IN the German land of Würtemberg，where the acacias bloom by the high road，and the apple trees and pear trees bend in autumn under their burden of ripe fruit，lies the little town of Marbach．Although this place can only be ranked among the smaller towns，it is charmingly situated on the Neckar stream，that flows on and on，hurrying past villages and old castles and green vineyards，to pour its waters into the proud Rhine．

It was late in autumn．The leaves still clung to the grape-vine，but they were already tinged，with red．Rain showers fell，and the cold wind increased．It was no pleasant time for poor folk．

The days became dark，and it was darker still in the little old-fashioned houses．One of these houses was built with its gable end towards the street，with low windows，humble and poor enough in appearance；the family was poor，too，that inhabited the little house，but good and industrious，and rich in piety，in the treasury of the heart．And they expected that God would soon give them another child：the hour had come，and the mother lay in pain and sorrow．Then from the church tower the deep rich sound of the bell came to her．It was a solemn hour，and the sound of the bell filled the heart of the praying woman with trustfulness and faith；the thought of her in-most heart soared upward towards the Almighty，and in the same hour she gave birth to a son．Then she was filled with a great joy，and the bell in the tower seemed to be ringing to spread the news of her happiness over town and country．The clear child-eyes looked at her and the infant's hair gleamed like gold．Thus was the little one ushered into the world with the ringing of the church bell on the dark November day．The mother and father kissed it，and wrote in their Bible：“ On the 10th of November，1759，God gave us a son；”and soon afterwards the fact was added that the child had been baptized under the name of“Johann Christoph Friedrich”．

And what became of the little fellow，the poor boy from the little town of Marbach？Ah，at that time no one knew what would become not even the old church bell that had sung at his birth，hanging so high in the tower，over him who was one day himself to sing the beautiful “Lay of the Bell”．

Well，the boy grew older，and the world grew older with him．His parents removed to another town，but they had left dear friends in little Marbach；and therefore it was that mother and son one day went there on a visit．The lad was only six years old，but he already knew many things out of the Bible，and many a pious psalm；and many an evening he had sat on his little stool，listening while his father read aloud from“ Gellert's Fables and the poem about the Messiah；and he and his sister，who was his semior by two years，had wept hot tears of pity for Him who died on the cross to redeem us all．

At the time of this first visit to Marbach the little town had not greatly changed；and indeed they had not long left it．The houses stood，as before，with their pointed gables，projecting walls，and low windows；but there were new graves in the churchyard；and there，in the grass，hard by the wall，lay the old bell．It had fallen from its position，and had received a crack and could ring no more，and accordingly a new bell had been put in its place．

Mother and son went into the churchyard．They stopped where the old bell lay，and the mother told the boy how for centuries this had been a very useful bell，and had rung at christenings，st weddings，and at burials；how it had spoken about feasts and rejoicings，and alarms of fire；and how it had，in fact，sung the Whole life of man．And the boy never forgot what his mother told him．It echoed in his heart，until，when he was grown a man，he was compelled to sing it．The mother told him also how the bell had rung of joy and comfort to her in the time of her peril，that it had rung and sung at the time when he，her little son，was born．And the boy gazed，almost with a feeling of devotion，at the great old bell；and he bent over it and kissed it，as it lay all rusty and broken among the long grass and nettles．

The old bell was held in remembrance by the boy，who grew up in poverty，tall and thin，with reddish hair and freckled face；—yes，that's how he looked；but he had a pair of eyes，clear and deep as the deepest water．And what fortune had he？Why，good fortune，enviable fortune．We find him graciously received into the military school，and even in the department where sons of people in society were taught，and that was honor and fortune．He went about with boots，a stiff collar，and a powdered wig，and they educated him to the words of command，“Halt！March！Front！”and on such a system much might be expected．

The old church bell would no doubt find its way into the melting furnace，and what would become of it then？It was impossible to say，and equally impossible to tell what would come from the bell within that young beart；but that bell was of bronze，and kept sounding so loud that it must at last be heard out in the wide world；and the more cramped the space within the school walls，and the more deafening the shout of“March！Halt！Front！”the louder did the sound ring through the youth's breast；and he sang it in the circle of his companions，and the sound was heard beyond the boundaries of the land．But it was not for this he had got his schooling，board，and clothing．Had he not been already numbered and destined to be a certain wheel in the great watchwork to Which we all be-long as pieces of practical machinery？How imperfectly do we understand ourselves！And how，then，shall others，even the best men，understand us？But it is the pressure that forms the precious stone．There was pressure enough here；but would the world be able，some day，to recognize the jewel？

In the capital of the prince of the country，a great festival was being celebrated．Thousands of lamps gleamed and rockets glittered．The splendor of that day yet lives throug him，who was trying in sorrow and tears to escape unperceived from the land：he was compelled to leave all—mother，native country，those he loved—for perish in the stream of commonplace things．

The old bell was well off；it stood sheltered beside the church-wall of Marbach．The wind whistled over it，and might have told about him at whose birth the bell had sounded，and over whom the wind had but now blown cold in the forest of a neighboring land，where he had sunk down，exhausted by fatigue，with his whole wealth，his only hope for the future，the written pages of his tragedy “Fiesco”：the wind might have told of the youth's only patrons，men who were artists，and who yet slunk away to amuse themselves at skittles While his play was being read：the wind could have told of the pale fugitive，who lived for weary weeks and months in the wretched tavern，where the host brawled and drank，and coarse merriment was going on while he sang of the ideal．Heavy days，dark days！The heart must suffer and endure for it-self the trials it is to sing．

Dark days and cold nights also passed over the old bell，It did not feel them，but the bell within the heart of man is affected by gloomy times．How fared it with the young man？How fared it with the old bell？The bell was carried far away，farther than its sound could have been heard from the lofty tower in which it had once hung．And the youth？The bell in his heart sounded farther than his eye should ever see or his foot should ever wander；it sounded and is sounding on，over the ocean，round the whole earth·But let us first speak of the belfry bell．It was carried away from Marbach，was sold for old metal，and destined for the melting furnace in Bavaria．But when and how did this happen？Well，the bell itself must tell about that，if it can；it is not a matter of great importance，but certain it is that it came to the capital of Bavaria；many years had passed since the bell had fallen from the tower，and now it was to be melted down，to be used in the manufacture of a memorial in honor of one of the great ones of the German people and land．And be-hold how suitable this was—how strangely and wonderful-ly things happen in the world！

In Denmark，on one of those green islands where the beech tree grows，and the many grave-mounds are to be seen，there was quite a poor boy．He had been accustomed to walk about in wooden shoes，and to carry a dinner wrapped in an old handkerchief to his father，who carved figure-heads on the shipbuilders’wharves；but this poor lad had become the pride of his country．He carved marble blocks into such glorious shapes as made the whole world wonder，and to him had been awarded the honor-able commission that he should fashion of clay a noble form that was to be cast in bronze—a statue of him whose name the father in Marbach had inscribed in the old Bible as Johann Christoph Friedrich．

And the glowing metal flowed into the mould．The old church bell—of whose home and of whose vanished sounds no one thought—the bell flowed into the mould，and formed the head and bust of the figure that was soon to be unveiled，which now stands in Stuttgart，before the old palace—a representation of him who once walked to and fro there，striving and suffering，harassed by the world without—he，the boy of Marbach，the pupil of the “Karlschule”，the fugitive，Germany's great immortal poet，who sang of the liberator of Switzerland and of the Heaven-inspired Maid of Orleans．

It was a beautiful sunny day；flags were waving from roofs and steeples in the royal city of Stuttgart；the bells rang for joy and festivity；one bell alone was silent，but it gleamed in another form in the bright sunshine—it gleamed from the head and breast of the statue of honor．On that clay，exactly one hundred years had elapsed since the clay on which the bell at Marbach had rung comfort and peace to the suffering mother，when she bore her son，in poverty，in the humble cottage—him who was afterwards to become the rich man，whose treasures enriched the world，the poet who sang of the noble virtues of woman，who sang of all that was great and glorious—Johann Christoph Friedrich Schiller．

古教堂的钟

——为席勒纪念册而作

在德国瓦尔登堡地方，槐树在大路旁�............