In the chief town of the province a GREat festival was being celebrated. The light streamedforth from thousands of lamps， and the rockets shot upwards towards the sky， filling the airwith showers of colored fiery sparks. A record of this bright display will live in the memory ofman， for through it the pupil in the military school was in tears and sorrow. He had dared toattempt to reach foreign territories unnoticed， and must therefore give up fatherland，mother， his dearest friends， all， or sink down into the stream of common life. The oldchurch bell had still some comfort; it stood in the shelter of the church wall in Marbach， onceso elevated， now quite forgotten. The wind roared around it， and could have readily relatedthe story of its origin and of its sweet chimes， and the wind could also tell of him to whom hehad brought fresh air when， in the woods of a neighboring country， he had sunk downexhausted with fatigue， with no other worldly possessions than hope for the future， and awritten leaf from “Fiesco.” The wind could have told that his only protector was an artist，who， by reading each leaf to him， made it plain; and that they amused themselves byplaying at nine-pins together. The wind could also describe the pale fugitive， who， for weeksand months， lay in a wretched little road-side inn， where the landlord got drunk and raved，and where the merry-makers had it all their own way. And he， the pale fugitive， sang of theideal.
For many heavy days and dark nights the heart must suffer to enable it to endure trial andtemptation; yet， amidst it all， would the minstrel sing. Dark days and cold nights alsopassed over the old bell， and it noticed them not; but the bell in the man's heart felt it to bea gloomy time. What would become of this young man， and what would become of the oldbell?
the old bell was， after a time， carried away to a GREater distance than any one， even thewarder in the bell tower， ever imagined; and the bell in the breast of the young man washeard in countries where his feet had never wandered. The tones went forth over the wideocean to every part of the round world.
We will now follow the career of the old bell. It was， as we have said， carried far awayfrom Marbach and sold as old copper; then sent to Bavaria to be melted down in a furnace.And then what happened?
In the royal city of Bavaria， many years after the bell had been removed from the towerand melted down， some metal was required for a monument in honor of one of the mostcelebrated characters which a German people or a German land could produce. And now wesee how wonderfully things are ordered. Strange things sometimes happen in this world.
In Denmark， in one of those GREen islands where the foliage of the beech-woods rustlesin the wind， and where many Huns' graves may be seen， was another poor boy born. Hewore wooden shoes， and when his father worked in a ship-yard， the boy， wrapped up in anold worn-out shawl， carried his dinner to him every day. This poor child was now the pride ofhis country; for the sculptured marble， the work of his hands， had astonished the world.1To him was offered the honor of forming from the clay， a model of the figure of him whosename， “John Christopher Frederick，” had been written by his father in the Bible. The bust wascast in bronze， and part of the metal used for this purpose was the old church bell， whosetones had died away from the memory of those at home and elsewhere. The metal， glowingwith heat， flowed into the mould， and formed the head and bust of the statue which wasunveiled in the square in front of the old castle. The statue represented in living， breathingreality， the form of him who was born in poverty， the boy from Marbach， the pupil of themilitary school， the fugitive who struggled against poverty and oppression， from the outerworld; Germany's great and immortal poet， who sung of Switzerland's deliverer， WilliamTell， and of the heaven-inspired Maid of Orleans.
It was a beautiful sunny day; flags were waving from tower and roof in royal Stuttgart，and the church bells were ringing a joyous peal. One bell was silent; but it was illuminated bythe bright sunshine which streamed from the head and bust of the renowned figure， ofwhich it formed a part. On this day， just one hundred years had passed since the day onwhich the chiming of the old church bell at Marbach had filled the mother's heart with trust andjoy—the day on which her child was born in poverty， and in a humble home; the samewho， in after-years， became rich， became the noble woman-hearted poet， a blessing tothe world—the glorious， the sublime， the immortal bard， John Christoper FrederickSchiller!