“Oh, Marie! to think that I could be so wicked!”

“No! no!” she said, covering him with kisses.  “I know thou wilt be good and great, and we shall all be proud of our little brother.  GOD give thee the pen of a ready writer, and grace to use it to His glory!”

“I will,” he said, “GOD help me! and I will write beautiful hymns for thee, Marie, that when I am dead shall be sung in the churches.  They shall be like that Evening Hymn we sing so often.  Sing it now, my sister!”

Marie cleared her throat, and in a low voice, that steadied and grew louder and sweeter till it filled the house and died away among the rafters, sang the beautiful hymn that begins—­

    “Herr, Dein Auge geht nicht unter, wenn es bei uns Abend wird;”
    (Lord!  Thine eye does not go down, when it is evening with us.)

The boy lay drinking it in with that full enjoyment of simple vocal music which is so innate in the German character; and as he lay, he hummed his accustomed part in it, and the mother at work below caught up the song involuntarily, and sang at her work; and Marie’s clear voice breaking through the wooden walls of the house, was heard by a passer in the street, who struck in with the bass of the familiar hymn, and went his way.  Before it was ended, Friedrich was sleeping peacefully once more.

But Marie sat by the stove till the watchman in the quaint old street told the hour of midnight, when (with the childish custom taught her by the old schoolmaster long ago) she folded her hands, and murmured,

    “Nisi Dominus urbem custodiat, frustra vigilat custos.” 
    (Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but
    in vain.)

And then she slept also.

The snow fell softly on the roof, and on the walls of the old church outside, and on the pavement of the street of the poet’s native town, and the night passed and the day came.

There is little more to tell, for that night was the last night of his sorrowful humble childhood, and that day was the first day of his fame.

* * * * *

The Duke of ——­ was an enlightened and generous man, and a munificent patron of the Arts and Sciences, and of literary and scientific men.  He was not exactly a genius, but he was highly accomplished.  He wrote a little, and played a little, and drew a little; and with fortune to befriend him, as a natural consequence he published a little, and composed a little, and framed his pictures.

But what was better and more remarkable than this, was the generous spirit in which he loved and admired those who did great things in the particular directions in which he did a little.  He bought good pictures while he painted bad ones; and those writers, musicians, and artists who could say but little for his performances, had every reason to talk loudly of his liberality.  He was the special admirer of talent born in obscurity;