few centuries back, each was a representative of much illused power and of unlimited oppression, against which there was no appeal. Who overturned the fierce brigand-barons of the Rhine? What means did he use? What helpers seconded him? Arnold von Walboten, a citizen of Mentz, may ficly rank among great men. His work, like all works of transcendant excellence, was not the victory of an hour or of a day, but lived after him, multiplying to endless. good fruits, year by year. I cannot stop to tell you of the evil of feudalism, but you can already understand the cruel exactions and force that a baron-robber might exercise in his Rhenish stronghold, without check or retribution. Walboten was the first to suggest a plan, by which merchants and inoffensive travellers were freed from the heavy tolls, fines, and aggressions formerly exercised upon them. Fancy a Newcastle trader's coal-barge being stopped and mulcted of half its freight, on the way to Ipswich. But Walboten fairly seized the bull by the horns, when he laid before the emperor his plan of a Rhenish league or confederation of cities. Rudolph of Hapsburg seconded such energetic undertakings with a powerful arm, and between the two, castle after castle was dismantled, and commerce was liberated from unwarrantable imposts. Jews were no longer picked out of the crowd by dogs for the sake of their ducats, and pilgrims like ourselves could come and go in peace. Worthy fellow-citizen of Walboten, though born nearly two centuries after, was Johann Gansfleisch, known to us as Gutenberg, the discoverer of moveable types. But I need not write his panegyric; every book is a monument to his memory-every child's primer eulogizes him, as well as the most learned work of research. Like George Stephenson, he has immortalized himself in his work, and therefore can never be less of a hero. And now I come to the saddest, yet perhaps most profitable page in our chapter of Rhine heroes. Have my young readers ever given a thought to the numerous noble works that remain to us, whose authors and creators have passed utterly away from men's memorieswhose names are sealed books for ever and ever? Perhaps not; yet there are many such sealed books in the world's history. It is in human nature to think of harvest at seed-time. Boys and girls at school would hardly perhaps try so hard to obtain good marks, if it were not for the medal or certificate of honour at Christmas. All of us love to receive the reward and credit of our works. But it has been ordained by a Higher Power, that many sow well in springtime, and yet do not reap the harvest. To endeavour earnestly for excellence in the path chosen for us, or selected by inclination, is meritorious undoubtedly. To win honours and wear them with modesty, proclaims a mind capable of great things. But oh! young beating hearts, and young eager brows, "the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong;" and the courage that overcomes disappointment and failure, the perseverance that works its way through countless small hindrances and difficulties, the patience that can bear defeat at last-these show a mind capable of something better than greatness. How many brave men and women have done estimable, nay, heroic work, and have passed silently to forgotten graves, it is impossible to tell. "Who knows," says Sir Thomas Browne, "whether the best of men be known? or whether there be not more remarkable persons forgot, than any that stand remembered in the known account of time? The night of time far surpasseth the day, and who knows where was the equinox?" The Rhine traveller is constantly reminded of those unknown artists whom history does not name. Having once seen the Cathedral at Cologne-that marvellous building, which looks vaster for its wondrous delicacy of structure, and more beautiful and delicate for its vastness— can any one forget it? The architect's name is utterly lost to us. We know that Conrad of Hochsteden was the founder, that Master Gerhard is the first builder namedand we know no more. What matter? Could any mausoleum have told us so much as this great architect's work does? Could any learned inscription convey to us the loftiness of that mind, the largeness and tenderness of that heart, the gigantic strength of that intellect, as they are legibly written here to remain as long as the world shall stand? "Tis better so. The man's greatness has no blot on it: we know nothing of his enviers or of his errors; we love him and reverence him as we only love the best and finest natures. No living hero can elevate us more. When we kneel in the gorgeous temple that he designed for future generations, our prayers are as incense to his memory. At Heidelberg we meet with much splendid work done by unrecorded, though perfect artists. There are seen superb façades, rich mouldings, graceful columns, arabesque ornamentations, and life-like statuary of heroes and kingsall the thought of some inspired mind and the work of some delicate hands. "No one knows at the present time," says a French author, "the names of those sublime men who planned and sculptured the walls of Heidelberg. We find enough renown floating around this noble ruin to make ten great artists. The poets are already Shadows envelope all. dead; their poems in marble will follow them ere long. For whom have they worked-these grand men? Alas, for the wind that blows-for the grass that springs-for the ivy whose tracery resembles their handiwork -for the swallow that flits by-for the rain that descendsfor the night which falls on all." Not so, agreeable author, but sad dreamer. For the worshipful admiration of men in all ages-for the elevation and instruction of the youthful student, artist, or poet-for the good example and loving lesson of patient working to young and old-for the sweet teachings that come with anything beautiful, or lovely, or noble-most of all, for the everpresent eye of God,-did these unknown heroes, does every unknown hero, use the talent entrusted to him. Therefore it behoves us all to do our work well, whether we get honour and praise for it or not: seeing that honour of God and peace of conscience are dearer than anything the world can give. Oh! the sweetness and self-dependence and strength that we gain from a well-done work! Oh! the unspeakable comfort of thinking, "I have done my bestI have thrown heart and soul into my task-I have loved it, and it cannot now shame me." Boys and girls, are you tired of my chapter of heroes? Do you think me the dullest author that ever came in your way? Mille pardons. I promise to-morrow to lead you to "fresh fields and pastures new." PAPA LIGHTFOOT. SOUR-KRAUT, SAUSAGES, AND APPLE-WINE. AIR and fruitful is the little kingdom of Wirtemberg, with its patchwork fields of maize and primrose-coloured flax, of purple beetroot and luxurious green tobacco; of pale yellow Welsh corn and thrifty potato plants; with its orchards glowing purple, orange, crimson, and deep scarlet, in their teeming abundance of blooming plum, and pear, and pippin; with its mimic Alps, on whose heights shine tiny summer-houses, and whose skirts gleam with luscious purple grapes; with its bosky pine-groves and silver Neckar that Schiller loved; with its quaint wooden steeples, where the thoughtful stork rests on one leg, and contemplates affairs in general; with its flocks of geese, which have the sole right of the king's highways; with its rustic carts, and tinkling harness-bells, and sunburnt women who do the work of men, and do it with content; with its pretty coffee-gardens, where, in summer-time, people live all day long, and where you can get superb coffee for a penny the cup, and dine grandly for eighteen-pence: sausages, sour-kraut, and apple-wine never omitted from the bill of fare. Nor would I have them to be, for I love all three. Others may quiz these well-beloved nationalities of the jolly Suabians; I speak with frankness when I say that I appre |