child. For indeed, even three-year-old children have often already chosen their life work. They hunt up and make toys for themselves, they hammer, they dig, they draw, plane, and build and are as much in earnest as we elders in our efforts. It is a great disadvantage to the children of the rich to receive their playthings ready made, the result of which is, that they simply destroy them; and this often happens even in the case of well-disposed children. How can the little ones become inventive and ingenious, how can they practise the art of acquiring and saving, of patience and perseverance, when everything which their hearts desire and which they often do not really desire, comes to them as if by the aid of a wishing-rod? It may partly account for the fact—and this is within my own knowledge—that children of the poor, who from their earliest youth must seek and make everything that they wish to have, are often intellectually superior to the children of the rich. But we should encourage and guide the little ones in their occupations and small creations.It is wiser to check speech than action in children. And if they have done something wrong, or produced something faulty, then give them the opportunity to do it again and better.Many parents and teachers have the custom of speaking disparagingly and critically of their children before strangers; that is almost more dangerous than pushing them forward and praising them in the presence of others. An embittered disposition is apt to follow wounded ambition.Instead of analysing the excellences and defects in the works and standards of mankind, I consider it better to recognise their worth unconditionally, that the children may learn to honour and admire them. Critical knowledge of one's ideal has never been sufficient to inspire a man to strive to imitate it, although it may have caused respect and enthusiasm. The critical, fault-finding element means only too often repudiation—it is the chief characteristic of incapable natures and never imparts strength, but rather impedes the creative power. Whatever works upon the reason, chills; that which works upon the heart, warms; especially with children.Children should hear only of the beautiful, the good, and the great. Our own ideals, the bright visions of our youth and our guiding star, even though they be now extinct, let us rekindle them in the children's hearts; or if Nature has herself performed this work, then let us feed and fan the flame; at such a fire we shall warm ourselves again. Human history is exceedingly rich in great deeds—I do not mean the campaigns and destruction wrought by victorious generals, nor the intrigues of land-greedy princes, with which one ordinarily seeks toimproveour youth—I mean the blessed, beautiful deeds of noble men. Let us surround the child with these, and with them we shall plant in him a garden full of roses and glorious fruits!And when the high and noble things in the earthly kingdom are exhausted, then let us with confidence open the gates to those eternal regions whence mankind for a thousand years has drawn courage and inspiration. The true man of culture, familiar with all the successes and failures of the human intellect, the man acquainted with the world, who knows that tolerance is a chief characteristic of noble minds, will not hesitate to portray to the child the great ideals of poetic souls.But there are certain people in the world outside against whom I would make the charge that they are as lenient toward the weaknesses and sins of mankind as they are intolerant of religious opinions. These people are adherents to a doctrine asserting the animal supremacy in man, and make freedom of will and action wholly dependent on natural or accidental outward circumstances—modern fatalists, who are still more dangerous than those of the romantic school. They believe that they are satisfying their love for mankind, if they excuse the criminals and fallen ones according to prescribed precepts, thus justifying the crime to their children. That means making the criminal interesting to the children. However, we should instil into their minds neither hatred nor pharisaical pride, although the mistakes and crimes themselves cannot be too severely censured before the little ones. Even as nobility should be represented to them as worthy of their entire respect, so should evil be unconditionally condemned. One only confuses children with such subtle reasoning and philosophical explanations—everything must be distinct, clear, and tangible.One more word in regard to the love of fatherland.Child and home—how natural! We well know that the little ones long to go forth into the world, but still stronger is their desire to return home. So we might add, teach them love of home. A hearth of one's own, a family; here man is guarded from the greatest evils; here industry, self-sacrifice, self-confidence, and contentment are developed; here love for the parish and fidelity to the fatherland thrive. The attitude which many people in the outside world are now assuming toward the fatherland is said to be becoming somewhat revolutionary. This must be followed by results which I do not like to mention to the children here! I am consequently obliged to counteract these reports by telling them that it is difficult to remain on friendly terms with people who are always discontented and unthankful. How shall one demand of a citizen of the state that he shall work for the perfection, the strengthening, and freedom of his native land, when he is perfectly indifferent towards it! And the continual denunciations of the conditions of the country, of its rulers and laws, all combine to undermine gradually the love for the fatherland. I do not care for that patriotism which sends our sons upon the battle-field, chosen for them by leaders of the state, but rather for that which teaches how tolivefor the fatherland. Resist hostile invasions, for that is manly and right. But patriotism often springs from prejudice; the children should therefore be taught where it ceases to be a virtue.Besides the love of one's native land, there is fortunately in mankind room for love of the whole world. Instead of inspiring children with admiration for the warrior heroes of history, it were better to instil into them the greatest horror for the profession of war. The idea that, for any reason whatever, we may kill innocent people must gradually be eradicated from the human race.The school alone cannot of course do everything; it teaches youth but is unable to educate it. With which organs does the young tree absorb the more nourishment and life, with its branches and leaves from the free air, or with its roots from the ground, whence it springs? What the child acquires at school must be carefully digested, but the example and guidance of the parents are involuntarily absorbed into the flesh and blood. It remains then with the parents to lay in the child the foundation for a sound conception of the world.I was once acquainted with the father of a family, who so strictly carried out the principle of presenting to his children a bright conception of the world, that he kept them away from all existing evil. That I do not consider necessary. It is not so much what they see ashowthey see it. Children seldom tremble in the presence of danger. One should call their attention to it, not in a startling manner, which only disheartens, but rather in a tone of calm self-reliance which rests on the consciousness of its own power. And after unfortunate accidents, where man is powerless, one should never show despair or apathetic discouragement before children, but always the open countenance full of resignation and hope; everything will be well again! These are magic words for us as well. There is a constant interchange of light and shadow everywhere in life, and each misfortune brings us new expectation of good; he who lives in this hope already enjoys the interest of a capital not yet due.The five-year-old daughter of the stone-cutter, when her only brother was buried, whom she loved so dearly that it was thought she could not live an hour without him, gazed down into the deep little grave surrounded by the mourning bystanders and said: "God keep thee, Hans, we will meet in heaven," and hastened away over the flowery meadow. Yes, thus should it be and thus should it continue among us men.And that boy from Schirmtanner's house, who built a little hut, a mill, and a variety of things on the hillside, working at it one whole summer, when an avalanche destroyed his playthings, cried: "It's gone! It did not please God that I should build on the hill, now I will go and build my house down by the barn fence." He might just as well have clenched his fist and snarled: "Why did it not please God?" But it has been said to him: "God is far stronger and wiser; against Him thou canst do nothing, but He does not mean ill by thee." And sometime in later years of life, when the heart is broken and faith is dead, that which is best and most enduring in such a conception of life shall still remain by us,—resignation.I have nothing against knowledge, but I like wisdom better. Wisdom does not come so much from the head as from the heart. Let childishness and confidence in the world be fostered as long as possible; childishness is fruitful soil for the beautiful, confidence in the world for the good. I do not mean that a generation of idealists should be developed, who cannot think and work practically. But they should have confidence in the world and in themselves, for that is the most fruitful ground for right thinking and practical deeds. A simpler and happier race must arise than could ever be imagined by the crabbed philosophers, who are so vain of their lofty reasoning and so hopeless in their human mission.However, the heart of man is good; from generation to generation he approaches perfection. There are indeed periods which are not favourable to him; often the blossoms grow too luxuriant, the fruit becomes too large. In the midst of the most auspicious May, frosts, blights, insects, and plagues of all kinds arrive—-but gradually—gradually the day shall dawn of which all nations have dreamed and which all prophets have foretold.
So my misgivings concerning the hermit were happily dispelled.
When a man renounces the world, let it be to him what it may, and lives for years in the wilderness, enduring unspeakable privations, and with an iron will subdues the longings of his heart—he is supremely in earnest. For what other reason would he have come into the forests, long before even a stone had been laid for the churchAm Steg; for what other reason would he have caused himself to be avoided by the people or have sought to satisfy in solitude his impulse to do good? And before me, a poor man, he has torn away the very fibres of his heart, that I might look into the depths of his innermost soul, as it stands there in its sin.
I have often thought to myself, the first priest in Winkelsteg should not be a righteous, but a penitent man. Let him not be one who has never fallen, but one who has risen from his fall. In the depths and darkness of the forests he must be able to stand and find his way, that he may lead these people to the shining heights.
SUMMER, 1819.
How strange! How absurd! I have laughed and cried the whole day.
It can be nothing but a humorous report, but it is told seriously everywhere. And combined with what we have already heard, it may indeed be possible.
The wicked man is said to have gambled us all away,—the whole Winkel forest, with every stick and stone, every man and mouse, together with Andreas Erdmann,—gambled us away at the green table in one single night. And he lost us to a Jew.
A FEW DAYS LATER.
Be that as it may, we will proceed with our daily work. To-day I was in the Miesenbach woods to look at the trees which are destined for the school-building.
As I passed by the black hut, the Einspanig came out. He had been to visit Lazarus, but the boy was not at home. He is now goatherd with the wood-cutters in the Upper Winkel. Adelheid reproached the Einspanig bitterly at first; but then she hid her face in her apron and sobbing, said: "I know it well, you deserve the Kingdom of Heaven for what you have done for my child!"
The Einspanig and I walked together toward Winkelsteg. The people whom we met were laughing over the story that we had been gambled away. Old Rüpel said: "In honour of Moses my beard I 'll retain, and as long as I live, I 'll not cut it again."
"Yes, yes," I said to my companion. "So now we are Jewish, and we shall have a Polish Rabbi in our temple. Our young master, Judas Schrankenheim, has betrayed us so neatly!"
The Einspanig stopped and stared at me in astonishment, finally saying: "I did not think you so stupid, Erdmann." And after a little he added: "A respectable man should not believe such foolish reports. How then could young Schrankenheim have gambled us away? He is not yet master of his father's possessions, and has not even reached his majority."
I looked at him quickly.
My heart was freed from a great burden; but the next moment I was troubled. Only yesterday, within the hearing of everyone, I had called the young Baron a wicked man.
But as I am a man of honour I will make amends. Of course he may be a wild fellow; still thou art honest and kind-hearted, Hermann, and the people must know it. For three Sundays in succession I will proclaim it from the chancel: "Our young future master, Hermann von Schrankenheim, is honest and good. May God preserve him!" And until death will I beg his pardon for my slanderous words.
The Einspanig entered my house with me. One of my windows opens towards the church and the parsonage. Sitting down by it, we fell into a conversation which lasted two hours.
We are now able, when the weather is fine, to measure the time by the hour; Franz Ehrenwald has painted a sun-dial on the southern side of the tower.
When the Einspanig had gone my housekeeper cried: "Wie närrisch, now theKukukhas broughthiminto the house again!"
"TheKukuk?" I answered gaily. "Yes, indeed, this man is himself like the cuckoo; he has no nest and must restlessly flutter from tree to tree, is avoided everywhere, and is at home nowhere. But all the same we are glad to see him in the spring, for he brings it with him; he is a soothsayer who can count our years for us."
"Yes," screamed the woman, "and tell us all sorts of extravagant tales, as he did me once; and if for him perhaps the world is not fastened in with boards, his own head surely is. Get away with your Einspanig!"
If the good Winkel-warden's wife could only have known what kind of a letter I wrote to the Baron an hour later!
MAY, 1820.
Here in the woods are day and night, winter and summer, peace and suffering, care and sometimes a little comfort in resting from our toil. And so it drags along. Our Chariot of Time has lost its fourth wheel, and it often goes badly and unevenly, but it goes.
Outside, they say, they are trying to overturn the world again. There are rumours of war. No one troubles himself any longer about us Winkelstegers. But I am pleased with one thing. Many of our young men wish to enlist and become soldiers. That is a sign of their awakened consciousness that they have a home and a fatherland which they must defend. It is the first good fruit of the young parish.
For a time the destruction of the forest has ceased; the foundries outside are closed. Many are now beginning to remove the stumps from the cleared land and to convert it into fields for planting. The wood-cutters and charcoal-burners are becoming tillers of the soil. That is right; the wood-cutter disappears, but the peasant arises in his place.
In reply to an appeal from me, a letter has come from the Baron. Now is no time for churches and priests; we must help ourselves.
That is very wise advice. But the people will no longer go to church. "When there is no mass and no sermon," they say, "one can pray for one's self under the green trees." However, they do not remain under the green trees, but in the tavern. The flock is scattered when there is no shepherd.
The forester is also away, for he has other regions to look after. So I am alone with my Winkelstegers, as Moses was alone with the Israelites in the wilderness.
The commandments have been proclaimed, but the people are again working at the golden calf. And manna falls no longer from heaven.
PENTECOST, 1820.
To-day the hermit from the Felsenthal stood before the altar of our church and read mass.
The church vestments and sacred utensils we had from Holdenschlag, as they were lying there in the vestry unused. The mice had eaten holes in the robe, but the spiders had woven them together again.
I played the organ. The church is not so large but that from the choir one can see if tears are standing in the eyes of the priest at the altar.
The people prayed little and whispered, much. This Einspanig,—he must indeed be a second St. Jerome.
After the service the forest singer said these words to me: "Have you seen the Wandering Jew? For the suffering Christ he has borne to-day the heavy cross to Golgotha's heights. Hosanna, he thus casts his sins away!"
I repeated the words to the hermit, adding: "May they make you happy; the man is filled with the Holy Ghost!"
THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS, 1820.
I have urged the people to choose a chief officer from among themselves, that there may be someone to issue orders, settle disputes, and keep the parish united.
They have chosen Martin Grassteiger, and he is now called Judge.
At this same meeting the new Judge introduced the future schoolmaster of the Winkelsteg parish, who had been acknowledged as such by the master of the forest.
I then am this schoolmaster. The people declare that I might have known it for a long time, but Grassteiger says that everything must be done according to legal form.
A few days after the above occurrence the Judge ordered me to call a parish meeting to elect a priest. Everyone laughed over this. "Shall we choose him from among the pitch-makers and charcoal-burners? But there is n't one that would be fit for it. There is just one man who is learned enough for us Winklers, but our men have such foolish notions, that they would be scandalised at the idea of a priest being his own housekeeper."
So they make their jokes, knowing very well for whom they are meant.
And they have chosen him, too.
We must help ourselves, the owner of the forest has said; and that we have done.
The hermit from the Felsenthal is the priest of Winkelsteg.
THE FEAST OF ST. MARTIN, 1820.
Russ-Kath is dead. She was ninety years old. Her last wish was that after her death strong, nailed shoes should be put on her feet; she would be obliged to traverse the road back to earth many times, to see how her children and grandchildren were faring. And the road was full of sharp thorns.
Russ-Kath is the first one who will rest in our new forest burying-ground.
Two men brought her over from Lautergräben on a bier consisting of two poles. The white pine-board coffin, still fragrant with resin, was fastened upon the bier with strips of alder-boughs. Russ-Bartelmei and his brother-in-law, Paul Holzer, accompanied by a little boy, walked behind the bearers. They prayed aloud, at the same time looking out for the roots of the trees which lay across their pathway. The bearers were also obliged to walk cautiously, for the ground was already slippery with the late autumn hoar-frost.
There is a story that years ago as some men were carrying a shepherd to the Holdenschlag cemetery, one of the bearers stumbled on the narrow path and the coffin rolled over the precipice, plunging into the abyss, so that no splinter of it was ever seen again. This was exceedingly trying for the people, they say, for the grave-digger had to be paid all the same.
We Winkelstegers have no grave-digger. We could not maintain one, and besides no one dies here until his last groschen is spent. So a few wood-cutters are obliged to come and do this work. They charge nothing for it. They are glad if they can crawl out of the grave again, well and hearty.
During the mass for the dead the coffin stood quite alone upon the hard ground before the church. A little bird flew hither, hopped upon the coffin-lid and pecked and pecked and then fluttered away again.
When Rüpel saw it he was almost sure that it was the bird that flies into the forest once in every thousand years.
After the mass we carried Russ-Kath up to the grave which had been prepared for her. The family stood about gazing fixedly into it.
When the burial service was over, the priest spoke briefly. The words which impressed me the most were these: "By the death of our dear ones we gain fortitude to bear the adversities of this life, and a calm, perhaps even a joyous, anticipation of our own death. Each hour is one step towards our meeting again; and until that gate of reunion is opened for us, our departed ones live on in the sacred peace of our hearts."
He is well able to expound it. Indeed, we all feel it also, but do not know the words by which to express it. He has not forgotten his vocation, although he has lived for years up in the Felsenthal.
But now another man appears. Rüpel comes quietly forward, and the people make way for him: "Let us see what Rüpel knows to-day."
And as the forest singer stands upon the mound, supporting himself by the handle of the spade, so as not to make a misstep upon the loose earth, and as he looks down upon the coffin, he begins to speak: "Born ninety years ago; on her own feet o'er vales and mountains she has walked to meet those who in sorrow and in troublous ways might need her succour; for in all her days a horse she never rode, and thus outwore a hundred pair of shoes. And yet a hundred more in earning children's bread she wore, and other hundreds still, alas, she rent upon the paths of pain o'er which she went. But ne'er for dancing and like mirth, forsooth, was used a single pair, e'en in her youth. Then, when her whole long, weary life was o'er, she put her last shoes on her feet once more, and went away into eternal rest. The holy angels, at the Lord's behest, will lead her soul through purgatory straight, then on and up unto the heavenly gate. Beneath the ground shall the poor body rest within its wooden coffin, calm and blest. Sleep well, Kathrin, within thy cradle new; soon by thy side shall we be sleeping, too. Till to His heavenly hosts we hear God's call, and we may enter heaven, soul, body, all."
"Rüpel would be the right priest for the Winkelstegers!" said the man whom they have called the Einspanig.
Yes, if he had not grown up among them!
When we, the priest and I, had thrown a few clods of earth upon the coffin, Russ-Bartelmei, very sad, came to us and asked what then had his mother done, that we should fling dirt after her. We then explained to him that it signified a last act of love, and that the earth was the only offering which one could bestow upon the dead.
Thereupon Bartelmei began to shovel in the earth until not a trace of the white coffin could be seen, and the people took the spade from him to fill the grave.
After the funeral they retired to Grassteiger's inn, where they refreshed themselves with brandy, just as the ancients offered libations after laying their dead to rest.
God counts His people, even in Winkelsteg, and not one escapes Him.
The little grave in the burying-ground was scarcely closed when the baptismal font in the church was opened. The first death and the first baptism in one day—in one family.
Over the same forest path where a few hours before the coffin was carried, two women brought a newly born babe from Lautergräben.
The child is a granddaughter of Russ-Kath and belongs to Anna Maria.
Someone knocks at the church door, requesting baptism, and the name of the child is to be Katharina. Her grandmother's name shall not be denied her, although we have the choice of all the saints in heaven.
PART THIRD
WINTER, 1830.
During all the sixteen years since I have been in the Winkel forests, I have seen no such snow as we have this winter. For days not a single child has come to school. The windows of my room resemble targets. Should this state of things last much longer, we shall all be snowed in together. From here to the parsonage a path is shoveled twice a day, passing by Grassteiger's house, where we, the priest and I, take our midday meal. Each prepares his own breakfast at home. In the evening we always meet either at the parsonage or at the schoolhouse. I wonder how the people are faring over at Karwässer and Graben! There the snow-storms are much more furious than in the Winkel. Just now many poor souls are lying sick in their huts, and it is impossible to keep the paths open, so that the people may help one another. And crossing the Lauterhöhe is quite out of the question. The signposts which stand by the cliffs are nearly buried in the snow; the branches and trunks of trees are torn off and broken by the heavy burden. There is no end to the snow. It falls no longer in flakes; it is like a heavy, dense whirlwind of dust. The caps upon the branches and sign-posts and upon the gables of the roofs are growing higher every moment.
If the wind should rise, it might perhaps save the forest, but it would be our destruction. One hour of wind over the loose banks of snow, and we should be buried.
The priest has engaged all the workmen that are accessible to make paths in Lautergräben, Karwässer, and even from one hut to another. They succeeded in breaking the path in one direction, but were obliged to perform their labour a second time on their return. However, the snow-bound people over there will not suffer; their world is within their huts. In a cabin in Karwässer the corpse of an old man is said to have been lying for five days.
To-day the priest bound snow-shoes on his feet in order to make visits among the sick. But the snow was too soft, and he was obliged to turn back. Now he is making up little bundles from our landlord's pantry, and some sturdy wood-cutters are to carry them to the sick people in Lautergräben.
These are short days and yet so long. I have my zither, I have the new violin given to me by the priest on my last birthday, I have other things with which to distract myself. But now nothing interests me. For hours at a time I walk up and down the room and wonder what the result of this winter will be. There are many huts in Graben where the men have not been with their shovels. We are anxious about the condition of things over there.
In order to relieve myself from the oppressive inactivity, I opened to-day the chest which is under the bench by the stove, and took out the leaves of my old journal, to see what had been the fortunes of this parish since its beginning.
And I find that nothing has been written for ten years. There may have been two reasons for this interruption in my records. In the first place, I no longer felt the need of writing out my thoughts and feelings, for in our priest I have found a friend in whom I can confide unreservedly, as he has confided in me, telling me the strange story of his life before we were even acquainted. He is one of the few who, refined by suffering, have emerged from the entanglements and mistakes of the world pure and noble. The woodspeople love him devotedly; he leads them not by words alone but by his deeds. His Sunday sermons he puts into practice during the week. He sacrifices himself, he is everything to the people. His hair is no longer black, as at that time in the Felsenthal; his face is earnest, and bright as the gleam of a rainbow. Those who are sorrowful gaze into his eyes and find comfort there.
When we are all sitting together, he likes to tell us of the distant, beautiful world—of strange foreign countries, of the wonders of nature. Pipes grow cold while he talks, for everyone listens with the greatest eagerness. Only the old woman from the Winkelwarden's house declares that the priest's stories are silly fables; a proper priest, she thinks, should talk of heaven and purgatory, and not always of the world. Nevertheless she listens and smiles.
A number of years ago the church authorities brought up the question of our parish, and refused to recognise our Father Paulus, wishing to install a new priest in his place. Oh! but the Winkelstegers rebelled against such a change and the attempt was finally abandoned. To offset this, however, Winkelsteg is not acknowledged outside as parish and curacy, but simply as a settlement of half-savage, ruined men, such as it was in former times.
At first this was a great trial to me, we would so gladly have united with the main body; but since they repulse us, I am finally reconciled and say: All the better; then they will leave us in peace.
The second cause of neglecting my journal is the great amount of work which my calling imposes upon me.
At first it was the building of the schoolhouse, which gave me no rest. For everything has been built exactly as I considered most suitable for an important project like this. The house is made of wood, for that retains heat better than stone, and allows of freer ventilation. It was important that I should erect an appropriate and tasteful wooden building as a model for the people. To my joy, the light, graceful, and yet solid design of my schoolhouse, with its convenient arrangement, has already been copied many times. My windows, doors, masonry, and locksmith's work are considered as models by the entire population.
About the schoolhouse is an extensive playground fitted out with implements for physical exercise. The building is provided with a broad, projecting roof to guard against injury from storms, but in such a way that the interior is in no way darkened. In the schoolroom, before everything else, thought has been taken for the health of the children.
As to my apartment in the schoolhouse, it is not large but cosey. And it is made a thousand times cosier by the memory of that winter march through Russia, which comes back to me sometimes like a wild dream. Since that dream, however, I have grown many years younger; even as the storms of the world crushed me to the earth, have I risen again in the primeval freshness of the forest.
A far more difficult office than that of keeping the school, and a much greater duty, is the supervision of the spiritual health of those confided to my care. Easily enough they learn prudence, and how to think and act to their own advantage; but it is far more difficult for them to learn to adjust themselves to the whole, and to make their existence harmonious with that of their fellows and with the outside world in general. It is a fact, that self-love is the first sign of life which is revealed in the budding soul of the young child. Whether love for humanity or selfishness be the result, the education decides.
I have my special ideas in regard to dealing with children and the conception of the world which should be presented to them. I am not thinking of the little ones in the Winkel parish alone, but of the children who are obliged to dwell in cities, where the happiness of their childhood and the pure pleasures of this world are often embittered.
REFLECTIONS[#]
[#] Under this title an essay was found in the manuscript, the pages of which were neither dated nor numbered. It had probably been written in the winter of 1830, and since it bears upon the subject in hand I insert it here.
THE EDITOR.
The child is a book from which we read, and in which we should write.
Once upon a time a magician wandered about in these woods creating no little excitement among the peasants. He carried a book containing blank pages, which upon being held to his lips were immediately covered with legible script, as though his breath had been a pen. I then discovered that the words had previously been written with a colourless liquid which left no trace and became visible only when he had breathed upon it.
Children are like this book. Indifferent eyes discern nothing worthy of notice in them, and not until they are touched by the warm breath of love do the traits appear which frequently surprise, delight, or alarm us. And it rests largely with us which traits shall be called forth.
That is to say, the personal peculiarities must be taken into account. In children this individuality is perhaps not great, but it nevertheless exists. Up to a certain point we enjoy the pliant natures which appeal to our own, but when the real character once discloses itself, we must give it due regard. It may be absurd, yet I must say that I have a certain dislike for many of the educational institutions which now exist in the world outside, where all the pupils are cast in the same mould and then polished off, in the end producing but ordinary men. These, to be sure, constitute the best building material for society and the state, even as houses are most conveniently constructed with bricks. But characters, sturdy types which develop under unusual circumstances, sometimes seem to me preferable. A grindstone does not suit all knives; many scholars learn more in life than in school.
We should first test that which we intend to employ with the child, the physical care, games, moral and mental instruction, in order to be sure that they harmonise with his nature and with the conditions and demands of his future life. Cherish childhood tenderly; it is quite different from our riper age; thoughtlessly forgetting our own childish happiness, we regard as unreasonable and foolish much of that which is in reality of great benefit to the little ones, and which they lose all too soon, never to find again.
I do not share the opinion of that philosopher who maintains that parents should allow themselves to be brought up by their children, although I acknowledge that we might learn much from them that is to be found in no book of worldly wisdom. Children seem to be born for a heaven, their young minds being constituted solely for happiness. We have to educate them for this earth, to which they must now adapt themselves, but not prematurely. Let the little hearts strengthen themselves with childish pleasure, warm themselves with faith in God and the world, for they may need this warmth and strength when, in later years, many things turn cold and fall in ruins about them. Their faith in God will change and become more spiritual, but if you—oh, teacher of a new school—do not instil this faith into the growing mind, then in the matured intellect there will be no room for belief in the divine, the ideal. Whoever has once prayed with all his heart before the cross, will never forget the image of love and self-sacrifice. Whoever has once been thrilled by the sweet worship of the Mother of God, whoever has been awed by the resurrection of the dead and the eternal glory of heaven, he, I think, must be armed for all time against the demon of unbelief and have unshaken faith in the final victory of the good and beautiful.
Each fortunate man upon whom nature has bestowed in his children the prospect of an earthly future, will wish that they may be as happy as he himself now is, or happier.
Human content and discontent depend greatly upon our view of the world. As the world enters our souls through our minds, such it is to us. It is not a question of truth for truth's sake, but of happiness, or rather of contentment. Only those pursue the truth for itself who either find or fancy they find in the search or in its resultscontentment.
We cannot greatly alter our own view of the world; our eyes are accustomed to their spectacles, be they dark or rosy. But the child who calls us father, although he does not yet know why we are responsible to him, with clear eyes gazes questioningly into the bright world and questioningly looks at us. Which glasses shall we give him—rosy, dark, magnifying, or diminishing?
Children wear no spectacles! In regard to this, the schoolmaster from Holdenschlag recently said to me that one should allow children to gaze upon the world with their natural eyes.
Here again I think differently. The gypsy boy on the heath looks at the world with his natural eye. Is he hungry, he takes what lies nearest him; he knows nothing of mine or thine. Our children must have instruction and education, the former to show them what the world is according to our experience, the latter to teach them how to bear themselves towards it and how far they are to yield to its influence. The objection might be urged that the nature of the world itself determines one's conception of it, and a thing cannot be taken for other than it is. I answer: The contemplation of an object depends entirely upon the observer's point of view. It is not to be expected of man that, forgetting self, he should rise above himself and the world at large, for the eye with which he sees and the brain with which he thinks is far too human.
Our point of view is optional; the colour through which we look at the world is for the most part also optional; but the choice must be made sufficiently early. Children, as soon as they are conscious of their existence and their surroundings, consider their parents and teachers faultless beings; as a matter of course everything is good and perfect to them. They joyously gravitate towards all things as the flowers of the field turn towards the sun. Their first look into the world is full of trust.
Thinking over the numerous books of the modern school, which I occasionally receive from the owner of the forest, I often ask myself: What conception of the world should we teach children?
Should we say to them: The plan of the world is by no means good; mankind is imperfect, miserable; existence is aimless; life is a misfortune?
Should we show them the bad and good sides, and soberly explain everything to them, just as it seems to us?
Or should we acquiesce in their belief and strengthen them in their view, that everything is desirable and for the best?
A teacher who had neither sense nor heart would do the first; one who had sense alone, the second; one who had both sense and heart, the third.
The youngsters in ragged clothing, who run about under our feet in the streets, carrying their bags of books to school, are often a very saucy brood. They banter, chaff, sneer, and think themselves far wiser than their elders. We meet with this principally in cities. In their homes they are accustomed to bitter words. Many methods of education aim to transform the little ones rapidly into cool-headed, sensible men. The children must know and think, only this; all warm feeling is stifled, and then one wonders why there is so little ability and creative power! When such a youth has sated himself with the works of art and nature, which have become for him merely toys and objects of derision, he grows disheartened, fretful, and young men and maidens of twenty are weary of the world. They have soon convinced themselves that their own abilities and ambitions are no higher than those which they have so often scorned—nor scarcely so high; they become impotent and lose faith in themselves; and now they are fully convinced of that which they have so often heard, and in their inexperience have so often maintained: The world is thoroughly bad—and they areunhappy. This element of pessimism, to which they have accustomed themselves, so disturbs their power of action that they have not even sufficient courage to take that step which seems to them the most desirable: suicide.
The second method is not inexpedient, indeed for progress in life it is often really necessary. We might show the children the world as it appears to us; relate to them our own experiences, that they may profit by them. Still this way, although perhaps necessary, is not the best; it too soon disturbs the ideals of youth which warm the child-heart like a breath of God and can never be replaced in later years. Therefore we must not initiate children into the hardships of life prematurely. Then again, this method is not always as useful as one would think; indeed, every day we see children who give no heed to the precepts which are the results of their parents' experiences and who pay for their carelessness and learn wisdom only by their own failures. Even were they able to profit by the trials of their parents, how shall they instructtheirchildren, if not forced to undergo any experiences of their own? Such things cannot be handed down; only where they originate and grow, do they bear fruit.
My opinion is, that we should guard the fresh rosebud called "child-heart" as long as we are able. Let us interfere as late as possible with the intellectual life and vocation of the child. For indeed, even three-year-old children have often already chosen their life work. They hunt up and make toys for themselves, they hammer, they dig, they draw, plane, and build and are as much in earnest as we elders in our efforts. It is a great disadvantage to the children of the rich to receive their playthings ready made, the result of which is, that they simply destroy them; and this often happens even in the case of well-disposed children. How can the little ones become inventive and ingenious, how can they practise the art of acquiring and saving, of patience and perseverance, when everything which their hearts desire and which they often do not really desire, comes to them as if by the aid of a wishing-rod? It may partly account for the fact—and this is within my own knowledge—that children of the poor, who from their earliest youth must seek and make everything that they wish to have, are often intellectually superior to the children of the rich. But we should encourage and guide the little ones in their occupations and small creations.
It is wiser to check speech than action in children. And if they have done something wrong, or produced something faulty, then give them the opportunity to do it again and better.
Many parents and teachers have the custom of speaking disparagingly and critically of their children before strangers; that is almost more dangerous than pushing them forward and praising them in the presence of others. An embittered disposition is apt to follow wounded ambition.
Instead of analysing the excellences and defects in the works and standards of mankind, I consider it better to recognise their worth unconditionally, that the children may learn to honour and admire them. Critical knowledge of one's ideal has never been sufficient to inspire a man to strive to imitate it, although it may have caused respect and enthusiasm. The critical, fault-finding element means only too often repudiation—it is the chief characteristic of incapable natures and never imparts strength, but rather impedes the creative power. Whatever works upon the reason, chills; that which works upon the heart, warms; especially with children.
Children should hear only of the beautiful, the good, and the great. Our own ideals, the bright visions of our youth and our guiding star, even though they be now extinct, let us rekindle them in the children's hearts; or if Nature has herself performed this work, then let us feed and fan the flame; at such a fire we shall warm ourselves again. Human history is exceedingly rich in great deeds—I do not mean the campaigns and destruction wrought by victorious generals, nor the intrigues of land-greedy princes, with which one ordinarily seeks toimproveour youth—I mean the blessed, beautiful deeds of noble men. Let us surround the child with these, and with them we shall plant in him a garden full of roses and glorious fruits!
And when the high and noble things in the earthly kingdom are exhausted, then let us with confidence open the gates to those eternal regions whence mankind for a thousand years has drawn courage and inspiration. The true man of culture, familiar with all the successes and failures of the human intellect, the man acquainted with the world, who knows that tolerance is a chief characteristic of noble minds, will not hesitate to portray to the child the great ideals of poetic souls.
But there are certain people in the world outside against whom I would make the charge that they are as lenient toward the weaknesses and sins of mankind as they are intolerant of religious opinions. These people are adherents to a doctrine asserting the animal supremacy in man, and make freedom of will and action wholly dependent on natural or accidental outward circumstances—modern fatalists, who are still more dangerous than those of the romantic school. They believe that they are satisfying their love for mankind, if they excuse the criminals and fallen ones according to prescribed precepts, thus justifying the crime to their children. That means making the criminal interesting to the children. However, we should instil into their minds neither hatred nor pharisaical pride, although the mistakes and crimes themselves cannot be too severely censured before the little ones. Even as nobility should be represented to them as worthy of their entire respect, so should evil be unconditionally condemned. One only confuses children with such subtle reasoning and philosophical explanations—everything must be distinct, clear, and tangible.
One more word in regard to the love of fatherland.
Child and home—how natural! We well know that the little ones long to go forth into the world, but still stronger is their desire to return home. So we might add, teach them love of home. A hearth of one's own, a family; here man is guarded from the greatest evils; here industry, self-sacrifice, self-confidence, and contentment are developed; here love for the parish and fidelity to the fatherland thrive. The attitude which many people in the outside world are now assuming toward the fatherland is said to be becoming somewhat revolutionary. This must be followed by results which I do not like to mention to the children here! I am consequently obliged to counteract these reports by telling them that it is difficult to remain on friendly terms with people who are always discontented and unthankful. How shall one demand of a citizen of the state that he shall work for the perfection, the strengthening, and freedom of his native land, when he is perfectly indifferent towards it! And the continual denunciations of the conditions of the country, of its rulers and laws, all combine to undermine gradually the love for the fatherland. I do not care for that patriotism which sends our sons upon the battle-field, chosen for them by leaders of the state, but rather for that which teaches how tolivefor the fatherland. Resist hostile invasions, for that is manly and right. But patriotism often springs from prejudice; the children should therefore be taught where it ceases to be a virtue.
Besides the love of one's native land, there is fortunately in mankind room for love of the whole world. Instead of inspiring children with admiration for the warrior heroes of history, it were better to instil into them the greatest horror for the profession of war. The idea that, for any reason whatever, we may kill innocent people must gradually be eradicated from the human race.
The school alone cannot of course do everything; it teaches youth but is unable to educate it. With which organs does the young tree absorb the more nourishment and life, with its branches and leaves from the free air, or with its roots from the ground, whence it springs? What the child acquires at school must be carefully digested, but the example and guidance of the parents are involuntarily absorbed into the flesh and blood. It remains then with the parents to lay in the child the foundation for a sound conception of the world.
I was once acquainted with the father of a family, who so strictly carried out the principle of presenting to his children a bright conception of the world, that he kept them away from all existing evil. That I do not consider necessary. It is not so much what they see ashowthey see it. Children seldom tremble in the presence of danger. One should call their attention to it, not in a startling manner, which only disheartens, but rather in a tone of calm self-reliance which rests on the consciousness of its own power. And after unfortunate accidents, where man is powerless, one should never show despair or apathetic discouragement before children, but always the open countenance full of resignation and hope; everything will be well again! These are magic words for us as well. There is a constant interchange of light and shadow everywhere in life, and each misfortune brings us new expectation of good; he who lives in this hope already enjoys the interest of a capital not yet due.
The five-year-old daughter of the stone-cutter, when her only brother was buried, whom she loved so dearly that it was thought she could not live an hour without him, gazed down into the deep little grave surrounded by the mourning bystanders and said: "God keep thee, Hans, we will meet in heaven," and hastened away over the flowery meadow. Yes, thus should it be and thus should it continue among us men.
And that boy from Schirmtanner's house, who built a little hut, a mill, and a variety of things on the hillside, working at it one whole summer, when an avalanche destroyed his playthings, cried: "It's gone! It did not please God that I should build on the hill, now I will go and build my house down by the barn fence." He might just as well have clenched his fist and snarled: "Why did it not please God?" But it has been said to him: "God is far stronger and wiser; against Him thou canst do nothing, but He does not mean ill by thee." And sometime in later years of life, when the heart is broken and faith is dead, that which is best and most enduring in such a conception of life shall still remain by us,—resignation.
I have nothing against knowledge, but I like wisdom better. Wisdom does not come so much from the head as from the heart. Let childishness and confidence in the world be fostered as long as possible; childishness is fruitful soil for the beautiful, confidence in the world for the good. I do not mean that a generation of idealists should be developed, who cannot think and work practically. But they should have confidence in the world and in themselves, for that is the most fruitful ground for right thinking and practical deeds. A simpler and happier race must arise than could ever be imagined by the crabbed philosophers, who are so vain of their lofty reasoning and so hopeless in their human mission.
However, the heart of man is good; from generation to generation he approaches perfection. There are indeed periods which are not favourable to him; often the blossoms grow too luxuriant, the fruit becomes too large. In the midst of the most auspicious May, frosts, blights, insects, and plagues of all kinds arrive—-but gradually—gradually the day shall dawn of which all nations have dreamed and which all prophets have foretold.