Open your atlas, if you please, to the map of Central Europe. Let your blue eyes and your dimpled fore-finger travel in company across the red and yellow patches labelled Germany. Turn neither to right nor left; resist the importunate genii who would have you explore the solemn depth the Black Forest; leave untasted the wild grandeur of life on the Hartz Mountains; put resolutely behind you the magnificence of Munich, the fascinations of Vienna with its miracle of art-the great cathedral, or the no less miraculous gallery of art at Dresden; regard with contemptuous uos indifference the illustrious cities of Stuttgart, Weimar, Hanover, Berlin; over the Rhine with a single bound, straight across Prussia to that brilliant green spot on the south coast of the Baltic Sea, with the musical name Pomerania scrawled across it; directly through the busy streets of Stralsund, and on, to the sandy shore strewn with the cottages of seafarers, and other débris of the Baltic; one more leap, across the blue channel, and your feet press the soil-or rather wade through the snows-of my beautiful Island of Rugen.

Now, it is only necessary to imagine the wheels of time turned back a few notchessay thirty years;-to imagine yourself flying swiftly along the road to Gutskow, the end of your journey, snugly" tucked up" in pachter Tresko's commodious sleigh, in company with his two brawny sons, Frederich Schiller and Wolfgang Goethe by name. They are familiarly called Fritz and Wolf by the sturdy farmer, whose gentle and intellectual wife christened her twin boys after her twin idols, Germany's two greatest poets. You are nudged on every side by the countless mysterious packages which pachter Tresko brings from Stralsund and which are stowed everywhereunder, over, around and about you-bulging out the good pachter's pockets till he looks like a monstrous lump of Christmas excrescence, which rouses your curiosity

you on the back seat, and who is a tall, fair, scholarly-looking young man, with a white neck-cloth. Very blue are his luminous eyes, intensely white his high square forehead, whose severity is modified, or rather compensated for, by his extremely rosy lips. You fancy these are just about to wreathe themselves into a merry, sympathetic smile, but they do nothing of the sort, being a very earnest and sedate pair of lips indeed, not quite in keeping with that Cupid's-hiding-place, a deep and indelible dimple in his chin. He reminds you irresistibly of the figure of the beloved disciple in the big cathedral window at Berlin, with the morning sun shining through it, and glorifying the crowd of kneeling worshippers with aureolas of purple, amethyst and gold. And you at once call him Saint John's double, in your heart, and will call him nothing else until the end of time, no matter how positively I may assert that he is only plain Oswald Streicher, with no saint in the family on either side, for many generations !

Since you are pleased to like my Oswald Streicher so much, I don't mind telling you at once, that he is a young Lutheran clergyman, in his first pastorate, living in Berlin and affecting all strangers who see him for the first time with the same astonishment, so that they go to the big cathedral afterward, fully persuaded that their beloved disciple has walked off and taken the sunshine with him. I don't mind whispering in your ear, as a profound secret, that my immaculate young clergyman has come down from Berlin to spend Christmas with his dear friend, Pastor Holzel of Gutskow, whom,by the way, he has never seen, and whose very name was last week a thing to him unknown! Whatever my Oswald Streicher may gain or lose in your estimation, I can't help revealing to you that he has in charge a mysterious iron-bound cask, or rather hogshead, of immense proportions, containing something more precious to him than silver and gold, emeralds, rubies, pearls, or any

other precious jewels of the material sort; that if you could manage to tear off the canvas bag which envelopes the top of that mysterious hogshead, as it lurches to right and left behind you, giving you many a black-and-blue spot about the shoulders, you would see these words painted in enormous red letters: "Yule-Clap; for Miss Bertha Von Bülow, Gutskow, Island of Rugen."

Now who Miss Bertha Von Bülow may be; what she is like or unlike; how she will receive my Streicher and his incomprehensible barrel of treasure, or if she will receive them at all, he knows no more than you do; for he has never seen her in his life! What his feelings are, therefore, as he glides on toward Gutskow, I leave you to realize, when in your turn, you shall be a susceptible man of thirty-five, and shall travel day and night, many hundred miles, to bear a perhaps unwelcome Christmas gift to a maiden, aknowledged to possess unapproachable charms, both of person and property, a maiden whose admirers are legion, and whose unvarying response to that legion has been decidedly "no!"

If you are made ore comfortable by reflections on your own poverty of charms, both physical and pecuniary, by reiterating the fact that you are pledged to a life of Christian sobriety, while she is of the world, worldly; adding, as a climax, that your very name must necessarily remind the beautiful lady of the only disagreeable thing, the only mortification, the only grief of her fair young life-if, I say, these remembrances should diminish the uncomfortable thumping of your heart, and relieve your body of a general sensation of shiver, why, then you are somewhat different from my big cathedral-window's-central-figure's-double, with the morning sun shining through it, that's all !

Well! a pretty wild-goose chase for a sober young minister like my double of Saint John, you say. He ought to be thoroughly thumped, externally as well as internally, for so far forgetting the dignity of his profession as to go running about the country in this manner, carrying gewgaws in a barrel, to every pretty girl he can hear of! Shame on you, Saint John! Better

go back to your little pastorate in Berlin, pay your sensible addresses to some one of the fifty worthy young ladies of your congregation, any one of whom would be only too happy to marry you, and would, in the long run, make you a better wife than fifty Bertha Von Bülow's!

All very true, my dear; but as I didn't make my Oswald Streicher, neither can I unmake him, to please you, and since he must remain just as he is, why-on to Gutskow.

How merrily the bells ring out, this bright winter afternoon! What riotous shouts burst from the throats of those youngsters Fritz and Wolf, both of whom bid fair to be anything but poets; whose brawny shoulders seem more fit to carry hods than to wear the not yet fallen mantle of their illustrious namesakes! What inimitable good humor shines from pachter Tresko's rubicund face, as, amid the buisterous sallies and laughter of the boys, he pictures the details of the holy festival, as held in Rugen, in which all these mysterious parcels are destined to play so important a part!

Unsolicited, except by the eager interest betrayed by those luminous eyes, and unrewarded by that merry, sympathetic smile which is forever promising to come, yet comes not, the garrulous pachter, who likes nothing so well as to talk of himself, makes my Oswald, who likes nothing better than such a glimpse into the most secret places of any human soul, fully acquainted with every event of his uneventful life. There was his first meeting with Yetchen, pretty Yetchen from the parsonage, who knew more about books, pictures, music, art, and nature than all the rest of Rugen. This may be no great thing to claim of her abilities, you tink, as most of the Rugenians are ignorant and simple folk. She was, withal, as modest and sweet as a mountain daisy, and as gentle and tender as summer moonlight on Hertha Lake. Yetchen seemed to the rough, rude farmer-boy an angel escaped from paradise, and looking for the homeward path, when he found her wandering alone in the beech-forest of Hertha, where she had ventured too far, in search of botanical specimens.

The

human "specimen" led her safely home, and left his honest heart at her door. There is true eloquence in his eyes and voice, when he tells how determinedly he tried for months and months to keep down, and crush out this presumptuous passion; how he finally gained courage and hope from Yetchen's manner, and went earnestly to work to win and be worthy of her; how good Pastor Holzel had thrice refused his daughter to the burly farmer, and yielded only when he found how closely the tendrils of her heart clung to that rugged support; how, triumphant, he had married her, and how happy they had been forever after."

"But there's Max, the fool! he hasn't a particle of his father's pluck, not he! He is the 'love child' you know, the first boy, and just like his mother, more's the pity! What does he do but wilt at the first touch of frost! Well, poor boy, he deserved a better fate, even at the hands of pretty Bertha Von Bülow! He was good enough for such as she, any day, I can tell you, Master Parson, with his learnin'; though he is the son of a rude chap like me! Ah, well! poor man! Poor sensitive fool! If I only knew what had become of my dear boy, I could be merry as the rest of you to-night; as it is—"

As it is, the eloquent sparkle is gone, the rubicund face has lost its good-natured glow, and become as gloomy as Hertha's black waves. The riotous mirth of the brawny boys died at the first mention of their brother, and now they looked anxiously into their father's face, then uneasily on either side, as if half afraid that the unhappy ghost of sensitive Max should start suddelny out of the forest depths. After this, they ride in mournful silence, broken only by the soughing of the solemn pine trees, the wailing of the weary wind, which knows no more whence it comes or whether it goes, than a myriad of human souls this Christmas eve. No voice is heard save that of an unhappy brook, separated from its companion some distance yonder in the dim forest, and whose future course lies over jagged rocks, fallen trees, and decaying leaves.

Nature herself, as if she sympathized

fully with the bereaved pachter, grows dreamy and chill. The blue sky loses its sunlight, turns grey, leaden and lowery. Low-spirited clouds draggle along the pinetops, leaving shreds of their snowy skirts here and there. The wind wails louder along the valley; and, as if determined not to be alone in its misery, siezes the unresisting clouds in its rough embrace, dances a most fantastic death-figure in the air, and drops them remorselessly in their graves.

Strange that all these sights and sounds, calculated rather to depress than enliven a spectator, should have the startling effect of bringing that smile to the surface, now all merry from one end of Cupid's bow to the other, and not a bit sympathetic! Strange, that all the sunlight which has gone out of the sky, seems unaccountably to have got behind the Double, making him so very brilliant, so absolutely dazzling, that an imaginative person would be disappointed not to see the snow banks on either side the road grow rosy with his reflection! Strange, that as they whirl suddenly into the village, past a great stone house, standing haughtily by itself in a park; as a girl's white face appears suddenly at an upper window of that aristocratic edifice, pressed so eagerly against the pane that nose, cheeks, forehead, and chin are flattened into a ludricous deadlevel; as pachter Tresko, catching a glimps of the distorted face, says sullenly: "Umph! That's her! Hope you'll come out of this evening's fun safe and sound, with nothing to regret! My boy Max must have been a fool !"

Strange, I say, and you'll agree with me that no man of Oswald Streicher's cloth should at that moment behave in a way calculated to impress every beholder, if there were any, which there is not, of his utter heartlessness, his complete hoypocrisy, almost of his insanity! Why, the man seems to have lost his head, or mistaken the hogshead for that important part of his organism; for he clasps his hands upon it, runs his fingers through its hair, figuratively speaking, almost shouting in his excitement,

"There, old boy! didn't I tell you so?

She's watching for us! she sees us! she's looking from the window at this very moment! keep up your courage! we shall certainly win the prize!"

As if that stupid old barrel, no matter how precious its contents, could understands his word, partake of his hope, share his excitement, or do anything but knock about the sleigh, banging everybody's shoulders and crushing everybody's toes! You and I are not the only persons astonished at this wild and incomprehensible conduct. Pachter Tresko and his twins are gazing in open-mouthed amazement at the young minister, who, suddenly made aware of their scrutiny, drops back in his seat, and becomes a fac-simile of the central figure at twilight. He has lost caste with the good farmer evidently, for without another word, he and his mysterious luggage are dropped at Pastor Holzel's with a parting look, expressing at once pleasure to be rid of so eccentric a person, and regret at troubling the nervous and excitable pastor with company,-not to speak of a suspicious after-glance, which rightly interpreted, meant-" Take care of your spoons."

Wonder overwhelms us utterly, however, when Pastor Holzel opens the parsonage door, rushes into Oswalds arms, crying, "Is it really thou, then?" (to a man of whose existence he did not even dream yesternight!) and, not content with that, embraces the hogshead also in his excitement, and even tries to lift it in his arms and carry it into the house! Indeed, he does carry his half of the treasure, the Double taking the other end!

And now they are inside, and the door is shut; and you and I must needs go elsewhere to find refreshment and amusement; for there is but one sitting-room at the parsonage, and Madame Holzel is a delicate little lady, with a week-old baby in her arms, and the sight of one stranger, so reverend as the Double, sets her a-tremble like a poplar leaf in autumn.

even

You must know that on my island of Rugen it is Christmas eve, and not Christmas day, which is celebrated as the festival. On this night, one or another of the

great folk of the village make a feast, to which are bidden not only the dear and intimate friends of the family, but also "the poor, the maimed, the lame, and the blind" in accordance with his command, whose birth the eve commemorates. There is displayed the wonderful Christmas tree, with its myriad waxen tapers, and its costly fruit, those gifts of loving hearts which are emblems of the great gift of God to his little earth-children.

To-night, Herr Von Bülow gives the feast. All day, and for many days, packages little and big, round, square, conical and shapeless, wrapped in white, drab, or brown papers, tied with all sorts of curious colors, and addressed in all sorts of quaint handwriting, to all sorts of unmanageable names, have been pouring in at the little side door over yonder, where you see the poplar lifting its slender finger as if to warn the inqusitive to silence. For many days, the two immense parlors have been closed, the curtains drawn, and admittance denied to every one but Frau Von Bülow, aunt Hulda and one or two trusty servants. Wherever those doors were opened ever so little, to admit a new consignment of bundles, a crowd of eager little faces have pressed forward to catch never so brief a glimpse of the glories within; until at this twilight hour, the children are in a state of speculative excitement, little short of mad

ness.

Now while the simple villagers are exchanging their gowns and jerkins, for their Sunday suits, in honor of the great event; while the children are undergoing a severe ordeal of scrubbing and combing, while Herr Von Bülow smokes his pipe and dozes comfortably in the dim library, and Frau Von Bülow takes a nap to keep her fresh for the evening; while Aunt Hulda, bless her good, kind soul, peeps into every corner with her pretty blue eyes, and gives, a finishing touch to every adornment with her pretty, soft fingers; while everybody else is absorbed in his or her own affairs, let us take a peep at Bertha, the wonderful Bertha, who has power to transform a sedate young minister into-what we have

seen.

However, to be looked at, she must

first be found, which is no easy feat to accomplish in this great house. After wandering through a dozen apartments none of which contain internal evidence of belonging to her, we stumbled at last into a fivecornerned affair, which is quite the gayest thing to look at this side of Paris. If a man's back fence, and a woman's boudoir, are the truest exponents of their inner characters, then Miss Bertha is a charmingly independent and unconventional piece of womanhood. Regardless of all rules for harmony or contrast in color, she has carpeted her room with crimson, curtained it with violet, furnished it with orange, and hung upon the walls opposite her pinkcanopied, old-fashioned oak bedstead, a glaring picture of Joseph and his brethren, the gorgeous coat of many colors," on account of which the painting was chosen, no doubt, completing the gamut of rainbow hues. Every thing glares with the intensity of a summer noon. We begin to feel flushed in the face, and instinctively take out our handkerchiefs to wipe away the imaginary perspiration from our brows.

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This young lady's contempt for conventionality, or the eternal fitness of things, crops out in every thing she touches. For instance, this beautiful marble Silence at the door has a scarlet ribbon round her neck, on which is at present suspended a stringed instrument resembling a guitar! Cupid, poised so gracefully above the dressing-table, taking deliberate aim at our virgin's heart, has had his golden quiver ignominiously turned into a receptacle for hair-pins, while from his diamond-tipped arrows flutters many a gay ribbon, whose happy mission it is to tie up her curls. Worse still is the fate of the beautiful ebony cross in the niche between the windows, where Bertha is supposed to say her prayers at morn and eve. What would poor Oswald say, to see that new bonnet flaunting its feathers on the top of that sacred emblem of suffering, its extended arms holding out half a dozen party-dresses of as many different colors, from which Miss Bertha intends, no doubt, to make a selection for the evening! On the little table is her prayer-book, open at the right place, to be sure, but lying upon it is a

a young man's picture, and a lock of hair lying upon that! What would you say now, as to your prospects of winning the prize, even with the stupid old hogshead to back you, Master Double?

From all these indications, we conclude that Miss Bertha Von Bülow is not a little bizarre; that she has still a vast deal of the natural man, or woman, in her, which education, culture, and aristocratic society, have so far failed to eradicate; that she is still as wild and free and uncontrollable as the bright-eyed, swift-footed, creatures which inhabit the depth of Hertha forest, and that her love will be as free as theirs, from conventional restrictions. Indeed, if her love has not already lighted on some peasant lad, whose face is reposing yonder on the leaves of the prayer-book and who is wholly to blame for her indifference to the legion of wealthy and high-born lovers aforesaid, then you and I will be greatly disappointed.

Quite a different person is the occupant of this adjoining room. What a delicious air of repose, refinement, spirituality! I agree with you. One hardly dares profane it with pen and ink, and one hardly knows where to begin, so gracefully and gradually do all its forms and colors blend and harmonize, nothing loud or prononcé about it, nothing which portrays an unbalanced mind, or untrained affections. The soft grey of the carpet is relieved by a pretty pattern of blue forget-me-nots with their glowing faces halt hidden from the vulgar gaze; the soft grey walls are hung with bits of serene landscapes, in which calm blue skies, illimitable mountains, and unfathomable lakes are noticeably prominent. In this niche, before which we feel assured an earnest worshipper kneels devoutly many times a day, stands the adored Mary, clasping in her arms the Divine Child, while above their heads one silver star is gleaming, symbol of that light which led the shepherds to his feet. About them floats a filmy white curtain, enveloping them like moonlit mist. Here is the well-worn Bible and the little book of "Perennial Blossoms" which contains a lesson for every day of the rolling year. No need of lover's locks, or miniatures; this life is like