OUR YOUNG BARONESS.*

BY JOSEPH HENRY.

Twenty-five years ago, we had a German schoolmaster at Ferndale, whom you shall know by the name of Adolph Ronden. I was but a little shaver then, but I remember, as distinctly as though it were but yesterday, when he first taught me to scrawl lines and pot-hooks.

A large head and fiery beard gave him, at first sight, an almost savage appearance; but when you looked again, his mild blue eye removed the first impression, and told a tale of tenderness and sadness.

The old school-house where he taught, is indelibly pictured on my memory. It stood in a queer, winding, little valley, where three hills. met. Near by, a flashing streamlet ran hither and thither through a narrow bit of meadow, until it was lost among the hazel bushes.

The house itself seemed ready to topple down with the weight of its own beams and rafters. It was built of logs, and had little windows with tiny panes of glass. Long desks and high benches were ranged along the walls; and opposite the door stood the master's desk, with a clumsy stool behind it.

In this desk, were stowed away the instruments of punishment which, in our days, had become obsolete. There were the wooden ass-head, and a pair of hideous leathern spectacles, which former masters had compelled disobedient boys to wear. In the absence of the master, we would often steal up, on tip-toe, and peer into the recesses of the desk,—with feelings of horror, akin to those of the traveller in foreign lands, who beholds for the first time the fearful relics of medieval torture.

In the centre of the school-room, there was, moreover, a long, rectangular wood stove, with many floral ornaments, and an inscription informing the beholder, that it was cast at the MARY ANN FURNACE-a piece of information for which he was no doubt profoundly grateful.

In this dreary den, Adolph Ronden toiled day by day, during a long and fierce winter, utterly unappreciated by his uncouth horde of rustic scholars.

Not far distant, by the hill-side, was the humble cottage which he called his home. There-it was understood-dwelt Mrs. Ronden, who was, however, but rarely seen by her husband's pupils. Those who had met her, described her as being tall and dark, with long ringlets on each side of a thin stern face.

She had, withal, an indescribable air of majesty, which left an undefined

The following sketch is founded on facts, with all the details of which the writer is personally familiar.

impression, that she was a distinguished lady, who had greatly condescended in marrying so plain an individual as Mr. Ronden. It was, indeed, with infinite condescension, that she occasionally took from its cradle her puny infant, whose monotonous wail might be heard from morning till night, and for all I know-from night till morning.

Had it not been for little Agnes, the house would have been as gloomy as a prison, but she was-a ray of sunlight. A lovely fairy of five sunmers-flaxen-haired and azure-eyed-she was the perfect ideal of a little German beauty. When it pleased her to come to school-which was not very often-she generally sat by her father's side, and it required no prophet's wisdom to discover, that all his hopes were centered in his beautiful child.

There was a little boy among the scholars, to whom Mr. Ronden had become especially attached. He was very young-hardly as old as Agnes --and his teacher seems to have feared, that he might be injured in the rude sports of the older boys. At all events, he often took the little fellow home with him at noon-time, and then the two children enjoyed a glorious romp. Mr. Ronden's face would light up, as it never did on other occasions, when he saw the little ones rolling on the floor in the abandon of their childish glee, but his wife's brow grew darker still, and she often brought the fun to an untimely end, by her indignant veto.

It could not be denied, that our German teacher endeavored to do his duty, and the people were measurably well pleased with him. He taught the children to sing and pray, and this went a great way towards securing the good opinion of the old folks. But he had, nevertheless, a hard road to travel. Though his family spoke English only, he had never been able to acquire the language, and could not remain ignorant of the fact, that the boys mimicked his pronunciation as soon as his back was turned. Moreover, it has always been a hard task for a country school master, with a family, to keep the wolf from the door.

Ronden battled with fortune manfully for a while, but at last his courage failed. He became listless and absent-minded-attending to his duties mechanically and wandering about, between school-hours, without an apparent purpose. Then came undeniable symptoms of aberration of mind; and he was compelled to resign his school, to the great satisfaction of some unfeeling pupils, but to the untold sorrow of those who had learned to love him.

About this time, it began to be whispered about-by what means I know not that we had been entirely deceived by appearances: that the unpretending Mr. Ronden was a scion of a noble German house; while his wife, notwithstanding all her dignity, was a poor girl whom he had married in the city where they last resided. The self-constituted detectives of the neighborhood soon made themselves familiar with the main facts in his history. "He was the younger son of a nobleman "-they said, "and, at his urgent request, his father had permitted him to seek his fortune in America. Twice he had received from home the means to establish himself in business, but as often his enterprise had failed, and he had become bankrupt. Then-half in love and half in spite-he had married the daughter of the lady with whom he boarded" it was hinted— "as the easiest way of paying a bill that had assumed fearful proportions. Knowing the pride of his family, he had refused to inform them of the

measlliance which he had contracted, and preferred that they should remain ignorant of his existence."

After a long struggle with poverty, he had been forced to succumb at last, and now all his friends advised him to inform his parents of his unfortunate condition. He had, however, nursed his morbid pride until it had become his ruling passion, and no importunities could induce him to accede, in this respect, to the wishes of those who loved him best. With the characteristic caution of incipient insanity, he refused to reveal his birth-place even to his wife.

Under these circumstances, it was manifestly impossible to afford the Ronden family any permanent relief. Their wants soon compelled them to sell their household goods at public auction. There were sold, together with some inferior furniture, many relics of better days--bits of faded finery and costly articles of quaint and curious workmanship, which Mr. Ronden had brought with him from the fatherland. The good countrypeop'e bought these things, out of sympathy for the family, though in many cases, they hardly knew what to do with them.

While all this was going on, Mr. Ronden seemed to be in a dream,— fumbling with his hands, and answering only in monosyllables; while little Agnes followed him everywhere, weeping bitterly. His wife looked sad, but was calm and dignified as usual; while the baby, who was much fondled by the neighbor women, for once ceased its wailing, and crowed as though the present were the happiest moment of its brief existence. Early next morning, the lumbering, old stage-coach bore the Rondens away to the city, and for a month or two we heard no more about them. Then, the pastor of the church they had formerly attended received a letter that was sealed with black.

It told a sad story. On their arrival in the city, they had taken lodgings with Mrs. Ronden's mother, who was, however, herself almost in destitute circumstances. In a few days, it became evident, that Mr. Ronden was hopelessly insane, and it was found necessary to remove him to an asylum. In his paroxysms he spoke German only, addressing himself, in courtly phrases to imaginary lords and ladies; but in lucid intervals, he often recognized his wife and children, and calmly referred to his approaching end. Once he said to his favorite child: "Agnes! you will be a great lady some day-do not then forget your poor crazy father!

His strength was now rapidly declining, and in about a week his spirit quietly passed away. When his remains had been respectably interred, the widow poured out her heart to her former pastor. It was evident from her letter, that she had loved her husband more intensely than we had ever imagined. "You cannot know," she said, "how much I loved my Adolph! I thought I had steeled my heart to meet all the troubles of life, but for this great affliction I was utterly unprepared. You used to say, 'The dead have but gone on a journey.'-I wish I could realize the thought!-I wish my faith were stronger!--Do you think that his spirit is around me? That he, in Heaven. knows how much I mourn for him? May God comfort me, and prepare me for the blessed hour when I shall once more meet my beloved Adolph!"

Several months had passed before the minister again received a letter with reference to the affairs of the Ronden family. This one was written in a cramped, legal hand, and enclosed in an envelop of gigantic propor

tions. Though brief and formal, it contained remarkable revelations. After Mr. Ronden's death, a card had been found among his papers, containing the address of his father, the Baron von Ronden. A communication forwarded to this address, had elicited the information, that the Baron and Baroness von Ronden were both dead; and that their eldest son, the heir to their estates and title, had also lately died, without issue. The children of their second son, Adolph, were therefore the legal heirs of an immense fortune; and Mr. Sharp, as Mrs. Ronden's solicitor, now took the liberty of enclosing certain papers, which must be properly signed, in order to enable these children to obtain their rightful inherit

ance.

Whew! What a pile of documents he had sent! Documents in German, that had borne the smell of tobacco across the ocean. Documents in English, that seemed, to our unsophisticated minds, to treat of everything under the sun but the matter at issue. Certificates of baptism, to be signed by the clergyman and sponsors, and attested by innumerable officials, from the neighboring Justice of the Peace to the Secretary of State at Washington. It seemed, moreover, as though everybody in the neighborhood were expected to sign something, for the purpose of proving, however remotely, the legitimacy of the children of Adolph Ronden.

It was long before the matter was fully settled; but at last a righteous decision could be no longer withheld. Then, one fine Spring morning, Mrs. Ronden and her little ones set sail for Bremen. It was, however, a sad voyage. Her youngest child had never been healthy, and. before they reached the other side, she breathed her last, and her body found a resting place beneath the waves. Then her mother was indeed home sick. How gladly would she have again accepted poverty, with all its attendant misery, if she could but have been in America again, with her infant, living, in her arms.

now,

But the proud ship sailed on, and bore her and little Agnes-who was indeed, the Baroness von Ronden-to their destined port. There, their steward was awaiting them, and in his company they visited the immense estates, which were now the undivided property of Our Young Baroness.

I cannot describe the castle which was, henceforth, the home of Agnes; for I have never seen it, and I do not like to take descriptions at secondhand. But Mrs. Ronden remarked shortly afterwards, in a letter to America: "We are now living in my daughter's Lustschloss of Rondenshöhe. It is a fine, old mansion, containing sixty rooms, of which nearly one half are bed-chambers."

How Mrs. Ronden's acquaintances opened their eyes wide with astonishment, when this letter was read in their hearing!

When Agnes Ronden again crossed the ocean, in company with her mother, and visited the home of her childhood, she had grown to be a magnificent woman. I do not think she liked the place as well as she had anticipated, and I am sure she did not make a very favorable impression on the people. They said, she had grown more haughty than her mother; that she had even seemed displeased when her god-mother kissed her, and called her, her little Agnes.

It was to this old lady, that Mrs. Ronden one day remarked, that her daughter was soon to be betrothed to Baron Carl von Rosen, Lord of

Dornstein, Knight of the Red Eagle and of the Swedish order of the Northern Star. "Well! Well!" responded the old lady, dubiously, "It isn't surprising that Agnes should have many beaux; but I did not know, that girls in Germany were betrothed to more than one man at a time." The young Baroness found it difficult to communicate with her old school-mates. "I do not like your Pennsylvanian German," she said to a young physician. "Do you speak French?" "Very little!" was his reply. "Ah! In that case, it is better not to attempt it at all.-Let us speak English." "I beg pardon, madame," he answered quickly, "your English is so imperfect, that it would be better to dispense with conversation altogether."

In a few days, Mrs. Ronden returned, with her daughter, to the city of her nativity, where they remained a short time before they returned to Europe. Her title made the Baroness a welcome guest in many stately mansions. In company with a number of her gay young friends, she one day visited a beautiful cemetery near the city-Myrtle Mount, I think they call it. She soon stole away from her companions, who sought her for a long time, and at last found her, kneeling and in tears, beside a humble tomb-stone. They silently withdrew, feeling that the proud Baroness had still a loving, human heart.

She had not forgotten her poor father; for, on the tomb-stone, her friends saw a single word, and that word was-RONDEN.

TWO LITTLE PAIRS OF BOOTS.

Two little pairs of boots to-night
Before the fire are drying;

Two little pairs of tired feet
In trundle-bed are lying;

The track they leave upon the floor
Makes me feel much like sighing.

These little boots with copper toes,
They run the livelong day,
And oftentimes I almost wish
That they were miles away;
So tired I am to hear so oft
Their heavy tramp at play.

They walk about the new-ploughed ground
Where mud in plenty lies;

They roll it up in marbles round,

And bake it into pies;

And then at night upon the floor

In every shape it dries.

To-day I was disposed to scold;
But when I look to-night

At those small boots before the fire,