{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_35948/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_35948","id":"gutenberg_35948","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35948","summary":null,"tags":["Category: German Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Travel Writing","German literature -- Translations into English"],"text":"</pre>\n\n\n\nProduced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by Google Books.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nGoogle Books:\nhttp://books.google.com/books?id=3muLoyVE2ecC&source=gbs_navlinks_s\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                          RICHTER'S WRITINGS.\n\n\nTITAN. A Romance. 2 vols. 16mo. $3.00.\n\nFLOWER, FRUIT, AND THORN PIECES. 2 vols. 16mo. $2.75.\n\nLEVANA; Or, The Doctrine of Education. 1 vol. 16mo. $1.50.\n\nTHE CAMPANER THAL, and Other Writings. 1 vol. 16mo. $1.50.\n\nHESPERUS. 2 vols. 16mo. _Preparing_.\n\n       _The above volumes are printed in uniform size and style_.\n\n\n                               IN PRESS.\n\nLIFE OF JEAN PAUL. By Eliza Buckminster Lee. New Edition, Revised. 1\nvolume.\n\n\n                    TICKNOR AND FIELDS, Publishers.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                                  THE\n\n\n                             CAMPANER THAL,\n\n\n                                  AND\n\n\n                            OTHER WRITINGS.\n\n\n\n                          _From the German of_\n\n                      JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RICHTER.\n\n\n\n\n\n                                BOSTON:\n                          TICKNOR AND FIELDS.\n                                 1864.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                            University Press:\n                      Welch, Bigelow, and Company,\n                               Cambridge.\n\n\n\n\n\n                               CONTENTS.\n\n\n                          _THE CAMPANER THAL_.\n\nIntroduction.\n\n\n                             501st STATION.\n\nThe Diversities of Life.--The Dirge as Billet-Doux.--The Cavern.--The\nSurprise.\n\n\n                             502d STATION.\n\nThe Thundering Morning.--The Short Trip after the Long One.--The\nSofa-Cushions.\n\n\n                             503d STATION.\n\nLampoon on the Chaplain.--Praise of Him.--The Diamond.--Opinions\nagainst Immortality.--Eden Jokes.\n\n\n                             504th STATION.\n\nFlower Toying.\n\n\n                             505th STATION.\n\nThe Ephemera.--Relative Conclusions.--Doubts of the Length of the Chain\nof Living Beings.--The Wart-Eaters.--The Cure.\n\n\n                             506th STATION.\n\nObjections to Immortality.--The Second Childhood of the Outer and Inner\nMan.\n\n\n                             507th STATION.\n\nThe Theft of the Souvenir.--Answers to previous Stations.--On the\nEmigration of the Dead to the Planets.--The Threefold World in\nMan.--Grief without Hope.--The Seal of Immortality.--The\nCountry-Seat.--The Balloons.--Ecstasy.\n\n\n\n\n                        LIFE OF QUINTUS FIXLEIN.\n\n\nLetter to my Friends, instead of Preface.\n\n\n                           FIRST LETTER-BOX.\n\nDog-Day's' Vacation.--Visits.--An Indigent of Quality.\n\n\n                           SECOND LETTER-BOX.\n\nFrau von Aufhammer.--Childhood-Resonance.--Authorcraft.\n\n\n                           THIRD LETTER-BOX.\n\nChristmas Recollections.--New Occurrence.\n\n\n                           FOURTH LETTER BOX.\n\nOffice-Brokage.--Discovery of the promised Secret.--Hans von Fuechslein.\n\n\n                           FIFTH LETTER-BOX.\n\nCantata-Sunday.--Two Testaments.--Pontac; Blood; Love.\n\n\n                           SIXTH LETTER-BOX.\n\nOffice-Impost.--One of the most important of Petitions.\n\n\n                          SEVENTH LETTER-BOX.\n\nSermon.--School Exhibition.--Splendid Mistake.\n\n\n                           EIGHTH LETTER-BOX.\n\nInstalment in the Parsonage.\n\n\n                           NINTH LETTER-BOX.\n\nOr to the Marriage.\n\n\n                           TENTH LETTER BOX.\n\nSt. Thomas's-Day and Birthday.\n\n\n                          ELEVENTH LETTER BOX.\n\nSpring; Investiture; and Childbirth.\n\n\n                          TWELFTH LETTER-BOX.\n\nSteeple-Ball Ascension.--The Toy-Press.\n\n\n                         THIRTEENTH LETTER BOX.\n\nChristening.\n\n\n                         FOURTEENTH LETTER-BOX.\n\n                             CHAPTER LAST.\n\n\n\n\n                    _SCHMELZLE'S JOURNEY TO FLAeTZ_.\n\n\nPreface.\n\nCircular Letter of the proposed Catechetical Professor Attila Schmelzel\nto his Friends; containing some Account of a Holidays' Journey to\nFlaetz, with an Introduction, touching his Flight, and his Courage as\nformer Army-Chaplain.\n\nJourney to Flaetz.\n\nFirst Stage; from Neusattel to Vierstaedten.\n\nSecond Stage; from Vierstaedten to Niederschoena.\n\nThird Stage; from Niederschoena to Flaetz.\n\nFirst Day in Flaetz.\n\nFirst Night in Flaetz.\n\nSecond Day in Flaetz.\n\n\n\n\n                        _ANALECTS FROM RICHTER_.\n\n\nThe Happy Life of a Parish Priest in Sweden.\n\nDream upon the Universe.\n\nComplaint of the Bird in a darkened Cage.\n\nOn the Death of Young Children.\n\nThe prophetic Dew-Drops.\n\nOn Death.\n\nImagination untamed by the coarser Realities of Life.\n\nSatirical Notice of Reviewers.\n\nFemale Tongues.\n\nForgiveness.\n\nThe Grandeur of Man in his Littleness.\n\nNight.\n\nThe Stars.\n\nMartyrdom.\n\nThe Quarrels of Friends.\n\nDreaming.\n\nTwo Divisions of Philosophic Minds.\n\nDignity of Man in Self-Sacrifice.\n\nFancy.\n\n\n\n\n                        _MISCELLANEOUS PIECES_.\n\n\nReminiscences of the best Hours of Life for the Hour of Death.\n\nThe New-Year's Night of an Unhappy Man.\n\nThe Death of an Angel.\n\nA Dream and the Truth.\n\nThe Beauty of Death in the Bloom of Youth.\n\n\n\n\n\n                                  THE\n\n                             CAMPANER THAL;\n\n                                  OR,\n\n               DISCOURSES ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.\n\n                     TRANSLATED BY JULIETTE BAUER.\n\n\n\n\n\n\"Report also, we regret to say, is all that we know of the _Campaner\nThal_, one of Richter's beloved topics, or rather the life of his whole\nphilosophy, glimpses of which look forth on us from almost every one of\nhis writings. He died while engaged, under recent and almost total\nblindness, in enlarging and remodelling this _Campaner Thal_. The\nunfinished manuscript was borne upon his coffin to the burial vault;\nand Klopstock's hymn, _Auferstehen wirst du!_ 'Thou shalt arise, my\nsoul!' can seldom have been sung with more appropriate application than\nover the grave of Jean Paul.\"--From _Carlyle's Miscellanies_.\n\n\n\n\n                             INTRODUCTION.\n\n\nIn my distilling processes, I frequently precipitated the phlegma\nof our earthball--its polar deserts, its Russian forests, its\nicebergs--and from the sediments extracted a beautiful by-earth, a\nsmall satellite. If we extract and regulate the charms of this old\nworld, we can form a delightful though minutely condensed world.\n\nFor the caves of this miniature or ditto-earth, we will take the\ncaves of Antiparos and of Baumann, for its plains, the Rhine\nprovinces--Hybla, Thabor, and Mont Blanc shall be its mountains--its\nislands, the Friendly, the Holy, and the Palm isles. Wentworth's park\nand Daphne's grotto, and some corner-pieces from the Paphian, we have\nfor its forests--for a charming valley, the Seifer's-dorfer and that of\nCampan. Thus we possess, besides this dirty, weary world, the most\nbeautiful by or after-world--an important dessert service--an\nAnte-Heaven between Ante-Hells.\n\nI have purposely included this valley of Campan in my extract and\ndecoction, as I know none other in which I would rather awake, or die,\nor love than in this one; if I had to command, I would not permit my\nvalley to be mixed up or placed beside the vale of Tempe or the Rose\nValley, perhaps with Utopia. The reader must have known this valley in\nhis geographical lessons, or in the works of Arthur Young, who praises\nit even more than I do.[1]\n\nI must take for granted, that in July, 1796, the Goddess of Fortune\ndescended from her throne to our earth, and placed in my hand--not\nmammon, nor garters, nor golden sheep--nothing but her own, and led\nme--by this I recognized the goddess--to the Campan vale. Truly, man\nneeds but look into it, and he will have--as I had--more than the Devil\n_offered_ to Christ and Louis XIV., and _gave_ to the popes.\n\nThe test of enjoyment is memory. Only the paradises of the imagination\nwillingly remain, and are never lost, but always conquered. Poetry\nalone reconciles the past to the future, and is the Orpheus's lyre\nwhich commands these two destroying rocks to rest.[2]\n\nAs stated, in the year 1796, I made a trip through France, with my\nfriend H. Karlson. He is honorary master of horse in the * * * service.\nThe wise public cares little for true names, it always treats them as\nfictitious ones, by way of literary taxation; and the existing\ncharacters, at least those of any importance, may prefer not to be torn\nover the wheel of criticism, and dragged piecemeal through libraries\nand reading-clubs. At almost every milestone, I despatched the best\nhourly bulletin to my friend Victor: when I had sent him the following\nvalley-piece, he persecuted me until I promised to grant this\nilluminated portrait of nature, not alone to the letter, but also to\nthe printing-press. Therefore I do it. I know already, my poor Victor\nsees, that in our days no green branch is left as a spinning-hut\nfor the man-caterpillar, and that inimical divers try to cut our\nanchor-rope, sunk in the sea of death. Therefore he thinks more of the\nconversations on immortality, than of the valley in which they took\nplace. I know this, because he calls me the counterpart of Claude\nLorraine, who only drew the landscape, while another drew the human\nbeings in it. Truly such a valley deserves that the mining and\nsabbath-lamp of truth should be lowered into the suffocating air of the\ngrave, in place of our _self_, merely to see if that _self_ can breathe\nat such a depth.\n\nI have jokingly divided my letters into stations. I of course omit 500,\nand commence at the 501st, wherein I appear in the valley.\n\n\n\n\n                             CAMPANER THAL.\n\n                             501st STATION.\n\n        The Diversities of Life.--The Dirge as Billet-Doux.--The\n                         Cavern.--The Surprise.\n\n\n                                               _Campan, 23d July_.\n\nHere have I been since the day before yesterday. After descent into\nhell and purgatory, and passage through _limbos infantum et patrum_,\nman must at last reach heaven. But I owe you yet our exit from our inn\non the 20th. Never can the head have a harder couch than when we hold\nit in our hands. The reason that this happened to Karlson and myself\nwas, that in the rooms adjoining ours a wedding-dance was taking place,\nand that below, the youngest daughter of our _maitre d'hotel_, who had\nnot only the name, but also the charms of _Corday_, with two white\nroses on her cheeks, and two red ones in her hair, was being interred,\nand that human beings with pale faces and heavy hearts waited on happy\nand blooming ones. When fate harnesses to Psyche's car, the merry and\nthe mourning steed together, the mourning one ever takes the lead;\ni. e. if the muses of Mirth and Sorrow play on the same stage in the\nsame hour, man does not, like Garrick,[3] follow the former; he does\nnot even remain neuter, but takes the side of the mourning one. Thus we\nalways paint, like Milton, our lost Paradise more glowing than the\nregained one,--like Dante, hell better than purgatory. In short, the\nsilent corpse made us cold to the warm, joyful influence of the\ndancers. But is it not absurd, my dear Victor, that a man who, like\nmyself, knows nothing better than that every hour unfolds at once\nmorning bloom and evening clouds; that here an Ash Wednesday and there\na black Monday commence; that such a man, who grieves little that\ndancing music and funeral marches should sound at the same time on the\nbroad national theatre of humanity, should yet hang his head and grow\npale, when, in a side scene, this double music sounds in his ears? Is\nnot this as absurd as all his other doings?\n\nInto Karlson's eyes something of this cloud had fallen. It was to him\nthe restirred ashes of a funeral urn. He can withstand all sorrows, but\nnot their recollection. He has replaced his years by lands, and the\nspace he has travelled over must be called his time. But the firm youth\nchanged color when he came to tell that the lover of the pale Corday\nhad torn her folded taper hands asunder, and, on his knees, had dragged\nthem to his burning lips.\n\nHe perceived his paleness in the glass; and to explain it, he imparted\nthe last and most secret leaf of his life's Robinsonade to me. You see\nwhat an opaque gem this youth is, who follows his friends through all\nFrance, without opening to his communicative friend and travelling\ncompanion, even a fold or a loophole in his relation to them. Now only\nfrom emotion on entering the Campan Vale, he draws the key from the\nkeyhole, which shall become a prompter's hole for you.\n\nThat he had accompanied the Baron Wilhelmi and his betrothed Gione,\nwith her sister Nadine, to Lausanne, in order to celebrate their\nArcadian marriage in the Campan Vale, you know already; that he had\nleft them suddenly at Lausanne, and returned to the Rhine fall at\nShaffhausen, you know also, but not the reason, which will now be\nrelated to you by me and by him.\n\nBy daily contact Karlson had at last penetrated the thickly-woven veil,\nmagically colored by betrothed love, thrown over the strong, firm, and\nkindred mind of Gione. Probably others discovered him ere he had\ndiscovered himself. His heart became like the so-called world's eye[4]\nin water, first bright, then varying its colors, then dull and misty,\nand at last transparent. Not to cloud their beautiful intimacy, he\naddressed the suspicious part of his attentions to Nadine. He did not\nexplain to me clearly whether he had led her into a beautiful error,\nwithout taking a beautiful truth from Gione.\n\nThe sword of death seemed likely to separate all these stage knots.\nGione, the healthy and calm Gione, was suddenly attacked by a nervous\ndisorder. One evening, Wilhelmi, with his usual poetic ardor, entered\nKarlson's chamber weeping, and, embracing him, could only sob forth the\nwords, \"She is no more.\"\n\nKarlson said not a word, but in the tumult of his own and others'\ngriefs, departed that night for Shaffhausen, and probably fled at the\nsame time from a beloved and a loving one,--from Gione and from Nadine.\nBy this eternal waterspout of the Rhine, this onward pressing, molten\navalanche, this gleaming perpendicular milky-way, his soul was slowly\nhealed; but he was long imprisoned in the dark, cold, serpent's-nest of\nenvenomed pains; they entwined and crawled over him, even to his\nheart. For he believed, as most world-men among whom he had grown up\ndo,--perhaps, also, too much accustomed to analyzed ideas and opinions\nby his favorite study, chemistry,--that our last sleep is annihilation,\nas in the epopee the first man imagined the first sleep to be the first\ndeath.\n\nTo Wilhelmi he only sent the name of his retreat and a poem, entitled,\n\"Grief-without Hope,\" which declared his disbelief, for he had never\nbroken the Ambrosia, whose delights a trust in immortality affords. But\njust that strengthened his enfeebled heart, that the muses led him to\nHippocrene's spring of health.\n\nWilhelmi answered, that he had read his beautiful requiem to the\ndeceased, or the immortal one. A long swoon had occasioned the painful\nmistake. Gione and he entreated him to follow speedily. Karlson\nreplied: \"Fate had separated him from their beautiful feast by the\nAlpine Wall, but as it would, like the Campan Vale, ever renew its\nsprings, he hoped to lose nothing but time by his delay.\"\n\nNow that the next world had cast its supernatural light on Gione's\ncountenance, Karlson loved her too much to be capable of assisting at\nthe ceremony of losing her forever. I will give you the opinion I\nformed of her by listening to his description.\n\nEven by a love and a praise in a person's absence we may be won; how\nmuch more, then, if both are thrown to us as farewell kisses after the\nascent to Heaven! Therefore the idea of the future funeral procession\nbehind my gay, richly decorated dust, onion and relic box is only\nanother incentive, not only to drug, but also to absolve myself, for\nwhen older we are less missed. And even you, who so seldom hang us, or\ndrive us all to the Devil, I mean, how seldom soever the tempest of\nanger sours the beer-barrel of your breast! Even you have no more\nefficacious morsel of white chalk, no better _oleum tartari per\ndeliquium_,[5] with which you can sweeten your internal fluids, than\nthe thought how we shall all turn pale round your death-bed, and be\ndumb at your grave-mound, and how none will forget you! I cannot\npossibly believe that there exists one being who, when death draws him\ninto the diving-bell of the grave, will not leave _one_ weeping eye,\n_one_ bending head behind, and therefore each one can love the soul\nwhich will some time weep for him.\n\nWhen I think now of the convalescent Gione, with her wounded heart,\nwhich had received a new sensitiveness in the hot electric atmosphere\nof the sinking thunderbolt of Death, I need not measure her emotion at\nKarlson's poem, by the dew and hygrometer, nor with the loadstone of\nher love. But not Wilhelmi's brilliant riches, nor his still more\nbrilliant conduct, her first choice, her first promise, forbade her\neven to touch the diamond scales.\n\nWhen Karlson told me all this, he turned Gione's ring-portrait upwards\non his finger, and pressed the hard edge of the ring-finger with his\ntearful eyes, till the adorned hand was unconsciously touched by the\nlip's kiss. The bashfulness of his grief moved me so much, that I\noffered to take another route into the Vale, under the pretence that\nthe dreams of it had lessened the desire for the reality, and that we\nshould disturb the newly-affianced in their first rose-honey days, as\nthey had probably waited for the mild late spring. He divined my\nintention; but his promise to come to-morrow dragged him by chains.\nRight gladly would I have missed the new spring-filled Eden, and drawn\nfrom my friend's feet the Jacob's ladder from which he might gaze on\nhis former glad heaven, but could not ascend to it. On the other hand,\nI rejoiced at his firm, promise-keeping character, which opposed its\nstrong nature to the thorns and boring-worms of sorrow; as with the\nincrease of moonlight, tempests decrease. Unperceived, I now added\nGione, not only Karlson, to the list of rare beings, who, like\nRaphael's and Plato's works, uncloud themselves only on earnest\ncontemplation, and who, as both, resemble the Pleiades, which to the\nnaked eye seems only to have seven suns, but with a telescope discloses\nmore than forty.\n\nOn the 20th, we started towards the Vale. On the way, I looked too\noften into Karlson's faithful, heavenly, deep-blue eyes. I descended\ninto his heart, and sought the scene of the day on which the holy\nchurch tie would tear the noble Gione forever from out his pure muse\nand goddess-warmed heart. I confess I can imagine no day on which I\nregard my friend with deeper emotion that on that never-to-be-forgotten\none, on which Fate gives him the brother kiss, the hand-pressure, the\nland of love and Philadelphia and Vaucluse's spring, united in one\nfemale heart.\n\nThe day before yesterday, at ten in the evening, we arrived at\nWilhelmi's Arcadian dwelling, which pressed its straw roof against a\ngreen marble wall. Karlson found it easily from its proximity to the\nfamed Campan Cave, from which he had often broken stalactites. The sky\nwas clouded with colored shadows, and on the green cradle of slumbering\nchildren night threw her star-embroidered cradle-cover, fastened to the\nsummits of the Pyrenees. From out Wilhelmi's hermitage advanced some\nmen in _black_ attire, with torches in their hands, who seemed to be\nwaiting for us, and told us the baron was in the Cave. By heaven, under\nsuch circumstances, it is easier to imagine the most circumscribed,\nthan the _largest_ and most _beautiful_ Cave! The sable attendants\ncarried the flame before them, and drew the flying smoke-picture from\noak-top to oak-top, and led us, stooping, through the catacomb\nentrance. But how splendidly was arched the high and wide grotto,[6]\nwith its crystal sides, shining like an illumined ice Louvre, a\ngleaming sub-terrestrial heaven vault. Wilhelmi threw away a handful of\ngathered spars, and joyfully hastened into his friend's arms. Gione,\nwith her sister, advanced from behind a connected stalactite and\nstalagmite. The gleaming of the torches gave her an undecided outline,\nbut at length Wilhelmi advanced to her, and said, \"Here is our friend.\"\nBending low, Karlson kissed the warm living hand, and was dumb with\nemotion. But the firm features of Gione's earnest face, which wanted\nbut Nadine's juvenile bloom, changed into a shining joy, greater than\nhe dared to return or reward. \"We have long expected and missed you in\nthis paradise,\" she said, with unshaken voice; and her clear, calm eye\nopened a view into a richly-gifted, steadfast soul. \"Welcome to the\ninfernal regions,\" said Nadine; \"you believe in reunion and Elysium\nnow?\" Though she received him with an assemblage or Flora of wit, or\nwas it grace? for they were difficult to distinguish, this cheerfulness\nof character and acquirement seemed not to be the cheerfulness of a\ncontented or reposeful mind.\n\nMy friend introduced me properly, that no supermember or _hors\nd'[oe]uvre_ should remain in this corporation of friendship.\n\nTo all of us--even to me--for around me never before seen beings\nfloated in silver reflections--it seemed as if the world had ceased,\nElysium had opened, and the separated, covered, sub-terrestrial regions\ncradled only tranquil, but happy souls.\n\nThere was a certain heartfulness in the joyous interest which this\naffectionate trinity took in Karlson's appearance, which generally\naccompanies the last step before the disclosure of some hidden plan,\nbut this plan was concealed. To speak something also to me, Nadine\nsaid, that there was a critical philosopher and arguer with them, who\nwould rejoice to hear any one _for_ or _against_ his opinions,--namely,\nthe house-chaplain. When we stepped from the illumined diamond and\nmagic cave into the dark night, we saw the cloak of Erebus hang in\nthick cloudy folds over the earth, and pale lightning shot from the\nnightly mist, the flowers breathed from covered calysses, and under the\nfast approaching storm the nightingales raised their melodious voices\nbehind their blooming hedges.\n\nSuddenly Gione walked more slowly by Karlson's side, and said, with\nmuch warmth, but without hesitation: \"I heartily love truth, even at\nthe expense of stage-like effect: I must, in the name of the Baron,\ndiscover to you that he and I will to-morrow be forever united. You\nmust forgive _your_ friend that he would not celebrate this ceremony\nwithout _his_.\"\n\nI think that now, in Karlson's heart, the cooled lava immediately\nbecame fluid and glowing. Suddenly lightning flashed from a cloud\naround the rising moon, and illumined the rain-drops, intended for\ndarkness, in Gione's and in Karlson's eyes. Wilhelmi asked, \"Can you\nnot forgive me?\" Karlson pressed him warmly and lovingly to his\ngrateful heart: this lofty confidence of friendship, and this\naffectionate proof of it, raised his strengthened soul above all\ndesires, and another's virtue spread in his breast the calm\ntranquillity of his own. We took shelter for the night in three Thabor\nhuts,--the ladies in the first, Wilhelmi with the critical philosopher\nin the second, Karlson and myself in the third,--which the Baron had\nhired for us. The fatigue of the journey, and even of our feelings,\ndeferred our joys and confidences for another night. But I cannot tell\nyou how nobly sorrow changed into exaltation in my friend's\ncountenance, how grief fell like a cloud from his heaven, and\ndiscovered the serene blue beneath. The sacrifices and virtues of our\nbeloved ones belong to the inexpressible joys which the soul at least\ncan count and appreciate; which it can imitate.\n\nHis and my eyes overflowed with holy gladness from a singularly elysian\nmood of harmony in anticipation of the coming day. Ah, my Victor!\nnations and men are only the _best_ when they are the gladdest, and\ndeserve Heaven when they enjoy it. The tear of grief is but a diamond\nof the second water, but the tear of joy of the first. And therefore\nfatherly fate, thou spreadest the flowers of joy, as nurses do lilies\nin the nursery of life, that the awakening children may sleep the\nsounder! O, let philosophy, which grudges our _pleasures_, and blots\nthem out from the plans of Providence, say by what right did torturing\n_pain_ enter into our frail life? Have we not already an eternal right\nto a warm down bed? I think not now of the deepest mattress in the\nearth, because we are so pierced with stigmas of the past, so covered\nwith its wounds.\n\nYou once said to me: \"In your early years, you have been drawn and\ndriven from the stoic philosophy by Sorites; for if the sensation of\npleasure be as little as the stoics pretend, it were wiser to convert\nthan to benefit your neighbor,--wiser to preach morality from pulpit\nand desk than to practise it in the work-rooms,--wiser to turn towards\nyour neighbor the dirt-balls and _soap-pills_ of moral philosophy, than\nthe enlarged marble _soap-bubbles_ of joy. Further, that it is a\nmistake to assert that virtue makes more worthy of happiness, if\nhappiness possessed not an eternal, independent value in itself; for\nelse it might be maintained that virtue would make the possessor of a\nstraw, &c. worthy--\"\n\nYou said this once. Do you believe it yet?--I do.\n\n\n\n\n                             502d STATION.\n\n           The Thundering Morning.--The Short Trip after the\n                     Long One.--The Sofa-cushions.\n\n\nThrough the whole night, a half-lost thundering was heard, as though it\nmurmured in its sleep. In the morning, before sunrise, Karlson and\nmyself stepped out into the wide cloud-tapestried bridal-chamber of\nnature. The moon approached the double moment of its waning and its\nfulness. The sun, standing on America as on a burning altar, drove the\ncloudy incense of its _feu de joie_ high and red into the air; but a\nmorning tempest boiled angrily above it, and darted its fierce\nlightnings to meet his ascending rays. The oppressive heat of nature\ndrew longer and louder plaints from the nightingales, and evanescent\naroma from the long flower-meads. Heavy warm drops were pressed from\nthe clouds, and beat loudly on the stream and on the foliage. Only the\nMittagshorn, the pinnacle of the Pyrenees, stood brightly and clearly\nin the heavenly blue. Now a gust of wind from the waning moon dispersed\nthe raging storm, and the sun stood victoriously under a triumphal arch\nof lightnings. The wind restored the heaven's blue, and dashed the rain\nbehind the earth, and around the dazzling sun-diamond there lay only\nthe silvered fringes of the once threatening clouds.\n\nO my Victor, what a new-born day was now on earth, encamped in the\nglorious valley. The nightingales and the larks loudly sung its\nwelcome, the rosechafers rustled round its lily garlands, and the\neagle, riding on the highest cloud, surveyed it from mountain\nto mountain. How rurally all things surrounded the serpentine\nfield-embracing Adour. The marble walls, not raised by human skill,\nsurround its flower-beds like large vases, and the Pyrenees, with their\nhigh tops, watch over and protect the lowly scattered shepherd huts.\nTranquil Tempe! May a storm never disturb thy gardens and thy murmuring\nAdour. May a stronger one never visit thee, than would gently rock the\ncradle of nature, or dash a bee from the honey-dew of the wheat-sheaf,\nor force but a single drop from the waterfall upon the flowers of thy\nshores.\n\nYou must not think that I am placing my paintbrushes at my side to copy\nthe heavenly rounded valley by the measure of art for you; I will let\nyou peep into this picture-book of nature as chance shall turn each\nsucceeding page. My stations will lead you through its different\nchambers, in which the rich dowry of Spring, like that of a king's\ndaughter, is placed for show. But truly it is a more glorious thing to\nsee the whole dowry disposed over the person of the royal bride\nherself.\n\nA servant seeking the chaplain, roused us both from our reverie. We saw\nhim advance towards a gentleman standing on the banks of the Adour, who\nslowly turned down his rolled-up shirt-sleeves. It was the chaplain,\nwho had been catching crabs during the storm, and had subsequently\nfished. As I knew that his hairy hand had worked for the food of the\ncritical, as well as his own philosophy, with trowel and mortar, with\npen and ink, I boldly advanced towards him, and told him what I was\nwriting. But the coarse, obstinate, yet timid free-mason, coldly\nwelcomed me in a language as broad as his own frosty visage.\n\nHe despises biographers; for the windows of a philosophical audience\nare too high,--perhaps, as in ancient temples, in the roof,--so that\nthey cannot see into the streets of real life, as, according to\nWinkelmann, the Roman windows were architecturally as high. Lord\nRochester is said to have been continually drunk during a whole\nquintennium; but such a chaplain is capable of being _sober_ for an\nentire decennium. A man like this bites the buds of all powerful\ntruths, experiences, and fictions, as ants bite the buds from\ncorn-seeds, that they may not fructify, but wither and die and form\nbuilding materials.\n\nWhen the Chaplain left me to join the Baron, as consecrator of the\nmarriage sacrament, I found Karlson in the dustrain of a near cascade.\nRound him, almost close to our windows, the hermitages of the farmers\nwaded in green foliage, with the fresh harvest wreath roofed by faded\nones; and inside, there bloomed families, outside, elms. He showed me\nGione's card, which, he said, she had given him before her marriage.\nBut it was not so; he had found it on the moss near the cascade. It\nrepresented a Roman landscape, and beside the living fountain was the\npictured one of Tivoli, and on a stone in the foreground Gione's name\nwas written. Such a printed trifle, a beloved name shortly before its\nsublunar annihilation, moves the whole heart with a succession of\npleasing reflections.\n\nKarlson went to the ceremony. I remained alone under the splendid blue\nheaven, and rejoiced that all the inhabitants of Campan wore its\nlivery, the blue, which we had yesterday mistaken for black.\n\nI will not hide from you that during the coupling, softened by the many\nbeauties of spring, I lost myself in Nadine's equally charming ones,\nwhich were an undiscovered Central Africa for me, while I wished she\nwere as warm. After eight or ten dreams, I saw the beautiful couples\ncross my path. How earnestly glad and serene we all stood under the\nspring music of flutes and pipes, and harps and warbling, which were\nliving around us, with and without wings. Gione and Karlson concealed\nan equal emotion, as at an almost equal fate. Wilhelmi, who is, as a\ncomet, sometimes in the burning, sometimes in the freezing point of a\nsun, requires no joys than those of others to make him happy. But a\ntear stood in Nadine's bright eye, which could not be smiled or looked\naway. Her heart seemed to me to resemble the earth, whose exterior is\ncold, but which carries in its centre a latent heat. And yesterday her\nwhole being seemed so mirthful and so gay!\n\nWe never make more erroneous conclusions in our opinions on any subject\nthan on woman's cheerfulness. Oh! how many of these charming beings\nthere are, who decay unvalued, who, while jesting, despair, and while\njoking, bleed to death; who hide their merry laughing eyes behind a\nwall, as behind a fan, to give glad vent to their long-restrained\ntears; who pay for a merry day by a tearful night, just as an unusually\nclear, transparent, and fogless air betokens rain. Remember the\nbeautiful N. N., and also her youngest sister. In the mean time, the\ncharming, sun-variegated dew-drop under Nadine's eye was balanced by a\nwart of half the size, the solitaire among her personal charms.\n\nWilhelmi's lyric and dithyrambic head was filled with projects for\npleasure, and with the eagerness of delight, he demanded a hasty\ndetermination concerning the proper use and enjoyment of the day. \"O\nyes,\" said I, quickly and impertinently, \"life flies to-day on a\nminute-hand, like an alarum it winds off; but how shall we form a plan,\na good plan?\" Nadine, who had arranged everything beforehand with the\nbridegroom, replied: \"I think we need none for such a delightful day,\nand such a charming valley. We will pilgrimize carelessly along the\nbanks of the Adour, the length of the Vale, and rest at every new\nflower, and at every bud, and in the evening we will sail back by\nmoonlight! That would be quite Arcadian and shepherd-like in this\nArcadia. Will you all? You certainly will, dearest sister?\" \"O yes,\"\nsaid Gione, \"for I think we are as yet all strangers to the charms of\nthis paradise.\" The Baron seemed to hesitate before giving his consent,\nand said: \"It depends whether the ladies can walk two and a quarter\nmiles in one day.\"[7] I was mad with joy, and cried, \"Charming!\" Such a\nlong horizontal heaven-journey, such a melodious Arpeggio through the\nchords of delight was an old innate wish of my youth. I imparted my\ndelight to the Chaplain, to whose feelings this _voyage pitturesque_\nwas as repugnant as a Good Friday procession, and to whom, instead of\nthis heaven-way, that of Hoefer[8] would have been more acceptable,\nbecause he would rather have remained at home to read, and because he\ndid not enjoy the Epopee of nature as a man, nor scan it as a\nnaturalist, but like an usher, separated and divided it, for practice\nin building up again. I said to him: \"If we two will be shepherds,\nrepresenting the old Myrtil and Phylax, it would be interesting. You\nknow best that whims should be ten times less bold before ladies and\nrefined ears than on print, and that for such people it has to be\nfiltered through so many filtering-papers and strainers, that I would\nnot give a proof-sheet for it after the process.\"\n\nA hired country-house, at the end of the valley, was the architectural\nEden with which Wilhelmi intended to surprise and delight his bride in\nthis botanic one. But Nadine alone knew it.\n\nIn as many moments as a swan would take to spread his wings and rise,\nwe were all ready. I do not blame man for making preparations for the\nexamination for death, but for no (shorter) journey. The long _hunt_\ndestroys the game of enjoyment. I, for my part, never think of starting\nuntil I am on the road.\n\nWilhelmi loaded himself with his bride's guitar; Karlson carried a\nportable ice-cellar. The ladies had their parasols; the Chaplain and I\nhad nothing. I whispered to the shallow Phylax,--so I can now call him,\nand myself the old Myrtil,--\"Sir Chaplain, we rebel against all good\nmanners if we follow empty-handed.\" He immediately offered himself to\nGione, as pack-horse, wagon, and carrier for her--parasol. But clever\ngenius prompted me to return to Karlson's chamber, and bring two\ncushions from the sofa, and I returned with these twins in my arms;\nnothing could have been more appropriate, as the ladies sat down a\nthousand times on the way, and could not have dipped their silken\nelbows in the juicy paint of the flowers. To his vexation, Phylax was\nobliged to carry the soft block in his arms; I hung the other one, like\na stick, to my thumb. At last we started.\n\nWe advanced towards the Pyrenees. Corn-fields, waterfalls, shepherd\nhuts, marble blocks, woods and grottoes, animated by the vascular\nsystem of the many-branched Adour, passed beautifully before our eyes,\nand we were forced to leave them behind, like the bright years of youth\nchanged into dreams by the stern hand of Time.\n\nAh, Victor, travelling alone is life, as life, on the contrary, is only\na journey. And if, like certain shell-fish, I could only push myself on\nwith one foot, or, like sea-nettles and women, I could only progress\nsix lines in a quarter of an hour, or if I lived under Fritz II. or\nFritz I. (Lycurgus), who both forbade a long journey, I would make a\nshort one, that I might not perish like the loach, which languishes in\nevery vessel, if not shaken.\n\nHow spirited, how poetical, how inventive can we not be while we run\nonwards. As Montaigne, Rousseau, and the sea-nettle only shine when\nthey move on. By Heaven! it is no wonder that man rises and will go on;\nfor does not the sun follow the pedestrian from tree to tree? does not\nits reflected likeness swim after him in the water? do not landscapes,\nmountains, hills, men, rapidly changing, come and go? and does not\nFreedom's breath blow on the ever-varying Eden, when, released from the\nneck and heart-breaking chains of narrow circumstances, we fly freely\nand gladly, as in dreams, over ever-new scenes.\n\nFor unfortunately the bell-glass over men and melons, which at first is\ncovered by a broken bottle, must always be raised higher and higher,\nand at last removed entirely. At first, a man will go into the next\ntown, then to the university, then to an important residency, then--if\nhe has only written twenty lines--to Weimar, and finally, to Italy or\nto heaven. And if the planets were stringed together on a cord, and\nnear each other, or if the rays of light were roads, and the atoms of\nlight bridges, then surely would post-houses be erected in Uranus, and\nthe insatiable inner man--for the outer one is so very satiable--would\ngo longing and roaming from planet to planet.----\n\nTherefore, my Victor, nothing is confined in so many prison-walls as is\nthis our human self. And our cages are enclosed, onion-like, one in the\nother. Tour and my _self_ are imprisoned not only on this earth, but in\nthis King's Bench are the town walls; in these our four walls surround\nus; in the four walls, the arm-chair or the bed; in this again, the\nshirt or the coat, or both; and lastly, the body. And, to be minute\n(according to Soemmering), in the brain crevices, the duck's\npond.---- Start at the fatal many-sided suite of houses of correction\nwhich surround thy_self_?----\n\n\n\n\n                             503d STATION.\n\n    Lampoon on the Chaplain.--Praise of Him.--The Diamond.--Opinions\n                   against Immortality.--Eden Jokes.\n\n\nWe two fellow-carriers formed the rear-guard. I wished to enter into\ndiscourse, but Phylax had a very poor opinion of me; at most he thought\nme a fickle sentimentalist who only portrays feelings. Yet feelings are\nthe sponge of atmospheric air, which the poet, on his high Parnassus,\nas well as the philosophical diver in his depths, _must_ hold in his\nmouth, and yet poetry has cast an earlier light on many obscure works\nof nature than philosophy, as the dark _new moon_ borrows light from\n_Venus_.\n\nBut the philosopher sins against poets more than you sin against the\nfollowers of Kant, from whom you seem to expect that they shall write\npleasingly. Your arguments are ideas, not reasonings, when you say that\nphilosophy's attendants are like those of Turkish ladies, mute, black,\nand deformed; that the philosophical market-place is a _forium\nmorionum_,[9] and that beauty is forbidden to philosophers, as it was\nto the Helots, who were killed for possessing it. Is it not evident\nthat a certain barbarous, un-German, far-fetched language is more an\nornament than a detriment to it. Oracles despise grace, _vox dei\nsol[oe]cismus_, i. e. a Kantist cannot be read,--he must be studied.\nFurther, it is not beneath a philosopher to enrich the language instead\nof the science. For some other may seek the ideas for the terms, and\nfind them, as animals were found for the Ammonites. Therefore the\nGreeks have the same term for _word_ and _knowledge_, which combination\nwas at last deified. The philosopher should always write over his door\n_pour l'oudalgie_,[10] instead of \"here lives a dentist.\" This is the\nbest reason, except a second one, why the philosopher, especially the\nKantist, as I saw in Phylax, needs not books, nor men, nor experience,\nnor chemistry, botany, the fine arts, nor natural history. He can and\nmust decipher the positive, the material, the given number, the unknown\nX. He creates the term, and sucks, as children often do,--it may\nsuffocate them,--his own blistered tongue.\n\nI must return to the company! As the Chaplain carried his\nwalking-stick, or rather walking-tree of a cushion, with the greatest\nindifference towards me, I wished to prejudice him for me by a\npanegyric at the expense of Kant. I said to him: \"It surprised me that\nthe philosophers should have suffered Kant to have made so great a\ndistinction between them and artists, and only allowed the merit of\ngenius to the latter. He says, in Sec. 47 of his 'Kritik der\nUrtheilkraft,' 'In sciences, the greatest inventor is only\ndistinguished from the most labored imitator and apprentice by\ngradation; but from, those whom nature has gifted for beautiful nature,\nhe is specifically distinguished.' This is derogatory, Sir Chaplain,\nand besides, not true. Why can Kant, then, only make Kantists, but no\nKants?[11] Are new systems discovered by syllogisms, yet they are\nproved and tried by them? Can, then, the connection of a new\nphilosophical idea with the old one better explain or facilitate its\ncomprehension than the same connection which each new poetic one must\nhave with old ones, which are the means of its creation. Sir Chaplain,\nI know not whom Kant has most sinned against, Truth, himself, or his\nschool. Leibnitz's 'Monadology,' _harmonia praestabilita_, &c., are as\nmuch pure, brilliant emanations of genius, as any beaming form in\nShakespeare or Homer. Besides, Leibnitz is a genial almighty Demiurg in\nthe philosophical world, its greatest and first circumnavigator, and\nwho, happier than Archimedes, found in his genius the standing-point\nfrom which he might move the philosophical _universa_, and play with\nworlds. He was an extraordinary spirit, he threw new chains on the\nearth, but he himself bore none: I think you agree with me, Sir\nChaplain!\" He replied, He did not, that the critical philosophy knew\nwhat to make of Leibnitz's experiments, his immaterial world, the\nasserted approximation of the definite to the indefinite line, and how\nto honor genius. In short, I had rather angered than conquered him.\n\nKarlson, whom even Amor's torch could not blind to the philosophical\none, took as much interest in our war as could be taken with the ears.\nFortunately we all stood still. A small diamond had fallen from\nNadine's necklace, and she sought for the silver petrified spark in the\ngrass. Strange that a man always hopes to find a thing on the spot\nwhere he perceives his loss. Nadine looked for her hardened dew-drop on\nthe sparkling, spangled mead. As a bright diamond of the first water,\nit was so easily mistaken for a dew-drop, that I remarked, seeing one\nin Nadine's breast-rose, \"Everything is covered with soft diamonds, and\nwho will find the hard one? The dew in your rose sparkles as brightly\nas the lost stone.\" She looked down, and in the rose-cup lay the\nsought-for gem! It was thought I had been clever, and I was angry with\nmyself for having been so stupid. But Nadine liked me no less for it,\nand that was reward enough.\n\nAs the Adour bent, not an arm, but a finger, around this gay moss-bank\nand bees' sugar-field, the whole company sat among the bees and the\nflowers, and the cushion-bearers laid down their burdens. Nadine said,\nplayfully, \"If flowers have souls, the bees, whose nurses they are,\nmust seem to them like dear sucking children.\" \"They have,\" said\nKarlson, \"souls like frozen window flowers, or like the tree of\nPetit,[12] which I once showed to you, or like pyramids of alum.\" \"O,\nyou always destroy, sir,\" said Gione. \"Nadine and I once painted to\nourselves an elysium for the souls of faded flowers.\" \"I believe in a\nmiddle path for flowers after their death,\" said Wilhelmi, seriously;\n\"the souls of lilies probably go into woman's forehead; hyacinth and\nforget-me-not souls into woman's eyes, and rose souls into lips and\ncheeks.\" I added, \"It is a fortunate coincidence for this hypothesis,\nthat a girl has perceptibly more color from the departing soul at the\nmoment when she breaks or kills a rose.\"\n\nJoyfully and affectionately we continued our journey. Only into my\ncarrier-companion the souls of thistles and sloes seemed to have\nentered. This play of ideas and this politeness in argument provoked\nhim. Only Karlson pleased him.\n\nAt last the Chaplain said to me: \"No immortality but that of moral\nbeings can be discussed, and with them it is a postulate or\napprenticeship of practical sense. For as a full conformity of the\nhuman will to the moral law, with which the just Creator never can\ndispense, is quite unattainable by a finite being, an eternally\ncontinuing progress, i. e. an unceasing duration, must contain and\nprove this conformity in God's eyes, who overlooks the everlasting\ncourse. Therefore our immortality is necessary.\"\n\nKarlson stood still at Gione's side, that we might approach, and said:\n\"Dear philosopher, pray take from this proof the boldness or the\nindistinctness which it has for laymen. How can we imagine the\nsupervision, i. e. the termination, of an infinite, a never-ending\ncourse? or how will you make the eternity of time harmonize with the\neternity of the moral requirements. How can a righteousness, scattered\nand dispersed over an interminable period of time, satisfy Divine\nJustice, which must require this righteousness in each portion of the\nperiod. And has the constant approximation of man towards this state of\npurity been proved? And will not the number, if not the grossness of\nfaults, in this infinite space, increase with the number of virtues?\nAnd what comparison will the list of faults bear to that of the virtues\nat the examination? But let us leave that also. Will, in the sight of\nthe Divine eye, the moral purity of two different beings--for instance,\na seraph and a man, or of two different men, as Robespierre and\nSocrates--be equally contained in two equally long, i. e. eternal,\ncourses of time? If on comparing the two, a difference appear, then one\nof them cannot have attained the so-called perfection, and must still\nbe mortal.\"\n\nThe Chaplain answered: \"But Kant does not intend to demonstrate\nimmortality by this argument. He says even, that it has been left so\nuncertain in order that free, pure will, and no selfish views, shall\nprompt our aspirations to immortality.\" \"Strange,\" said Karlson. \"But\nas we have now discovered this intention, its object would be defeated.\nPhilosophers ought then to imitate me, and attack immortality to the\nadvantage of virtue. It is a strange axiom to presuppose the truth of\nan opinion from its indemonstrability. Either immortality can be\nproved, then one half of your argument is right, or it cannot, then the\nwhole of it is wrong. Besides, if the belief in immortality makes\nvirtue selfish, the experience of it in the next world would make it\nmore so. Does the belief in it deter the common man from doing what his\nconfessor forbids, and forgives him? As little as the first stroke of\napoplexy deters the drunkard from rushing to the second.\"\n\n\n\n\n                             504th STATION.\n\n                             Flower Toying.\n\n\nKarlson joined the others in conversation, and Phylax was enraged that\nhe could not triumph,--not even dispute. I said to him, that my\nopinions agreed with his, though not on the same grounds, and that,\nuniting, we would subsequently together issue forth and attack Karlson.\n\nI then went with my silken club to Nadine, and on a rose-bush showed\nher the flying light-magnets, the shining will-o'-the-wisps of night,\nthe brown glowworms which she had never seen by day. I colonized a box\nwith them for a living firework in the evening. Chance had romantically\nbent a bright rose-bush between graceful bluebells, on a green marble\nboundary stone; its foliage had the appearance of being seamed with\nblack glowworms;[13] the lily-chafer hung like gold embroidery on the\npale, ripe roses; long-legged, shining gnats ran glittering over the\nthorns; the flower-divers and nectary treasure-diggers, the bees,\ncovered the rose-cups with new thorns; the butterflies, like moving\ntints, like Epicurean colors, gently floated round the branch's gay\nworld. I cannot tell you how this glance, turned from the vast whole on\nto a beautiful small portion, gave a warmer glow to our hearts and to\nnature. Instead of the hand, we could only hold, like children, the\nfingers of the great mother of life, and reverently kiss them. By the\ncreation, God became human for men, as therefore for angels an\nangel,--like the sun whose bright immensity the painter gently divides\ninto the beauties of a human face.\n\nWilhelmi said, that, to rise into Eden or Arcadia, he would need no\nlarger wings than the four of a butterfly. What a poetical,\nparadisaical existence, like the papilio, to roam without stomach or\nhunger, among buds and flowers, to suffer no long night, no winter, and\nno storm, to toy away one's life in a delightful chase for another\npapilio, or to nestle, like the flower-colored bird of paradise, among\nlemon-blossoms, to float round blooming honey-cups, and to be rocked in\nsilken cradles!\n\nBlissfully we proceeded on our way, and each new step drove an exciting\nblood-drop to our warmed hearts. I said to the Chaplain, that the\ntemple of nature had been changed into a concert-hall for me, and every\nvocal into instrumental music. Victor! should not philosophy and the\nphilosophers imitate electric bodies, which not only enlighten, but\nalso attract? The soul's wine will indeed ever taste of the bodily\nbarrel-hoops, but the soul is scarcely spirit-like enough only to serve\nas a body to another soul.\n\n\n\n\n                             505th STATION.\n\n   The Ephemera.--Relative Conclusions.--Doubts of the Length of the\n     Chain of Living Beings.--The Wart-Eaters.--The Cure.\n\n\nThe sun and the valley surrounded us with their burning-glasses, and it\nwas pleasant to sit down in a shady spot, and eat; and as just opposite\nto us was a marble-quarry, and close to the iron rock-wall a sap-green\nmeadow, and beside us a group of elms and a little shining solitary\nwhite house, we asked at it for as much food as a roaming, contented\nquintet requires. The mistress of the house was alone, the husband was\nat work (as most Campanians are, in Spain), four children waited on us;\nour ice-cellar was opened, and with its contents the soul was warmed\nand the body cooled. The white glowing keystone of the heaven arch\nawoke with its flames the noonday wind, which slept on the cold summit\nof the Pyrenees.\n\nLittle or nothing would taste well to poor Phylax, to whom it was more\nimportant to prove that he would be eternal. Fortunately, the French\nwine armed him more with French customs, and he asked the Baron\npolitely: \"I believe I owe M. Karlson some proofs of our immortality.\nMight I be allowed to give them?\" Wilhelmi sent him to Gione, saying,\n\"Ask there.\" Gione willingly granted his request, and said, \"Why should\nnot recollections of immortality ornament our joys as much as monuments\ndo English gardens?\" Nadine threw in the question, \"But if men quarrel\nabout the hopes of humanity, what remains for women?\" \"Her heart and\nits hopes, Nadine,\" said Gione. Wilhelmi said, smiling: \"The owl of\nMinerva, as all other owls, is said to forebode destruction to a\nhousehold, by settling on its roof. But I hope it is not so.\" I added,\n\"The lives of all our beloved ones are tied to the obelisk of\nimmortality, as to that of Rameses,[14] that the danger may double our\nstrength; for they will be destroyed if it rebound.\"\n\nIn the mean time, Karlson had taken an ephemeral fly from a neighboring\nelm, to which it had clung, in order to cast off its super body before\ndeath. The ephemera should not be an embodiment of our immortality,[15]\nbut of our unfolding; for, unlike other insects, after all its\ntransformations, and when already furnished with wings, it changes its\nshape once more before death. He held it before us, and said: \"In my\nopinion, a philosophical ephemera would argue thus. What! I should have\nuselessly accomplished all my various changes, and the Creator had no\nother intention in calling me from the egg to the grub, then to a\nchrysalis, and at last to a flying being, whose wings must burst\nanother covering before death, with this long range of spiritual and\ncorporeal developments, he should have had no other aim than a six\nhours' existence, and the grave must be the only goal of so long a long\na course?\" The Chaplain opportunely answered, \"Your argument proves\nagainst yourself, for it is _petitio principii_ to presuppose mortality\namongst ephemera.\"\n\nI confess I am an enemy to these relative conclusions, because they\ntake as much from truth as they give to eloquence, for contrary\nopinions can be proved by them. To one whose eyes are hurt by a grain\nof sand, I can prove that he is comparatively happy, as there are many\nin the world who suffer from sand-blisters and gravel; and also that he\nis unfortunate, as Sultanic eyes are never pressed by anything harder\nthan Circassian eyelids--or two rosy lips. Thus I can make the world\nimmense in comparison to bullets, grains of poison, or round puddings,\nor minute, if placed beside Jupiter, the sun, or the milky-way. If the\nephemera on the ladder of existence would turn its back on the\nbrilliant development of the beings above it, and only count the\nimportant ones on the steps beneath it, it would increase in its own\nimportance. In short, our oratorical fantasy continually mistakes the\ndistinction between more and less for that of something or nothing; but\nevery relative conclusion must be based on something positive, which\nonly eternal eyes, which can measure the whole range of innumerable\ndegrees, can truly weigh. Indeed, there must be some bodily substance,\nand were it even the earth; for every comparison, every measurement,\npresupposes a fixed, unchanging standard. Therefore, the ephemeral\ndevelopment is a true one, and the conclusions on it are the same as on\na seraphic one. The difference in the degrees can only bring forth\n_relative_, not _opposite_ conclusions. And here, in this letter--for\nin print I would not dare to do it--I will acknowledge a doubt. No one\nhas ever _seen_ the steps of the ladder of beings above us,--no one has\n_counted_ those beneath us. What if the former were less, the latter\ngreater, than we have hitherto imagined. The eternal promotion of souls\nfrom angels to archangels, in short, the nine philosophical hierarchies\nhave only been asserted, but not proved. The common opinion, that the\nimmense difference between man and the Eternal must be filled up by a\nchain of spiritual giants, is false; as no chain can shorten the\ndistance, much less fill it, for it will ever retain the same width;\nand the seraph, i. e. the highest finite being according to human\nthoughts, must imagine just as many, if not more, beings above him, as\nI do beneath me. Astronomy, this sawing machine of suns, this ship's\nwharf and laboratory of earths, would persuade us that the\n_enlargement_ of worlds and beings is a sign of their improvement. But\nover the whole sky there hang only earth and fire-balls, and all things\non them, from milk-way to milk-way, are less than the wishes and\nlongings of our hearts. Then why should our earth alone, why not every\nother also, be progressing? why should they, rather than we, have the\nstart in this inaugural eternity? In short, it may be disputed if in\nthe whole universe there are other angels and archangels than Victor\nand Jean Paul. It seems scarcely credible to me. But truly the\n_melodious_ progression to sublime beings has hitherto been merely\ntaken for granted. I believe in a _harmonious_ one, in an eternal\nascension, but in no created culmination.\n\nI presume Karlson intended to answer my argument, not on the seraphs,\nbut on ephemera, when Nadine, who had borrowed the fly in order to\nexamine it, held it too near her eyes, and thereby disturbed and\nextinguished our Mendelssohn-Platonic conversation. For Madame Berlier\n(such was the noble name of our temporary hostess) stepped up to\nNadine, and said: \"It is a pity for the pain. You must take the\nwart-locust, I have proofs,\" do you understand? It is this. The\nso-called wart-eater, a locust with light brown spots, takes away a\nwart in a very short time by a single bite. Dame Berlier, over whom, as\nover most Southrons, beauty had greater power than self-love and sex,\nhad falsely imagined that Nadine wished to annihilate the only fault in\nher charming form with the fly. The Chaplain had scarcely heard the\nwart-eater mentioned, when he vanished among the green, and commenced a\nhunt for wart-locusts. I was vexed that I had known the remedy as well\nas Dame Berlier, and never thought of it. For a shabby simile I should\nhave easily recollected it, but not for a useful cure. Fortune\npermitted him soon to return with the winged wart-operator; this\nexcited my envy. When he gave it to Nadine, the officious Phylax had\nsqueezed, with the letter and paper press of his hands, like in a good\ncalendar-press, the brown spotted vegetable-eater to--death. The animal\ncould bite no more; I immediately darted off in search of another, and\nsoon returned, holding one by the tips of its wings, and said, I would\nmyself hold it over the wart until he would operate on it. While\nperforming the action I praised it. Every great deed, I said, is only\naccomplished in the soul, at the moment of determination; when it comes\noutward and is repeated by the body,--which holds the locust,--it\ndisperses into insignificant movements and thirds; but when it is done,\nas now the operation, it becomes great again, and, ever increasing,\nflows onward through all time. Thus the Rhine rushes like a giant from\nits summit, disperses in the fog, falls as rain upon the plain, then it\nforms itself into clouds, and roams over the sands, and carries suns\ninstead of rainbows.\n\nIt need not be concealed from you that it affected me to look into the\nretina of two such bright and warm, upturned eyes, without mentioning\nthe whole warlike array of curls and lips, and forehead, and the\nWaterloo landscapes of the cheeks. Nadine's terror at the teeth of the\nbrown little doctor made her more charming, and the danger of my\nsituation greater. After holding it for some time, when I thought the\noperation was finished, she told me the locust had not yet touched her,\nas I held it two or three Parisian feet too far from the wart. It is\ntrue, I had lost myself in her net skin; but I remarked that the cure\ncould not be accomplished, if I did not rest the ball of my right hand\nslightly on her cheek, in order to hold the wart-eater more firmly over\nthe wart. Now he bit the required wound, and propelled into it as much\nof his corrosive fluid as he carried with him. I artfully diverted\nNadine's pain, which resembled that of a pin pricking, by\nphilosophizing. Man, I said, finds the stoic theory true and forcible\nfor all pain, only not for the present. And when he bleeds from cut\nwounds, he imagines bruises heal more easily. He therefore defers his\npractice of the stoic-school until his own schooling is over. O, but\nthen he stands by a running stream, waiting until the waters shall have\npassed. True firmness bears the bite of a locust, and rejoices at the\ntrial!\n\nNow the operation was happily accomplished, which could easily excite\nan illness in me. It is true that her countenance had inflicted a\ndeeper wound on me than the wart-eater upon it,--I should fear and\nexamine whether mine, which was just as near to hers, had done as much\ndamage; but Nadine is exceedingly--young. The hearts of young girls,\nlike new waterbutts, at first let everything drop through, until in\ntime, the vessels swell and thus retain their contents.\n\n\n\n\n                             506th STATION.\n\n        Objections To Immortality.--The Second Childhood of the\n                          Outer and Inner Man.\n\n\nWe broke up and proceeded. On high, light feathers floated through the\nsky, like the loose-flowing hair of the sun, which could not veil it.\nThe day became hotter and stiller. But our path lay beneath a green\nroof, and each branch spread over us a parasol of broad fresh leaves.\n\nGione asked, \"Can we not continue our conversation in walking?\" O, your\nClotilde should know her; she has, excepting her charms, half her soul.\nNo discord exists between her outer and inner harmony; her earnest,\ngenerous soul resembles the palm-tree, which has neither bark nor\nbranches, but which bears broad foliage and buds on its summit.\n\"Gione,\" said Nadine, \"these arguments unsettle our minds, instead of\nremoving our doubts.\" \"No one,\" she replied, \"has yet given his\nopinion; if we even have the firmest convictions, still by their\nbeautiful conformity with another's convictions our own become more\nbeautiful and firm.\" \"Just as water-plants, surrounded by their water,\nare yet as much refreshed by rain as land plants are,\" said Myrtil (I\nam Myrtil).\n\nWilhelmi said, just as we were passing through the Midsummer's-day\nnight of a grotto cooled by oakshade and cascades: \"Our conversation\nwould better suit a total eclipse of the sun. I would that I could see\none, when the moon hangs beauteously before the midday sun, when the\nnoisy day is suddenly hushed, when the nightingales sing, the flowers\nfade, and when nightly mists and shuddering cold and dew fall.\" Phylax\nhad now let slip his sofa-cushion into a murmuring spring; Nadine saw\nit, and, not to confuse him in the act of drawing it out, she, with\ncharming zeal, drove us back to our conversation. Her intercourse with\nthe world had given her a playful, light, ever-joyous exterior. But\nGione's style, like the highest Grecian, is, artistically speaking,\nsomewhat meagre and spare,--and the ball-rooms had made her, as\nmahogany presses make dresses, more agreeable. But her exterior charms\ndid not contradict or injure her interior beauty.\n\nI said to Karlson, \"Pray, prove to us the spiritual mortality, this\nsoul's death.\" \"M. Karlson needs not do that,\" answered the stupid\nPhylax, vexed at the wet cushion, \"only the assertor must prove.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" I said, \"I call proofs objections, but I shall certainly\ngive you only two;--firstly, the proof or objection: the simultaneous\ndecay and destruction of the body and of the soul; secondly, the\nabsolute impossibility of ascertaining the mode of life of a future\nexistence, or as the Chaplain would say, to see into the spiritual\nworld from the sensuous one. Now, M. Karlson, throw your two bombs into\nthe greatest possible angles, which, according to Hennert, is 40\ndegrees, but according to Bezout, 43 degrees.\"\n\nHe aimed well. He showed how the spiritual Dryad flowered, burst and\ndispersed with the corporeal bark, how the noblest impulses are chained\nto the lead--earth, revolving wheel of the body; how memory,\nimagination, and madness only feed on the egg-yolk of the brain,--how\nbravery and mildness stand in as opposite degree to blood as leeches\nand Jews;[16] how, in age, the inner and outer man together bend\ntowards the grave, together petrify, together, like metal compositions,\n_slowly_ cool, and at last together die!\n\nHe then asked why, with the continual experience that every bodily\ndown-bending digs a spiritual wound, and with this unceasing parallel\nof body and soul, we give to the latter, after death, everything which\nwe have seen annihilated in the former. He said, and I believe it, that\nneither Bonnet's underbody, nor the incorporated soul corsets of\nPlattner (the \"second soul organ\") can diminish the difficulty of the\nquestion, for as both soul's under-garments or night-gowns and\npinafores, always share, in life, the good and bad fate of the coarse,\ncorporeal coat and martyr-cloak, and as in us double-cased English\nwatches, the works, and the first and second cases (Bonnet's and\nPlattner's) always suffered and gained together, it would be absurd to\nseek the Iliad of the future world in the narrow hazel-nut shell of the\n_revived_ little body which has first stood and fallen with the coarse\noutward one.\n\nI then asked him to aim his second ball in the angle of forty degrees\nalso. I added, that \"I would have begged leave to give a long\nparliamentary speech on it, but that long speeches have a life and\nreproducing power, as, according to Reaumuer, long animals more easily\nre-form themselves, when cut, than short ones.\" Though certainly it\noccurs to me, that Unzer says, tall persons do not live as long as\nshort ones. But Karlson needed little time or power to prove the\nuncertainty of the next world. The Sun-land behind the hillocks of the\nGod's acre, behind the pest-cloud of Death, is covered by a complete,\nan impenetrable darkness of twelve inches, or of as many holy nights.\nHe showed, and not badly, what an immense leap beyond all terrestrial\nanalogies and experiences it is, to hope for, i. e. to create, a world,\na transcendent Arcadia, a world of which we know neither copy nor\noriginal, which wants no less than a form and a name, map and globe,\nanother Vespucius Americus, of which neither chemistry nor astronomy\ncan give us the compounds or the quarters; a universe of air, on which,\nfrom the leaf-stripped, faded soul, a new body will bud forth, i. e. a\nnothing on which nothing is to embody itself.\n\nO, my good Karlson! how could your noble soul omit a second world which\nis already contained in this physical first one, like bright crystals\nin dark earth, namely, the sun-world of _Virtue_, _Truth_, and\n_Beauty_,[17] glowing in our souls, whose golden vein inexplicably\nextends its ramification through the dark, dirty clump of the sensuous\nworld.\n\nIt was now my turn to answer: \"I will lessen your two difficulties, and\nthen I will give my innumerable proofs. You are no materialist,[18] you\ntherefore take for granted that bodily and mental activity only\naccompany and mutually excite each other. Yes, the body represents the\nkeys of the inner Harmonica through all its scales. Hitherto only the\ncorporeal outward signs have been called feelings, as the swelling\nheart and the slowly-beating pulse--longing; the outpouring of gall,\nanger, and so on. But the net-like texture, the anastomy between the\ninner and outer man, is so life-full, so warm, that to every _picture_,\nevery _thought_,--a nerve, a fibre must move. We should also observe,\nand put into the notes of speech all the bodily after sounds of\npoetic, algebraic, artistic, numismatic, and anatomic ideas. But the\nsounding-board of the body is neither the soul's scale nor its\nharmony. Grief has no resemblance to a tear,--shame, none to the\ncheek-imprisoned blood,--wit, none to champagne,--the idea of this\nvalley, none to its portrait on the retina. The inner man, this God,\nhidden in the statue, is not of marble as it is, but in the stony\nlimbs, the living ones grow and ripen in an unknown life. We do not\nsufficiently mark how the inner man even tames and forms the outer one;\nhow, for example, the passionate body which, according to physiology,\nshould ever increase in heat, is gradually cooled and extinguished by\nprinciples,--how terror, anger, holds the dividing texture of the body\nin a spiritual grasp. When the whole brain is paralyzed, every nerve\nrusty and exhausted, and the soul carrying leaden weights, man needs\nbut to _will_ (which he can do every moment), he needs only a letter, a\nstriking idea, and the fibre-work of the soul's mechanism proceeds\nagain without help from the body.\"\n\nWilhelmi said, \"Then the soul is but a watch which winds itself.\"\n\"There must always be some _perpetuum mobile_,\" I said, \"for all things\nhave moved for an eternity already. The question is, either the soul\nnever winds off, or it is its own watchmaker. I return to the subject.\nIf a ruptured life-vein in the fourth brain-chamber of a Socrates place\nthe whole land of his ideas and moral tendencies in a blood-bath, these\nideas and moral tendencies will surely be covered with blood-water, but\nnot spoilt by it; because not the drowned brains were virtuous and\nwise, but his _self_ was, and because the dependence of a watch on its\ncase for protection from dust, &c. does not prove the identity of the\ntwo, or that the watch consists only of cases. As spiritual exertions\nare not bodily ones, but only _precede_ or _follow_ them; and as every\nspiritual activity leaves traces, not only in the soul, but also in the\nbody; must, then, if apoplexy or age destroy corporeal activity,--must\nthe soul's fire be therefore quenched? Is there no difference between\nthe soul of a _childish_ old man, and that of a _child_? Must the soul\nof Socrates, imprisoned in Borgia's body as in a mud-bath, lose its\nmoral powers, and does it suddenly change its virtuous qualities for\nvicious ones? Or shall in left-handed wedlock (which has no common\nproperty of body and soul) the one conjugal half only share the gains,\nnot also the losses of the other? Shall the ablactated soul feel only\nthe blooming, not also the faded body? And if it does, the earth\nsurrounding it must, as our earth does to the superior planets, give it\nthe reflection of our advancing and retrograding. If we shall ever be\ndisembodied, the slow hand of time, that is, ever encroaching age, must\ndo it. If our course is not to be concluded in one world, the gulf\nbetween it and the second must always appear to us a grave. The _short_\ninterruption to our progress by age, and the _longer_ one by death,\ndestroy this progress as little as the _shortest_ interruption by\nsleep. We anxiously suppose--as the first man did--the _total_\nsun-eclipse of sleep to be the _night_ of death, and this again the\n_doomsday_ of the world.\"\n\n\"That must yet be proved, although I believe it,\" replied Phylax.\n\nNew beauties prevented my answering, and closed the 506th Station.\n\n(P. S.--I have been told the Chaplain has declared that he had\npurposely not replied to several of my arguments, but he hoped he could\nsee them in print, and then he would publish his opinions. But he will\nscarcely live until this letter is printed, and he will answer it.)\n\n\n\n\n                             507th STATION.\n\n   The Theft of the Souvenir.--Answers to Previous Stations.--On the\n     Emigration of the Dead to the Planets.--The Threefold World in\n     Man.--Grief without Hope.--The Seal of Immortality.--The\n     Country-seat.--The Balloons.--Ecstasy.\n\n\nWhen it is three o'clock, and a wandering Arcadian council is very well\nbut somewhat warm, when the narrowing Adour, which has its source at\nthe end of the Valley, flows round a projecting tongue of land, and\ndraws its silver gauze cover over the pale moon reposing on its\nbreast,[19] when round this slip of earth, this flowery anchoring\nplace, half water scene, half bowling green, a broadleaved oak arcade\ngrows, beneath which trembles a sun-gilt shadow, gliding from between\nthe branches of the trees, on to the grass, embroidered by the\nrestless, roving, gay-colored sand, on the book of nature--its insects,\nwhen the hammering in the shining marble blocks, the living Alp-horns,\nthe bleating pasture-sheep, and the murmuring of waves fill the heart\nto its topmost branches and up to the brim with life-balsam, and the\nhead with life-spirit; and when so many beauties are heard and\nseen,--living beauties who walk are inclined to sit down on the slip of\nearth, after the cushion-carriers have placed their burdens as\nresting-places for their arms.\n\nMy dear Victor! all this came to pass.\n\nWhile sitting, long speeches were not as practicable as while walking.\nEven before, when we, from some distance, were choosing this spot for a\nresting-place, they had suffered considerably. I remained on the shore\nnear Nadine, whose cheeks, reflected in the shadow-painted waves,\nappeared a charming pale red, as though a cochineal had bled to death\non them. The walk and her red parasol had been too great colorists.\n\nMy dear brother, I am preparing to fall in love. The operation on the\nwart was unimportant as a corner-piece of vexation, as negative\nelectricity; but warts have their good points.\n\nNadine plucked roses and other flowers. I drew an empty jewel-box from\nmy pocket,--it was empty, like the 9th Kurstuhl, the Elias chair,[20]\nor the _limbus patrum_,--and held it under them, begging her to shake\nthe flowers, that I might catch the millipeds,[21] which, like tallow\ncandles, are more suitable for the eye than the nose. I caught a whole\ngermanic diet of these creatures from the fragrant flower-cups, and\nimprisoned them in the box.\n\nDuring the flower-toying, which brought us nearer to each other, a\nsmall cockchafer fell on my skin. I looked round for the flowers and\ncould find nothing till I saw, protruding from Nadine's left pocket, a\nsouvenir, filled with sweet-smelling herbs. To steal from a beautiful\nwoman is often nothing else than to give to her. I thought it\nfit, secretly to take the scented pocket-book in order to make a\nscent-bottle, and a joke of it in future. I so arranged the theft, that\nthe Baron perceived my hand, holding the book, retreating from the\npocket.\n\nThe souvenir, thought I, may occasion some scene; meanwhile I can smell\nat it. I indemnified her for the loss of the scent-bag by the\nmillipeds, whose prison I immediately insinuated into her pocket. The\nBaron was witness.\n\nWilhelmi said, when we rose: \"In the evening we shall be separated and\ndeafened by the carriages. If something has yet to be decided--\"\n\n\"Something?\" replied Phylax,--\"everything has to be decided. M. Jean\nPaul, you have yet to raise M. Karlson's second difficulty.\" \"Raise?\" I\nasked, \"I am to raise the cover of the whole future world? I am but\ngoing _towards_ it, not coming _from_ it. But this dissimilarity\nbetween the present and the future world, its inconceivable magnitude,\nhas made many apostates. Not the bursting of our bodily doll-skin in\ndeath, but the wide disparity between the present autumn and the future\nspring, raises such overwhelming doubts in our poor, timid breasts.\nThis is shown by the savages, who consider the future life merely as\nthe second volume, the new testament of the first, and make no greater\ndistinction between the first and second life than between youth and\nage: they easily believe in all their hopes; your _first_ difficulty,\nthe bursting and fading of the bodily polish, does not deprive the\nsavage of the hope to bud anew in another flower-vase. But your second\ndifficulty daily increases itself, and its advocates, for by the\nincreasing proofs and apparatus of chemistry and physiology, the future\nworld is daily more effectually annihilated and dispersed, as it cannot\nbe brought within play of a sun-microscope or of a chemical furnace. In\nfact, not only the reality, but also the theory of the body, not only\nthe practised measurement of its longings, but also the pure moral\nphilosophy of its spirit-world, must darken and make difficult the\nprospect on the inner world from the outer one. Only the moralist, the\nphysiologist, the poet, and the artist more readily comprehend our\ninner world; but the chemist, the physician, and the mathematician want\nboth seeing and hearing faculties for it, and in time, even eyes and\nears.\n\n\"On the whole, I find fewer men than one would imagine who decidedly\nbelieve in, or deny, the existence of a future world. Few dare to deny\nit, as for them this life would then lose all unity, form, peace, and\nhope;--few dare to believe it, for they are startled at their own\npurification and at the destruction of the lessened earth. The\nmajority, according to the promptness of alternating feelings, waver\npoetically between both beliefs.\n\n\"As we paint Devils more easily than Gods, Furies than Venus Urania,\nHell than Heaven, we can more easily believe in the former than in the\nlatter,--in the greatest misfortune than in the greatest happiness.\nMust not our spirit, used to misgivings and earth chains, be startled\nat a Utopia against which earth will be shipwrecked, that the lilies of\nit, like the Guernsey lilies,[22] may find the shore to bloom on, which\nsaves and satisfies, elevates and makes blessed, our much tormented\nhumanity.\n\n\"I now come to your difficulty. I imagine, if even we were to take the\ngrave to be merely the moat of communication between allied globes, our\nignorance concerning the second world should not terrify us, and we\nneed not take for granted that the mountain ridge of humanity does not\ncontinue under the Dead Sea, merely because we cannot see through its\nwaters, for do not all mountain ridges continue on the bottom of the\nocean? What! man will guess at _worlds_, when he cannot even guess\n_world-quarters_! Would the Greenlander paint a Negro, a Dane, a Greek,\nin his mind's eye, without ever having seen one? Can the political\ngenius divine the inner versifications of the poetic one, without\nexperience? Can the Abderite imagine the architecture of the sage?\nWould we have guessed the existence of but one of the animal creations\nof Anthropomorphism which copy the human figure in all animals, and yet\nchange it? Or could a bodiless self, placed in a vacuum, with all\nexisting logic and metaphysic, ever have conceived but a single vein of\nits present embodification and humanification?\"\n\n\"But what are you asserting or denying?\" asked Wilhelmi.\n\n\"I only assert that a second life on another planet cannot be denied,\nmerely because we are unable to map out the planet, and portray its\ninhabitants. But we need no other planet.\"\n\nThe Baron said: \"O, I have often dreamed delicious dreams of this\n'_grande tour_' through the stars! It seemed the progression of a\nstudent from one class to another,--the classes being worlds.\"\n\n\"But,\" replied Karlson, \"to all these worlds, as upon our own, you will\nbe refused admittance if you arrive without a body. By what miracle\nwill you obtain one?\"\n\n\"_By a repeated one_,\" I answered. \"For by a miracle we have our\npresent body. But we can say in favor of this planet wandering, that\nour eyes too widely separate the worlds of which each one is but an\n_element_ of the infinite _integral whole_. The different worlds\nand their satellites above and around us, are only far removed\nworld-quarters. The moon is but a smaller, more distant America, and\nspace is the ocean.\"\n\nNadine said: \"One day I so pictured the inhabitants of a lemon-tree to\nmyself. The worm on the leaf may think it is on the green earth, the\nsecond worm on the white bud is on the moon, and the one on the lemon\nbelieves itself to be upon the sun.\"\n\n\"And yet this,\" said I, \"is but a tree of immeasurable life. As around\nthe earth-kernel cling wider and finer covers,--the earth, the seas,\nthe air and space,--so the giant of one world is surrounded by\nincreasingly large ones, with ever larger arms. The longest shell is\nthe finest one, as light and the attractive power. The beauteous\ncovering elongates and rarefies itself from iron bands to pearl ties,\nfrom flower-chains to rainbows and milky-ways.\"\n\n\"Will we not now descend from the milky-way,\" said Karlson, \"for we\ncannot ascend it. It is precisely this uniformity of the universe which\nforbids the rambling of emigrants from the earth. Every planet already\nhas its own crew; more dense ones, as for instance Mercury, may be\npeopled with real sailors.\"\n\n\"Precisely as Kant supposes!\" said Phylax.\n\n\"Finer, less solid ones, as e. g. Uranus, only with the most tender\nbeings, perhaps only with women and nuns who love not the sun. He who\nintends to rectify the so-called soul or spirit by distilling it from\none planet to the other, may with as much justice assert, that the\nspirits of the slacked Mercury receive their dephlegmation in a\ndistilling process through our earth,--in short, that the earth is the\nsecond world for Mercury and Venus. The dead of the arctic zones could\neven pass into the temperate ones (it would be _distillatio per\nlatus_), for on all planets there can be no other than coarser or finer\n_human beings_[23] like ourselves.\"\n\nKarlson waited for an answer and a contradiction, but I said his\nopinion was also mine. \"I have still a stronger reason,\" I continued,\n\"against emigration to, and voyage picturesque through, the planets,\nbecause we carry and lock up a heaven of starry light in our own\nbreasts, for which no dirty earth-ball is clean or large enough. But on\nthis subject I must have permission to speak uninterruptedly, at least\nuntil we have passed all these cornfields.\"\n\nOur pleasure-trip now was an alley of magic gardens, our passage\nthrough a golden sea of corn-blades, was accompanied and surrounded on\nall sides by a promised land, in which solitary houses reposed beneath\npicturesquely grouped leaf groves, as in Italy sleepers take their\nsiestas on shaded meads. I was permitted to speak.\n\n\"There is an inner, heart-contained spirit-world, which breaks through\nthe dark clouds of the body-world as a warm sun. I mean the inner\nuniverse of _virtue_, _beauty_, and _truth_; three soul-worlds and\nheavens, which are neither parts, nor shoots, nor cuttings, nor copies\nof the outer one. We are less astonished at the inexplicable existence\nof these three transcendent heavens, because they are ever floating\nbefore us, and because we foolishly imagine we _create_ them, while we\nmerely _recognize_ them. After which copy, with what plastic material,\nand of what, could we create and insert in ourselves[24] this same\nspirit-world? Let the atheist ask himself how he conceived the giant\nideal of a God, which he either denies or embodies? An idea which has\nnot been built upon comparative greatness and degrees, for it is the\ncontrary of every measure and of every created greatness. In short, the\natheist denies the great _original_ of the _copy_.[25]\n\n\"As there are idealists of the outer world who believe that perception\nmakes objects, instead of that objects cause perception, so there are\nidealists of the inner world, who deduct the _being_ from the\n_seeming_, the _sound_ from the _echo_, the _fact_ from its\n_appearance_; instead of, on the contrary, the seeming from the being,\nour consciousness from the objects of it. We mistake our power of\nanalyzing our inner world, for its preformation, i. e. the genealogist\nthinks himself both originator and founder.\n\n\"This inner universe, which is still more glorious and admirable than\nthe outer one, needs another heaven than the one above us, and a higher\nworld than one a sun now shines upon. Therefore we rightly say, not a\nsecond earth or globe, but a second _world_,--another beyond the\nuniverse.\"\n\nGione already interrupted me: \"And every virtuous and wise being is in\nhimself a proof of immortality.\" \"And every one,\" added Nadine,\nquickly, \"who suffers innocently.\"\n\n\"Yes, it is that,\" said I, with emotion, \"which extends our line of\nlife through countless ages. The chord of _Virtue_, _Truth_, and\n_Beauty_, taken from the music of the spheres, calls us from this dark\noppressive earth, and announces to us the nearness of a more melodious\nexistence. _Why_, and _from whence_ were these _super-earthly_ wants\nand longings created in us, if only, like swallowed diamonds, slowly to\ncut through our earthy shell. Why was a being endowed with wings of\nlight chained to this dirty clump of earth, if it were to rot in its\nbirth-clod, without ever being freed from it by means of its ethereal\nwings?\"\n\nWilhelmi said, \"I also like to dream the dream of a second life in the\nsleep of this first one. But may not our beautiful spiritual powers\nhave been given to us for the _enjoyment_ and _preservation_ of the\npresent life?\"\n\n\"For its preservation?\" I said. \"Then an angel has been locked in the\nbody to be the mute servant and fire-lighter, butler, cook, and porter\nof the stomach? Would not brutish souls have sufficed to drive\nman-bodies to the fruit-tree and the spring? Shall the pure ethereal\nflame only dry and bake the bodily patent stove with life-warmth, while\nit now slakes and dissolves it? For every tree of knowledge is the\npoison-tree of the body, and every mental refinement a slow-poison\nchalice. But, on the contrary, want is the iron key of freedom, the\nstomach is the manure-filled hot-house or manufactory of human blood,\nand the various animal instincts are but the earthy, soiled steps to\nthe Grecian temple of our spiritual elevation.\n\n\"For _enjoyment_ you said also. That means, we received the palate and\nappetite of a god, with the food for an animal. That portion of us\nwhich is of earth, and creeps on worm-folds, may and can, like the\nearthworm, be fed and fattened on earth. Exertion, bodily pain, the\nburning hunger of necessity, and the tumult of our senses exclude and\nchoke the spiritual autumn bloom of humanity in nations and classes.\nAll these conditions of terrestrial existence must be fulfilled ere the\nsoul may claim its due. To the unhappy, therefore, who must be the\nbusiness men and carriers of their bodily wants, the whole inner world\nseems but as an imaginary gilt cobweb, like the man who, breathing only\nthe electrical _atmosphere_, instead of feeling the spark, thinks to\ngrasp an invisible web. But when our necessary _animal servitude_ is\nover, when the barking inner dog-kennel is fed, and the dog-fight\nfinished, then the inner man demands his nectar and ambrosia, and if he\nis turned off with earth-food only, he changes to an angel of Death,\nand a Hellfiend, driving himself to suicide, or makes of him a\npoison-mixer who destroys all joy.[26] The eternal hunger _in_ man, the\ninsatiability of his heart, wants not a _richer_, but a _different_\nfood, fruit, not grass. If our wants referred but to the degree, not to\nthe quality, then the imagination, at least, might paint a _degree of\nsatiety_. But imagination cannot make us happy, by showing us\ninnumerable heaps of treasures, if they be other than _Virtue_,\n_Truth_, and _Beauty_.\"\n\n\"But the more beautiful soul?\" asked Nadine. I answered, \"This\ndiscrepancy between our wishes and our circumstances, the heart and the\nearth, will remain, an _enigma_, if we are immortal, and would be a\nblasphemy if we decay. Ah! how could the beautiful soul be happy?\nStrangers, born on mountains and living in lowland places, pine in an\nincurable homesickness. We belong to a higher place, and therefore an\neternal longing consumes us, and every music is our soul's Swiss _ranz\ndes vaches_. In the morning of life, the joys which hearken to the\nanxious wishes of our hearts are seen blooming for us in later years.\nWhen we have attained these years, we turn on the deceitful spot, and\nsee behind us, pleasure blooming in the strong hopeful youth, and we\nenjoy instead of our _hopes_, the _recollections of our hopes_. Joy in\nthis also resembles the rainbow, which in the morning shines over\nevening, and in the evening arches over the east. The _eye_ may reach\nthe _light_, but the arm is short, and holds but the fruit of the\nsoil.\"\n\n\"And this proves?\" asked the Chaplain.\n\n\"Not that we are unhappy, but that we are immortal, and that the second\nworld in us demands, and proves a second world beyond us. O, how much\nmight not be said of this second life whose commencement is so clearly\nshown in the first one, and which so strangely doubles us! Why is\nVirtue too exalted to make us, and, what is more, others (sensually)\nhappy? Why does the incapability of being useful on earth (as the\nexpression is) increase with a certain higher purity of character, as,\naccording to Herschel, there are suns which have no earth? Why is our\nheart tortured, dried, consumed, and at last broken by a slow burning\nfever of ceaseless love for an unattainable object, only alleviated by\nthe hope that this _consumption_, like a physical one, must one day be\nsheltered and raised by the _ice cover_ of death?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Gione, with more emotion in her eye than in her voice, \"it\nis not ice, but lightning. When our heart lies a sacrifice on the\naltar, fire from heaven consumes it as a proof that the offering is\naccepted.\"\n\nI know not why her calm voice so painfully disturbed my whole soul (not\nonly my argument). Even Nadine's eyes, which triumphed over her own\nsorrows, were suffused with tears by her sister's, and, although she is\ngenerally more timid and fastidious than Gione, in passing a little\ngarden, she raised from a projecting hairy potato-stalk, a large moth,\nand showed it to us with a firm mouth, which should have been softened\nby a smile.\n\nIt was the so-called Death's-head. I stroked the flat, drooping wings,\nand said, \"It come? from Egypt, the land of mummies and graves; it\nbears a _memento mori_ on its back, and a _miserere_ in its plaintive\nvoice.\" \"In the mean time it is a butterfly, and visits the nectaries,\nwhich we day-birds will do also,\" appropriately observed Wilhelmi; but\nhe took the words out of my mouth.\n\nGione's countenance again expressed thoughtful calmness, and to me she\nbecame immeasurably beautiful and grand by the stillness of her grief.\nYou once said that the female soul, though it be pierced with burning\nshafts, must never beat its wings convulsively together, else, like\nother butterflies, it would destroy their beauty. How true is this!\n\nNadine's eyes seldom shone without at last overflowing, and every\nsorrowful emotion remained long in her heart, because she tried to\nguard against it. She resembled those springs which take a temperature\nopposed to the time of day, and which are warmest in the cool evening.\nShe turned to me and said, putting her hand in her left pocket, \"I will\nshow you some poetry which will prove your prose.\" While she was\nseeking it, she stood still with her companion Wilhelmi. He guessed\nbefore I did, that she intended to give me something from the Souvenir,\nand when, in its stead, she took the milliped's prison from her pocket,\nhe obligingly said, \"If not with my hands yet with my eyes I assisted\nat the theft, and as accomplice I beg for mercy.\" The serious apology\nfor this foolishness scarcely suited our earnest tone of mind. I said,\n\"I wished to cause a more useless, than pardonable joke, but I--\" She\ndid not allow me to conclude, but mildly and unchanged (except by a\nreproving and a forgiving smile) she showed me in the aromatic book the\nnoble Karlson's requiem on the death of the exalted Gione. I willingly\ngive you the prosaic echo of it, from my prosaic memory.\n\n\n                          GRIEF WITHOUT HOPE.\n\nWhat cloud is that, which like the clouds of the tropics, passes from\nmorn to eve, and then sets? It is humanity. Is that the magnet-mountain\ncovered with the nails of wrecked ships? No, it is the great Earth,\nstrewed with the bones of fallen men.\n\nAh! why did I love? I had not then lost so much!\n\nNadine, give me thy grief, for it contains hope. Thou standest by thy\ncrushed sister, who dissolves even beneath the winding-sheet, and\nlookest upwards to the trembling stars, and thinkest: Above, O dearest\none, thou dost reside, and on the suns we find again our hearts, and\nthe small tears of life will be over.\n\nBut mine remain, and burn in the dim eye. My cypress alley is not open,\nand discloses no heaven. Human blood paints the fluid figure called man\non the monument, as oil on marble forms forests; Death wipes away the\nman, and leaves the stone. O Gione! I would have some consolation, if\nthou wert but far away from us all, on a clouded forest, in a cave of\nthe Earth, or on the most distant world in space. But thou art gone,\nthy soul is dead, not only thy life and thy body.\n\nSee, Nadine, on the judgment-seat of Time lies the crushed angel, with\nthe death color of the spirit-world. Gione has lost all her virtues,\nher love, her patience, her strength, her all-embracing heart, and her\nrich mind: the thunderbolt of Death has destroyed the diamond, and now\nthe wax statue of the body slowly melts beneath the soil.\n\nSerpent of Eternity, quickly take away the beautiful form, as the\nlarger serpent first poisons and then devours man. But I, Gione, stand\nbeside your ruins with unalleviated pain, with undestroyed soul; and\ngrieving, think of you until I also dissolve. And my grief is noble and\ndeep, for I have no hope! May thy invisible shadow-picture, like the\nnew moon with the sun,[27] arise to heaven in my soul! And may the\ncreative wheel of Time, which raises innumerable hearts, and fills them\nwith blood, only to pour them again into the grave, and let them die,\npour out my life slowly, for long time would I mourn for thee, thou\nlost one!\n\n\nI cannot tell you, dearest Victor, how horrible and fearful the eternal\nsnow of annihilating death seemed to me, placed beside the noble form\nit should have covered; how frightful the thought: if Karlson is right,\nthe last day has torn this never happy, innocent soul from the prisons\nupon the earth to the closer ones beneath it: man too often carries his\nerrors as his truths only as word arguments, not as feelings. But let\nthe disbeliever of immortality imagine a life of sixty minutes instead\nof sixty years, and let him try if he can bear to see loved, noble, or\nwise men only aimless, hour-long air-phantoms, hollow thin shadows\nwhich fly towards the light and are consumed by it, and who, without\npath, trace, or aim, after a short flight, dissolve into their former\nnight. No; even over him steals a supposition of immortality. Else a\nblack cloud would forever hang over his soul, and the earth would quake\nbeneath him when he trod on it, as if he were a Cain.\n\nI continued, but all arguments were poetized into feelings. \"Yes, if\nall forests of this earth were pleasure grottoes, all valleys Campan,\nall islands holy, all fields Elysian, and all eyes sparkling, yes,\nthen--no, even then the Eternal One would have given to our souls the\npromise of a future life, even in the blessedness of the present one.\nBut now, O God! when so many houses are mourning ones, so many fields\nbattle-fields, so many cheeks pale, and when we pass so many sunken,\nred, torn, closed eyes,--O, can death be but the last destroying\nwhirlwind? And when at last, after thousand, thousand years, our earth\nis dried up by the sun's heat, and every living sound on its surface\nsilenced, will an immortal spirit look down on the silent globe, and,\ngazing on the empty hearse moving slowly on, say: 'There the churchyard\nof humanity flies into the crater of the sun; on that burning heap many\nshadows, and dreamers, and wax-figures, have wept and bled, but now\nthey are all melted and consumed: Fly into the sun, which will also\ndissolve thee, thou silent desert with thy swallowed tears, with thy\ndried-up blood!' No, the crushed worm dares raise himself to his\nCreator, and say: 'Thou canst not have made me only to suffer.'\"\n\n\"And who gives the worm the right to this demand?\" asked Karlson.\n\nGione answered, gently, \"The Eternal One himself, who gives us charity\nand who speaks in all our souls to calm us, and who alone has created\nin us our demands to Him and our hope in Him.\"\n\nThis good sweet word could still not calm all the waves of my excited\nsoul. From a distant house, turtle-doves sent after us trembling,\nsoul-felt plaints. About my tear-filled inward eye assembled all those\nforms whose hearts were without guilt and without joy,[28] who attained\nno single wish here below, and who, sinking under the frost and\nsnow-storm of fate, only longed, like persons freezing to death, to\nsleep; and all those forms who have loved too deeply, and lost too\nmuch, and whose wounds were never cured until death had widened them,\nlike a cracked bell which retains its hollow sound until the crevice is\nmade larger, and the beings nearest me, and many other female ones,\nwhose exquisitely tender souls fate most consecrates to torture, as\nNarcissus is consecrated to the God of Hell. I also remembered your\ntrue remark, that you had never pronounced the words _pain_ and _the\npast_ before a woman, without hearing an almost inaudible sigh at the\nunion of the two words, from the suffering heart; for woman on the\nnarrower stage of her plans, with idealized wishes and desires built on\nothers' worth, rather than on her own, has a thousand times more\ndisappointments to suffer than we men.\n\nThe sun sank deeper behind the mountains, and giant shadows, like\nmighty birds of prey, came coldly down upon us from the eternal snow. I\ntook Karlson's hand in mine, and looked with tearful eyes into his\nmanly, beautiful countenance, and said, \"O Karlson! on what a blooming,\ngrand world you throw an immeasurable gravestone, which no time can\nlift! Are two difficulties,[29] based too on the _necessary ignorance_\nof man, sufficient to overthrow a belief, which explains thousand\ngreater difficulties, without which our existence is without aim, our\nsufferings without explanation, and the holy Trinity in our breast\nthree furies, and three terrible contradictions? A tending God's hand,\nleading and feeding the inner man (the child of the outer one),\nteaching him to go and to speak, educating, refining him, is shown in\nall things, from the shapeless earthworm to the brilliant human face,\nfrom the chaotic nations of the primitive ages to the present century,\nfrom the first faint pulsation of the invisible heart to its full,\nbold, throbbing pulse in manhood,--and why? That when man stands\nupright and exalted, a beautiful demi-god, even amid the ruins of his\nold body temple, the club of Death may annihilate the demi-god forever?\nAnd on the eternal sea, on which the least drop throws immeasurable\nrings, on this sea a life-long rising and a life-long falling of the\nsoul should have the same termination, namely, the end of all\nthings,--annihilation?[30] And as, from the same cause, the souls of\nall other worlds must fall and die with ours, and of this shroud and\ncrape-veiled immeasurability nothing remain but the ever-sowing and\nnever-reaping solitary world-spirit, who sees one eternity mourn for\nanother, there can be no aim and no object in the whole spiritual\nuniversum, for the purpose of the development of succeeding or\nsuccessive ephemera is no progress for the vanished ephemera, scarcely\neven for the last one which can never exist.[31] And you take for\ngranted all these enigmas and contradictions by which all the strings\nof creation, not only its harmony, are torn, because two difficulties\npresent themselves to you, which _cannot any better_ explain mortality\n... Dearest Karlson, you would bring your eternally jarring discord\ninto this harmony of the spheres! See how calmly the day goes, how\ngrandly the night sets in; did you not think that our spirit will rise\none day from its grave of ashes, when you saw the mild pale moon rise\ngrandly from the crater of Vesuvius?\" ... The sun stood on the\nmountains, about to plunge into the sea and swim to the new world.\nNadine embraced her sister with emotion, and said, \"O, we love each\nother forever and immortally, dearest sister.\" Karlson accidentally\ntouched the chords of the lyre which he carried: Gione took it from him\nwith one hand, gave him the other, and said, \"You are the only one\namong us who is tormented by this melancholy belief,--and you deserve\nto have one so beautiful!\"\n\nThis word of concealed love overpowered his long-filled heart, and two\nburning drops fell from the blinded eyes, and the sun gilded the holy\ntears, and he said, looking towards the mountains: \"I can bear no\nannihilation but my own,--my whole heart is of your opinion, and my\nhead must slowly follow.\"\n\nI will not again mention a man whom I have blamed so often.\n\nWe now stood before a mansion, the windows of which were silvered, and,\nwhen it was darker, gilt by girandoles. Aloft over its Italian balcony\nhung two balloons, one at its eastern, the other at its western\nextremity. Without those beautiful globes, the counterpart, as it were,\nof the two glorious ones in heaven, the sun and the moon, I should have\nscarcely paid heed to the scene on earth, in the splendor of the one on\nhigh.\n\nDearest friend, how beautiful was the place and the time. Around us,\nin their majesty, reposed the Pyrenees, half robed in night and half\nin day, not stooping, like man, beneath the load of years, but\nerect--forever; and I felt why the great ancients had thought the\nmountains were a breed of giants. On the mountain heads hung wreaths of\nroses cloud-woven; but each time that a star appeared upon the clear,\ndeep sea of ether and sparkled on its azure waves, a rose from the\nmountain's chaplet faded and dropped away. The Mittaghorn, alone, like\na higher spirit, gazed long after the sinking lonely sun, and glowed\nwith ecstasy. Down beneath us an amphitheatre of lemon-trees, by its\nperfumes, brought us back to the veiled earth, and made a dusky\nparadise of it. And Gione, in calm rapture, struck the chords of her\nguitar, and softly did Nadine's voice accompany the gliding tones. The\nnightingale in the rose-hedges by the lake awoke, and the plaintive\ntones from its tiny heart pierced deep into the great heart of man; and\nshining glowworms flew from rose-bush to rose-bush, but in the mirror\nof the lake they were but as golden sparks, floating over pale yellow\nflowers. But when we looked again towards the heavens, lo! all its\nstars were gleaming, and in place of rose-woven wreaths, the mountains\nwere clad in extinguished rainbows, and the giant of the Pyrenees was\ncrowned with stars instead of roses. O my beloved Victor! in this\nmoment it was with each of our enraptured souls as if from its\noppressed heart earth's load had dropped away; as if from her mother's\narms, the earth were giving us, matured in the Father arms of the\ninfinite Creator; as if our little life were over! To ourselves, we\nseemed the immortal, the exalted. We fancied that our speech of man's\nimmortality had been the prophecy of our own, as with two great and\nnoble men.[32] But though we entered the brilliant rooms, the storm of\nnew joys could not destroy the old ones. We were not yet able to be\nwithout the great night around us, and we ascended the platform, that\nfrom this little throne we might better contemplate the higher throne\nof creation beneath the eternal canopy; although kneeling would have\nbeen a higher ascension for the moved soul.\n\nThere were night-violets in a glass box, which traced Gione's name in\nblooming colors. I remembered the glowworms and millipeds. I let the\nformer fly down upon the rose-bushes in confused star-pictures; with\nthe latter I fired Gione's beautiful flower namesake.\n\nGione looked longingly towards the eastern Mongolfiere. Wilhelmi\nunderstood her. Her soul was as bold as it was calm, she had already\nvisited many of the magic caves of earth, and had ascended to the\nsummits of the highest Alps; she wished now to rise in the air, and to\nfloat in the heavens above this beautiful country, and on this\nbeauteous night; but the enjoyment of the prospect was not her only\nmotive. Wilhelmi asked who should be her companion. Solitude was her\nchief desire. The breadth and depth of the boat under the globe, a\nchair in it, and the cords by which she would be raised and lowered,\nsecured the trip from all danger.\n\nLike a celestial being she rose beneath the stars,--the night and the\nheight threw a mist over her rising form. A slight zephyr rocked the\nblooming Aurora, and crowned the moving goddess with alternate\nconstellations. Now her countenance appeared surrounded by pale\nsupernatural rays. It seemed bright as an angel rising towards its\nkindred stars through the rich dark blue space. An unusual tremor\nseized on Wilhelmi and Karlson; it was as if they saw their beloved one\nagain carried from them on the wings of the angel of Death.\n\nWhen she returned to us her eyes were red with weeping; she had\nascended, that she might in an unseen moment, shed her old heavy tears\nnear the stars. O the Celestial one! She smiled strangely in the\nslumber of this life at higher joys than earthly ones, as sleeping\nchildren smile when they see Angels.\n\nIt was now impossible to repress my longing for the stars, and my\npetition to be allowed to ascend. Permission to use the western\nMongolfiere was willingly bestowed. Nadine, emboldened by the safe\nreturn of her sister, and by the companion in the danger, skipped into\nthe boat, with her usual impulsive warmth, to refresh her thirsting\nsoul with the majestic immeasurability of night.\n\nAnd now the suns raised us. The heavy earth sank down as the past;\nwings such as man has in happy dreams bore us upwards.\n\nThe mighty vacancy and silence of space lay stretched before us even up\ninto the stars;--as we rose higher, the dark forests seemed but clouds,\nand snow-girt mountaintops like snow-flakes. The ascending globe bore\nus nearer to the harmless, silent lightning of the moon, in whose\nbright satellite we seemed cradled, and which stood as a calm Elysium\nbeneath the heavens, and high above the thick fog air, the light heart\nbeating more quickly, seemed to pant with ethereal gladness to have\nleft the earth with out discarding its shell covering. Our ascent was\nsuddenly arrested--we looked down into the valley, half concealed by\ndistance and the darkness of the night. Only the lights from the\nmansion were visible to us,--a western cloud hung like a white fog\nbefore us, and a black eagle flew like an angel of death from the east\nthrough the cloud pillar, seeking its summit, and a cool breeze\nplayfully drew us towards the mist-island. The evening red had already\npassed the earth at midnight, and wandered over charming France as its\nfuture Aurora. O, how the soul was raised towards the stars, and how\nlightly did our hearts beat above the earth!\n\nBut now from the bright mansion arose sweet harmony, and the subdued\necho of the voices of our beloved ones calling upon us. And when Nadine\nlooked down, her lonely heart broke with longing after those dear ones;\nand when she glanced into the silvered valley, over which the moon had\nrisen, and where the trembling waterfalls danced beside the flowing\narchings of the stream and the green marble caves, and the white paths\nbetween poplars and wheat-ears, and the whole enchanting path of our\nday's journey lay silvered beneath her inconstant rays,--bright,\nshining tears flowed unrestrained from her mild eyes, and she looked\nimploringly to me, as if begging for consideration and secrecy, and\nsaid expressively, \"We are yet so far from the cruel earth.\"\n\nWhen our little globe was drawn back to the shining meadows and the\nmerry music, she looked inquiringly at me, to ask if the traces of\ntears yet remained in her eyes. She dried them more quickly, but in\nvain. Silently we descended; I took her burning hand in mine, and\nlooked into her weeping eyes, but could not speak.... --And how could I\nspeak better now, dearest friend!\n\n\n\n\n\n                                  LIFE\n\n                                   OF\n\n                            QUINTUS FIXLEIN.\n\n                             EXTRACTED FROM\n\n                         FIFTEEN LETTER-BOXES.\n\n                     TRANSLATED BY THOMAS CARLYLE.\n\n\n\n\n                         LETTER TO MY FRIENDS,\n                          INSTEAD OF PREFACE.\n\n\nMerchants, Authors, young Ladies, and Quakers, call all persons, with\nwhom they have any business, Friends; and my readers accordingly are my\ntable and college Friends. Now, at this time, I am about presenting so\nmany hundred Friends with just as many hundred gratis copies; and my\nBookseller has orders to supply each on request, after the Fair, with\nhis copy--in return for a trifling consideration and _don gratuit_ to\nprinters, pressmen, and other such persons. But as I could not, like\nthe French authors, send the whole Edition to the binder, the blank\nleaf in front was necessarily wanting; and thus to write a\ncomplimentary word or two upon it was out of my power. I have therefore\ncaused a few white leaves to be inserted directly after the title-page;\non these we are now printing.\n\nMy Book contains the Life of a Schoolmaster, extracted and compiled\nfrom various public and private documents. With this Biography, dear\nFriends, it is the purpose of the Author not so much to procure you a\npleasure as to teach you how to enjoy one. In truth, King Xerxes should\nhave offered his prize-medals, not for the invention of new pleasures,\nbut for a good methodology and directory to use the old ones.\n\nOf ways for becoming happier (not happy) I could never inquire out more\nthan three. The first, rather an elevated road, is this: to soar away\nso far above the clouds of life, that you see the whole external world,\nwith its wolf-dens, charnel-houses, and thunder-rods, lying far down\nbeneath you, shrunk into a little child's garden. The second is: simply\nto sink down into this little garden; and there to nestle yourself so\nsnugly, so homewise, in some furrow, that, in looking out from your\nwarm lark-nest, you likewise can discern no wolf-dens, charnel-houses,\nor thunder-rods, but only blades and ears, every one of which, for the\nnest-bird, is a tree, and a sun-screen, and a rain-screen. The third,\nfinally, which I look upon as the hardest and cunningest, is that of\nalternating between the other two.\n\nThis I shall now satisfactorily expound to men at large.\n\nThe Hero, the Reformer, your Brutus, your Howard, your Republican, he\nwhom civic storm, or genius poetic storm, impels; in short, every\nmortal with a great Purpose, or even a perennial Passion (were it but\nthat of writing the largest folios); all these men fence themselves in\nby their internal world against the frosts and heats of the external,\nas the madman in a worse sense does; every _fixed_ idea, such as rules\nevery genius, every enthusiast, at least periodically, separates and\nelevates a man above the bed and board of this Earth, above its\nDog's-grottoes, buckthorns, and Devil's-walls; like the Bird of\nParadise, he slumbers flying; and, on his outspread pinions, oversleeps\nunconsciously the earthquakes and conflagrations of Life, in his long,\nfair dream of his ideal Mother-land.--Alas! To few is this dream\ngranted; and these few are so often awakened by Flying Dogs![33]\n\nThis skyward track, however, is fit only for the winged portion of the\nhuman species, for the smallest. What can it profit poor quill-driving\nbrethren, whose souls have not even wing-shells, to say nothing of\nwings? Or these tethered persons with the best back, breast, and\nneck-fins, who float motionless in the wicker Fish-box of the State,\nand are not allowed to swim, because the Box or State, long ago tied to\nthe shore, itself swims in the name of the Fishes? To the whole\nstanding and writing host of heavy-laden State-domestics, Purveyors,\nClerks of all departments, and all the lobsters packed together heels\nover head into the Lobster-basket of the Government office-rooms, and\nfor refreshments, sprinkled over with a few nettles; to these persons,\nwhat way of becoming happy _here_ can I possibly point out?\n\nMy _second_ merely; and that is as follows: to take a compound\nmicroscope, and with it to discover, and convince themselves, that\ntheir drop of Burgundy is properly a Red Sea, that butterfly-dust is\npeacock-feathers, mouldiness a flowery-field, and sand a heap of\njewels. These microscopic recreations are more lasting than all\ncostly watering-place recreations.--But I must explain these metaphors\nby new ones. The purpose for which I have sent _Fixlein's Life_\ninto the Messrs. Luebeks' Warehouse, is simply that in this same\n_Life_--therefore in this Preface it is less needful--I may show to the\nwhole Earth that we ought to value little joys more than great ones, the\nnight-gown more than the dress-coat; that Plutus's heaps are worth less\nthan his handfuls, the plum than the penny for a rainy day; and that\nnot great, but little good-haps can make us happy.--Can I accomplish\nthis, I shall, through means of my Book, bring up for Posterity a race\nof men finding refreshment in all things; in the warmth of their rooms\nand of their night-caps; in their pillows; in the three High Festivals;\nin mere Apostles' days; in the Evening Moral Tales of their wives, when\nthese gentle persons have been forth as ambassadresses visiting some\nDowager Residence, whither the husband could not be persuaded; in the\nbloodletting-day of these their newsbringers; in the day of\nslaughtering, salting, potting against the rigor of grim winter; and in\nall such days. You perceive, my drift is, that man must become a little\nTailor-bird, which, not amid the crashing boughs of the storm-tost,\nroaring, immeasurable tree of Life, but on one of its leaves, sews\nitself a nest together, and there lies snug. The most essential sermon\none could preach to our century were a sermon on the duty of staying at\nhome.\n\nThe _third_ skyward road is the alternation between the other two. The\nforegoing _second_ way is not good enough for man, who here on Earth\nshould take into his hand not the Sickle only, but also the Plough. The\n_first_ is too good for him. He has not always the force, like\nRugendas, in the midst of the Battle to compose Battle-pieces; and,\nlike Backhuisen in the Shipwreck, to clutch at no board but the\ndrawing-board to paint it on. And then his pains are not less lasting\nthan his _fatigues_. Still oftener is Strength denied its Arena; it is\nbut the smallest portion of life that, to a working soul, offers Alps,\nRevolutions, Rhine-falls, Worms Diets, and Wars with Xerxes; and for\nthe whole it is better so; the longer portion of life is a field beaten\nflat as a threshing-floor, without lofty Gothard Mountains; often it is\na tedious ice-field, without a single glacier tinged with dawn.\n\nBut even by walking, a man rests and recovers himself for climbing; by\nlittle joys and duties, for great. The victorious Dictator must\ncontrive to plough down his battle Mars-field into a flax and carrot\nfield; to transform his theatre of war into a parlor theatre, on which\nhis children may enact some good pieces from the _Children's Friend_.\nCan he accomplish this, can he turn so softly from the path of poetical\nhappiness into that of household happiness,--then is he little\ndifferent from myself, who even now, though modesty might forbid me to\ndisclose it--who even now, I say, amid the creation of this Letter,\nhave been enabled to reflect, that, when it is done, so also will the\nRoses and Elder-berries of pastry be done, which a sure hand is\nseething in butter for the Author of this Work.\n\nAs I purpose appending to this Letter a Postscript (at the end of the\nBook), I reserve somewhat which I had to say about the Third[34]\nhalf-satirical, half-philosophical part of the Work till that\nopportunity.\n\nHere, out of respect for the rights of a Letter, the Author drops his\nhalf anonymity,[35] and for the first time subscribes himself with his\nwhole true name,\n\n                              Jean Paul Friedrich Richter.\n\n_Hof in Voigtland, 29th June_, 1795.\n\n\n\n\n\n                        LIFE OF QUINTUS FIXLEIN,\n                         DOWN TO OUR OWN TIMES.\n                        IN FIFTEEN LETTER-BOXES.\n\n\n                           FIRST LETTER-BOX.\n\n         Dog-days' Vacation.--Visits.--An Indigent of Quality.\n\n\nEgidius Zebedaeus Fixlein had just for eight days been Quintus,[36] and\nfairly commenced teaching duties, when Fortune tabled out for him four\nrefreshing courses and collations, besprinkled with flowers and sugar.\nThese were the four canicular weeks. I could find in my heart, at this\nhour, to pat the cranium of that good man who invented the Dog-days'\nVacation. I never go to walk in that season, without thinking how a\nthousand down-pressed pedagogic persons are now erecting themselves in\nthe open air; and the stiff knapsack is lying unbuckled at their feet,\nand they can seek whatsoever their soul desires; butterflies,--or roots\nof numbers,--or roots of words,--or herbs,--or their native villages.\n\nThe last did our Fixlein. He moved not, however, till Sunday,--for you\nlike to know how holidays taste in the city; and then, in company with\nhis Shock and a Quintaner, or Fifth-Form boy, who carried his Green\nnightgown, he issued through the gate in the morning. The dew was still\nlying; and as he reached the back of the gardens, the children of the\nOrphan Hospital were uplifting with clear voices their morning hymn.\nThe city was Flachsenfingen, the village Hukelum, the dog Schil, and\nthe year of Grace 1791.\n\n\"Manikin,\" said he, to the Quintaner, for he liked to speak, as Love,\nchildren, and the people of Vienna do, in diminutives, \"Manikin, give\nme the bundle to the village; run about, and seek thee a little\nbird, as thou art thyself, and so have something to pet too in\nvacation-time.\" For the manikin was at once his page, lackey,\nroom-comrade, train-bearer, and gentleman in waiting; and the Shock\nalso was his manikin.\n\nHe stept slowly along, through the crisped cole-beds, overlaid with\ncolored beads of dew; and looked at the bushes, out of which, when the\nmorning wind bent them asunder, there seemed to start a flight of\njewel-colibri, so brightly did they glitter. From time to time he\ndrew the bell-rope of his--whistle, that the manikin might, not skip\naway too far; and he shortened his league and half of road, by\nmeasuring it not in leagues, but in villages. It is more pleasant for\npedestrians--for geographers it is not--to count by wersts than by\nmiles. In walking, our Quintus furthermore got by heart the few fields\non which the grain was already reaped.\n\nBut now roam slower, Fixlein, through His Lordship's garden of Hukelum;\nnot, indeed, lest thy coat sweep away any tulip-stamina, but that thy\ngood mother may have time to lay her Cupid's-band of black taffeta\nabout her smooth brow. I am grieved to think my fair readers take it\nill of her, that she means first to iron this same band; they cannot\nknow that she has no maid; and that to-day the whole Preceptorial\ndinner--the money purveyances the guest has made over to her three days\nbefore--is to be arranged and prepared by herself, without the aid of\nany Mistress of the Household whatever; for indeed she belongs to the\n_Tiers Etat_, being neither more nor less than a gardener's widow.\n\nYou can figure how this true, warm-hearted mother may have lain in wait\nall morning for her Schoolman, whom she loved as the apple of her eye;\nsince, on the whole populous Earth, she had not (her first son, as well\nas her husband, was dead) any other for her soul, which indeed\noverflowed with love; not any other but her Zebedaeus. Could she ever\ntell you aught about him, I mean aught joyful, without ten times wiping\nher eyes? Nay, did she not once divide her solitary Kirmes (or\nChurchale) cake between two mendicant students, because she thought\nHeaven would punish her for so feasting, while her boy in Leipzig had\nnothing to feast on, and must pass the cake-garden like other gardens,\nmerely smelling at it?\n\n\"Dickens! Thou already, Zebedaeus!\" said the mother, giving an\nembarrassed smile, to keep from weeping, as the son, who had ducked\npast the window, and crossed the grassy threshold without knocking,\nsuddenly entered. For joy she forgot to put the heater into the\nsmoothing-iron, as her illustrious scholar, amid the loud boiling of\nthe soup, tenderly kissed her brow, and even said Mamma; a name\nwhich lighted on her breast like downy silk. All the windows were open;\nand the garden, with its flower-essences, and bird-music, and\nbutterfly-collections, was almost half within the room. But I\nsuppose I have not yet mentioned that the little garden-house, rather a\nchamber than a house, was situated on the western cape of the Castle\ngarden. The owner had graciously allowed the widow to retain this\ndowager-mansion; as indeed the mansion would otherwise have stood\nempty, for he now kept no gardener.\n\nBut Fixlein, in spite of his joy, could not stay long with her; being\nbound for the Church, which, to his spiritual appetite, was at all\ntimes a king's kitchen; a mother's. A sermon pleased him simply because\nit was a sermon, and because he himself had once preached one. The\nmother was contented he should go; these good women think they enjoy\ntheir guests, if they can only give them aught to enjoy.\n\nIn the choir, this Free-haven and Ethnic Forecourt of stranger\nchurch-goers, he smiled on all parishioners; and, as in his childhood,\nstanding under the wooden wing of an archangel, he looked down on the\ncoifed _parterre_. His young years now enclosed him like children in\ntheir smiling circle; and a long garland wound itself in rings among\nthem, and by fits they plucked flowers from it, and threw them in his\nface. Was it not old Senior Astman that stood there on the pulpit\nParnassus, the man by whom he had been so often flogged, while\nacquiring Greek with him from a grammar written in Latin, which he\ncould not explain, yet was forced to walk by the light of? Stood there\nnot behind the pulpit-stairs the sacristy-cabin, and in this was there\nnot a church-library of consequence--no school-boy could have buckled\nit wholly in his book-strap--lying under the minever cover of pastil\ndust? And did it not consist of the Polyglot in folio, which he,\nspurred on by Pfeiffer's _Critica Sacra_, had turned up leaf by leaf,\nin his early years, excerpting therefrom the _literae inversae majusculae\nminusculae_, and so forth, with an immensity of toil? And could he not\nat present, the sooner the more readily, have wished to cast this\nalphabetic soft-fodder into the Hebrew letter-trough, whereto your\nOriental Rhizophagi (Rooteaters) are tied, especially as here they get\nso little vowel hard-fodder to keep them in heart?--Stood there not\nclose by him the organ-stool, the throne to which, every Apostle-day,\nthe Schoolmaster had by three nods elevated him, thence to fetch down\nthe sacred hyssop, the sprinkler of the Church?\n\nMy readers themselves will gather spirits when they now hear that our\nQuintus, during the outshaking of the poor-bag, was invited by the\nSenior to come over in the afternoon; and to them it will be little\nless gratifying than if he had invited themselves. But what will they\nsay, when they get home with him to mother and dinner-table, both\nalready clad in their white Sunday dress; and behold the large cake\nwhich Fraeulein Thiennette (Stephanie) has rolled from her peel? In the\nfirst place, however, they will wish to know who _she_ is.\n\nShe is,--for if (according to Lessing), in the very excellence of the\nIliad, we neglect the personalities of its author; the same thing will\napply to the fate of several authors, for instance, to my own; but an\nauthoress of cakes must not be forgotten in the excellence of her\nbaking,--Thiennette is a poor, indigent, insolvent young lady; has not\nmuch, except years, of which she counts five-and-twenty; no near\nrelations living now; no acquirements (for in literature she does not\neven know _Werter_) except economical; reads no books, not even mine;\ninhabits, that is, watches like a wardeness, quite alone, the thirteen\nvoid, disfurnished chambers of the Castle of Hukelum, which belongs to\nthe Dragoon Rittmeister Aufhammer, at present resident in his other\nmansion of Schadeck; on occasion, she commands and feeds his soccagers\nand handmaids; and can write herself By the grace of God--which, in the\nthirteenth century, the country nobles did as well as princes,--for she\nlives by the grace of man, at least of woman, the Lady Rittmeisterinn\nAufhammer's grace, who, at all times, blesses those vassals whom her\nhusband curses. But, in the breast of the orphaned Thiennette, lay a\nsugared marchpane heart, which, for very love, you could have devoured;\nher fate was hard, but her soul was soft; she was modest, courteous,\nand timid, but too much so;--cheerfully and coldly she received the\nmost cutting humiliations in Schadeck, and felt no pain, and not till\nsome days after did she see it all clearly, and then these cuts began\nsharply to bleed, and she wept in her loneliness over her lot.\n\nIt is hard for me to give a light tone, after this deep one, and to\nadd, that Fixlein had been almost brought up beside her, and that she,\nhis school-moiety over with the Senior, while the latter was training\nhim for the dignities of the Third Form, had learned the _Verba\nAnomala_ along with him.\n\nThe Achilles'-shield of the cake, jagged and embossed with carved work\nof brown scales, was whirling round in the Quintus like a swing-wheel\nof hungry and thankful ideas. Of that philosophy which despises eating,\nand of that high breeding which wastes it, he had not so much about him\nas belongs to the ungratefulness of such cultivated persons; but for\nhis platter of meat, for his dinner of herbs, he could never give\nthanks enough.\n\nInnocent and contented, the quadruple dinner-party--for the Shock with\nhis cover under the stove cannot be omitted--now began their Feast of\nSweet Bread, their Feast of Honor for Thiennette, their Grove-feast in\nthe garden. It may truly be a subject of wonder how a man who has not,\nlike the King of France, four hundred and forty-eight persons (the\nhundred and sixty-one _Garcons de la Maisonbouche_ I do not reckon) in\nhis kitchen, nor a _Fruiterie_ of thirty-one human bipeds, nor a\nPastry-cookery of three-and-twenty, nor a daily expenditure of 387\nLivres 21 Sous,--how such a man, I say, can eat with any satisfaction.\nNevertheless, to me, a cooking mother is as dear as a whole royal\ncooking household, given rather to feed upon me than to feed me.--The\nmost precious fragments which the Biographer and the World can\ngather from this meal consist of here and there an edifying piece of\ntable-talk. The mother had much to tell. Thiennette is this night, she\nmentions, for the first time, to put on her morning promenade-dress of\nwhite muslin, as also a satin girdle and steel buckle; but, adds she,\nit will not sit her; as the Rittmeisterinn (for this lady used to hang\nher cast clothes on Thiennette, as Catholics do their cast crutches and\nsores on their patron Saints) was much thicker. Good women grudge each\nother nothing save only clothes, husbands, and flax. In the fancy of\nthe Quintus, by virtue of this apparel, a pair of angel pinions were\nsprouting forth from the shoulder-blades of Thiennette; for him a\ngarment was a sort of hollow half-man, to whom only the nobler parts\nand the first principles were wanting; he honored these wrappages and\nhulls of our interior, not as an Elegant, or a Critic of Beauty, but\nbecause it was not possible for him to despise aught which he saw\nothers honoring. Further, the good mother read to him, as it were, the\nmonumental inscription of his father, who had sunk into the arms of\nDeath in the thirty-second year of his age, from a cause which I\nexplain not here, but in a future Letter-box, having too much affection\nfor the reader. Our Quintus could not sate himself with hearing of his\nfather.\n\nThe fairest piece of news was, that Fraeulein Thiennette had sent word\nto-day, \"he might visit Her Ladyship to-morrow, as My Lord, his\ngodfather, was to be absent in town.\" This, however, I must explain.\nOld Aufhammer was called _Egidius_, and was Fixlein's godfather; but\nhe--though the Rittmeisterinn duly covered the cradle of the child with\nnightly offerings, with flesh-tithes and grain-tithes--had frugally\nmade him no christening present, except that of his name, which\nproved to be the very balefullest. For, our _Egidius_ Fixlein, with his\nShock, which, by reason of the French convulsions, had, in company with\nother emigrants, run off from Nantes, was but lately returned from\ncollege--when he and his dog, as ill-luck would have it, went to walk\nin the Hukelum wood. Now, as the Quintus was ever and anon crying out\nto his attendant: \"Coosh, Schil\" (_Couche Gilles_), it must apparently\nhave been the Devil that had just then planted the Lord of Aufhammer\namong the trees and bushes in such a way, that this whole travestying\nand docking of his name--for Gilles means Egidius--must fall directly\ninto his ear. Fixlein could neither speak French, nor any offence to\nmortal; he knew not head or tail of what _couche_ signified; a word,\nwhich, in Paris, even the plebeian dogs are now in the habit of saying\nto their _valets de chiens_. But there were three things which Von\nAufhammer never recalled,--his error, his anger, and his word. The\nprovokee, therefore, determined that the plebeian provoker and\nhonor-stealer should never more speak to him, or--get a doit from him.\n\nI return. After dinner he gazed out of the little window into the\ngarden, and saw his path of life dividing into four branches, leading\ntowards just as many skyward Ascensions; towards the Ascension into the\nParsonage, and that into the Castle to Thiennette, for this day; and\ntowards the third into Schadeck for the morrow; and lastly, into every\nhouse in Hukelum as the fourth. And now, when the mother had long\nenough kept cheerfully gliding about on tiptoe, \"not to disturb him in\nstudying his Latin Bible\" (the _Vulgata_), that is, in reading the\n_Litteraturzeitung_, he at last rose to his own feet; and the humble\njoy of the mother ran long after the courageous son, who dared to go\nforth and speak to a Senior, quite unappalled. Yet it was not without\nreverence that he entered the dwelling of his old, rather gray than\nbald-headed, teacher, who was not only Virtue itself, but also Hunger,\neating frequently, and with the appetite of Pharaoh's lean kine. A\nschoolman that expects to become a professor will scarcely deign to\ncast an eye on a pastor; but one who is himself looking up to a\nparsonage as to his working-house and breeding-house, knows how to\nvalue such a character. The new parsonage--as if it had, like a _Casa\nSanta_, come flying out of Erlang, or the Berlin Friedrichs-strasse,\nand alighted in Hukelum--was for the Quintus a Temple of the Sun, and\nthe Senior a Priest of the Sun. To be Parson there himself was a\nthought overlaid with virgin honey; such a thought as occurs but one\nother time in History, namely, in the head of Hannibal, when he\nprojected stepping over the Alps, that is to say, over the threshold of\nRome.\n\nThe landlord and his guest formed an excellent _bureau d'esprit_;\npeople of office, especially of the same office, have more to tell each\nother, namely, their own history, than your idle May-chafers and\nCourt-celestials, who must speak only of other people's.--The Senior\nmade a soft transition from his iron-ware (in the stable furniture), to\nthe golden age of his Academic life, of which such people like as much\nto think, as poets do of their childhood. So good as he was, he still\nhalf joyfully recollected that he had once been less so; but joyful\nremembrances of wrong actions are their half repetition, as repentant\nremembrances of good ones are their half abolishment.\n\nCourteously and kindly did Zebedaeus (who could not even enter in his\nNotebook the name of a person of quality without writing an H. for Herr\nbefore it) listen to the Academic Saturnalia of the old gentleman, who\nin Wittenberg had toped as well as written, and thirsted not more for\nthe Hippocrene than for Gukguk.[37]\n\nHerr Jerusalem has observed that the barbarism, which often springs up\nclose on the brightest efflorescence of the sciences, is a sort of\nstrengthening mud-bath, good for averting the over-refinement wherewith\nsuch efflorescence always threatens us. I believe that a man who\nconsiders how high the sciences have mounted with our upper\nclasses,--for instance with every Patrician's son in Nuernberg, to whom\nthe public must present 1000 florins for studying with,--I believe that\nsuch a man will not grudge the Son of the Muses a certain barbarous\nMiddle-age (the Burschen or Student Life, as it is called), which may\nagain so case-harden him that his refinement shall not go beyond the\nlimits. The Senior, while in Wittenberg, had protected the one hundred\nand eighty Academic Freedoms--so many of them has Petrus Rebuffus\nsummed up[38]--against prescription, and lost none except his moral\none, of which truly a man, even in a convent, can seldom make much.\nThis gave our Quintus courage to relate certain pleasant somersets of\nhis own, which at Leipzig, under the Incubus-pressure of poverty, he\nhad contrived to execute. Let us hear him. His landlord, who was at the\nsame time Professor and Miser, maintained in his enclosed court a whole\ncommunity of hens. Fixlein, in company with three room-mates, without\ndifficulty mastered the rent of a chamber, or closet. In general their\nmain equipments, like Ph[oe]nixes, existed but in the singular number:\none bed, in which always the one pair slept before midnight, the other\nafter midnight, like nocturnal watchmen; one coat, in which one after\nthe other they appeared in public, and which, like a watch-coat, was\nthe national uniform of the company; and several other _ones_,\nUnities both of Interest and Place. Nowhere can you collect the\nstress-memorials and siege-medals of Poverty more pleasantly and\nphilosophically than at College; the Academic burgher exhibits to us\nhow many humorists and Diogeneses Germany has in it. Our Unitarians had\njust one thing four times, and that was hunger. The Quintus related,\nperhaps with a too pleasurable enjoyment of the recollection, how one\nof this famishing _coro_ invented means of appropriating the\nProfessor's hens as just tribute, or subsidies. He said (he was a\nJurist), they must once for all borrow a legal fiction from the Feudal\ncode, and look on the Professor as the soccage tenant, to whom the\nusufruct of the hen-yard and hen-house belonged; but on themselves as\nthe feudal superiors of the same, to whom accordingly the vassal was\nbound to pay his feudal dues. And now, that the Fiction might follow\nNature, continued he--\"_fictio sequitur naturam_,\"--it behooved them to\nlay hold of said Yule-hens, by direct personal distraint. But into the\ncourt-yard there was no getting. The feudalist, therefore, prepared a\nfishing-line; stuck a bread-pill on the hook, and lowered his\nfishing-tackle, anglewise, down into the court. In a few seconds the\nbarb stuck in a hen's throat, and the hen, now communicating with its\nfeudal superior, could silently, like ships by Archimedes, be heaved\naloft to the hungry air-fishing society, where, according to\ncircumstances, the proper feudal name and title of possession failed\nnot to be awaiting her; for the updrawn fowls were now denominated\nChristmas-fowls, now Forest-hens, Bailiff-hens, Pentecost and\nSummer-hens. \"I begin,\" said the angling lord of the manor, \"with\ntaking _Rutcher-dues_, for so we call the triple and quintuple of the\noriginal quitrent, when the vassal, as is the case here, has long\nneglected payment.\" The Professor, like any other prince, observed with\nsorrow the decreasing population of his hen-yard, for his subjects,\nlike the Hebrews, were dying by enumeration. At last he had the\nhappiness, while reading his lecture--he was just come to the subject\nof _Forest Salt and Coin Regalities_--to descry through the window of\nhis auditorium a quitrent hen suspended, like Ignatius Loyola in\nprayer, or Juno in her punishment, in middle-air. He followed the\nincomprehensible direct ascension of the aeronautic animal, and\nat last descried at the upper window the attracting artist, and\nanimal-magnetizer, who had drawn his lot for dinner from the hen-yard\nbelow. Contrary to all expectation, he terminated this fowling sport\nsooner than his Lecture on Regalities.\n\nFixlein walked home, amid the vesperal melodies of the steeple\nsounding-holes; and by the road courteously took off his hat before the\nempty windows of the Castle. Houses of quality were to him like persons\nof quality, as in India the Pagoda at once represents the temple and\nthe god. To the mother he brought feigned compliments, which she repaid\nwith authentic ones; for this afternoon she had been over, with\nher historical tongue and nature-interrogating eye, visiting the\nwhite-muslin Thiennette. The mother was wont to show her every\nspare-penny which he dropped into her large empty purse, and so raise\nhim in the good graces of the Fraeulein; for women feel their hearts\nmuch more attracted towards a son, who tenderly reserves for a mother\nsome of their benefits, than we do to a daughter anxiously caring for\nher father; perhaps from a hundred causes, and this among the rest,\nthat in their experience of sons and husbands they are more used to\nfind these persons mere six-feet thunder-clouds, forked waterspouts, or\neven reposing tornadoes.\n\nBlessed Quintus! on whose Life this other distinction, like an order of\nnobility, does also shine, that thou canst tell it over to thy mother;\nas, for example, this past afternoon in the parsonage. Thy joy flows\ninto another heart, and streams back from it, redoubled, into thy own.\nThere is a closer approximating of hearts, and also of sounds, than\nthat of the _Echo_; the highest approximation melts Tone and Echo into\n_Resonance_ together.\n\nIt is historically certain that both of them supped this evening; and\nthat instead of the whole dinner fragments which to-morrow might\nthemselves represent a dinner, nothing but the cake-offering or pudding\nwas laid upon the altar of the table. The mother, who for her own child\nwould willingly have neglected not herself only, but all other people,\nnow made a motion that to the Quintaner, who was sporting out of doors\nand baiting a bird instead of himself, there should no crumb of the\nprecious pastry be given, but only table-bread without the crust. But\nthe Schoolman had a Christian disposition, and said that it was Sunday,\nand the young man liked something delicate to eat as well as he.\nFixlein--the counterpart of great men and geniuses--was inclined to\ntreat, to gift, to gratify a serving housemate, rather than a man who\nis for the first time passing through the gate, and at the next\npost-stage will forget both his hospitable landlord and the last\npostmaster. On the whole, our Quintus had a touch of honor in him, and\nnotwithstanding his thrift and sacred regard for money, he willingly\ngave it away in cases of honor, and unwillingly in cases of\noverpowering sympathy, which too painfully filled the cavities of his\nheart, and emptied those of his purse. Whilst the Quintaner was\nexercising the _jus compascui_ on the cake, and six arms were\npeacefully resting on Thiennette's free-table, Fixlein read to himself\nand the company the Flachsenfingen Address-calendar; any higher thing,\nexcept Meusel's _Gelehrtes Deutschland_,[39] he could not figure; the\nKammerherrs and Raths of the Calendar went tickling over his tongue\nlike the raisins of the cake; and of the more rich church-livings he,\nby reading, as it were levied a tithe.\n\nHe purposely remained his own Edition in Sunday Wove-paper; I mean, he\ndid not lay away his Sunday coat, even when the Prayer-bell tolled; for\nhe had still much to do.\n\nAfter supper he was just about visiting the Fraeulein, when he descried\nher in person, like a lily dipped in the red twilight, in the Castle\ngarden, whose western limit his house constituted, the southern one\nbeing the Chinese wall of the Castle.... By the way, how I got to the\nknowledge of all this, what Letter-boxes are, whether I myself was ever\nthere, &c., &c.--the whole of this shall, upon my life, be soon and\nfaithfully communicated to the reader, and that too in the present\nBook.\n\nFixlein hopped forth like a Will-o'-wisp into the garden, whose\nflower-perfume was mingling with his supper-perfume. No one bowed\nlower to a nobleman than he, not out of plebeian servility, nor of\nself-interested cringing, but because he thought \"a nobleman was a\nnobleman.\" But in this case his bow, instead of falling forwards, fell\nobliquely to the right, as it were after his hat; for he had not risked\ntaking a stick with him; and hat and stick were his proppage and\nbalance-wheel, in short, his bowing-gear, without which it was out of\nhis power to produce any courtly bow, had you offered him the High\nChurch of Hamburg for so doing. Thiennette's mirthfulness soon unfolded\nhis crumpled soul into straight form, and into the proper tone. He\ndelivered her a long, neat Thanksgiving and Harvest sermon for the\nscaly cake; which appeared to her at once kind and tedious. Young women\nwithout the polish of high life reckon tedious pedantry, merely like\nsnuffing, one of the necessary ingredients of a man; they reverence us\ninfinitely; and as Lambert could never speak to the King of Prussia, by\nreason of his sun-eyes, except in the dark, so they, I believe, often\nlike better--also by reason of our sublime air--if they can catch us in\nthe dark too. _Him_ Thiennette edified by the Imperial History of Herr\nvon Aufhammer and Her Ladyship his spouse, who meant to put him, the\nQuintus, in her will; _her_ he edified by his Literary History, as\nrelating to himself and the Subrector; how, for instance, he was at\npresent vicariating in the Second Form, and ruling over scholars as\nlong in stature as himself. And thus did the two in happiness, among\nred bean-blossoms, red May-chafers, before the red of the twilight\nburning lower and lower on the horizon, walk to and fro in the garden;\nand turn always with a smile as they approached the head of the ancient\ngardeneress, standing like a window-bust through the little lattice,\nwhich opened in the bottom of a larger one.\n\nTo me it is incomprehensible he did not fall in love. I know his\nreasons, indeed. In the first place, she had nothing; secondly, he had\nnothing, and school-debts to boot; thirdly, her genealogical tree was a\nboundary tree and warning-post; fourthly, his hands were tied up by\nanother nobler thought, which, for good cause, is yet reserved from the\nreader. Nevertheless--Fixlein! I durst not have been in thy place!\nI should have looked at her, and remembered her virtues and our\nschool-years, and then have drawn forth my too fusible heart, and\npresented it to her as a bill of exchange, or insinuated it as a\nsummons. For I should have considered that she resembled a nun in two\nsenses, in her good heart and in her good pastry; that, in spite of her\nintercourse with male vassals, she was no Charles Genevieve Louise\nAuguste Timothe Eon de Beaumont,[40] but a smooth, fair-haired,\nwhite-capped dove; that she sought more to please her own sex than\nours; that she showed a melting heart, not previously borrowed from the\nCirculating Library, in tears, for which in her innocence she rather\ntook shame than credit.--At the very first cheapening, I should, on\nthese grounds, have been out with my heart.--Had I fully reflected,\nQuintus! that I knew her as myself; that her hands and mine (to wit,\nhad I been thou) had both been guided by the same Senior to Latin\npenmanship; that we two, when little children, had kissed each other\nbefore the glass, to see whether the two image-children would do it\nlikewise in the mirror; that often we had put hands of both sexes into\nthe same muff, and there played with them in secret; had I, lastly,\nconsidered that we were here standing before the glass-house, now\nsplendent in the enamel of twilight, and that on the cold panes of this\nglass-house we two (she within, I without) had often pressed our warm\ncheeks together, parted only by the thickness of the glass,--then had I\ntaken this poor gentle soul, pressed asunder by Fate, and seeing, amid\nher thunder-clouds, no higher elevation to part them and protect her\nthan the grave, and had drawn her to my own soul, and warmed her on my\nheart, and encompassed her about with my eyes.\n\nIn truth, the Quintus would have done so too, had not the\nabove-mentioned nobler thought, which I yet disclose not, kept him\nback. Softened, without knowing the cause,--(accordingly he gave his\nmother a kiss,)--and blessed without having had a literary\nconversation; and dismissed with a freight of humble compliments, which\nhe was to disload on the morrow before the Dragoon Rittmeisterinn, he\nreturned to his little cottage, and looked yet a long while out of its\ndark windows, at the light ones of the Castle. And then, when the first\nquarter of the moon was setting, that is, about midnight, he again, in\nthe cool sigh of a mild, fanning, moist, and directly heart-addressing\nnight-breeze, opened the eyelids of a sight already sunk in\ndreaming....\n\nSleep, for to-day thou hast done naught ill! I, whilst the drooping,\nshut flower-bell of thy spirit sinks on thy pillow, will look into the\nbreezy night over thy morning footpath, which, through the translucent\nlittle wood, is to lead thee to Schadeck, to thy patroness. All\nprosperity attend thee, thou foolish Quintus!--\n\n\n\n\n                           SECOND LETTER-BOX.\n\n        Frau von Aufhammer.--Childhood-resonance.--Authorcraft.\n\n\nThe early piping which the little thrush, last night adopted by the\nQuintaner from its nest, started for victual about two o'clock,\nsoon drove our Quintus into his clothes; whose calender-press and\nparallel-ruler the hands of his careful mother had been, for she would\nnot send him to the Rittmeisterinn \"like a runagate dog.\" The Shock was\nincarcerated, the Quintaner taken with him, as likewise many wholesome\nrules from Mother Fixlein, how to conduct himself towards the\nRittmeisterinn. But the son answered: \"Mamma, when a man has been in\ncompany, like me, with high people, with a Fraeulein Thiennette, he soon\nknows whom he is speaking to, and what polished manners and Saver di\nveaver (_Savoir vivre_) require.\"\n\nHe arrived with the Quintaner, and green fingers (dyed with the leaves\nhe had plucked on the path), and with a half-nibbled rose between his\nteeth, in presence of the sleek lackeys of Schadeck. If women are\nflowers--though as often silk and Italian and gum-flowers as botanical\nones--then was Frau von Aufhammer a ripe flower, with (adipose)\nneck-bulb, and tuberosity (of lard). Already, in the half of her body,\ncut away from life by the apoplexy, she lay upon her lard-pillow but as\non a softer grave; nevertheless, the portion of her that remained was\nat once lively, pious, and proud. Her heart was a flowing cornucopia to\nall men, yet this not from philanthropy, but from rigid devotion; the\nlower classes she assisted, cherished, and despised, regarding nothing\nin them, except it were their piety. She received the bowing Quintus\nwith the back-bowing air of a patroness; yet she brightened into a look\nof kindliness at his disloading of the compliments from Thiennette.\n\nShe began the conversation, and long continued it alone, and said,--yet\nwithout losing the inflation of pride from her countenance,--\"She\nshould soon die; but the godchildren of her husband she would remember\nin her will.\" Further, she told him directly in the face, which stood\nthere all over-written with the Fourth Commandment before her, that \"he\nmust not build upon a settlement in Hukelum; but to the Flachsenfingen\nConrectorate (to which the Burgermeister and Council had the right of\nnomination) she hoped to promote him, as it was from the then\nBurgermeister that she bought her coffee, and from the Town-Syndic (he\ndrove a considerable wholesale and retail trade in Hamburg candles)\nthat she bought both her wax and tallow lights.\"\n\nAnd now by degrees he arrived at his humble petition, when she asked\nhim sick-news of Senior Astmann, who guided himself more by Luther's\nCatechism than by the Catechism of Health. She was Astmann's patroness\nin a stricter than ecclesiastical sense; and she even confessed that\nshe would soon follow this true shepherd of souls, when she heard, here\nat Schadeck, the sound of his funeral-bell. Such strange chemical\naffinities exist between our dross and our silver veins; as, for\nexample, here between Pride and Love; and I could wish that we would\npardon this hypostatic union in all persons, as we do it in the\nfair, who, with all their faults, are nevertheless by us--as, according\nto Du Fay, iron, though mixed with any other metal, is by the\nmagnet--attracted and held fast.\n\nSupposing even that the Devil _had_, in some idle minute, sown a\nhandful or two of the seeds of Envy in our Quintus's soul, yet they had\nnot sprouted; and to-day especially they did not, when he heard the\npraises of a man who had been his teacher, and who--what he reckoned a\nTitulado of the Earth, not from vanity, but from piety--was a\nclergyman. So much, however, is, according to History, not to be\ndenied; that he now straightway came forth with his petition to the\nnoble lady, signifying that \"indeed he would cheerfully content himself\nfor a few years in the school; but yet in the end he longed to be in\nsome small quiet priestly office.\" To her question, \"But was he\northodox?\" he answered, that \"he hoped so; he had, in Leipzig, not only\nattended all the public lectures of Dr. Burscher, but also had taken\nprivate instructions from several sound teachers of the faith, well\nknowing that the Consistorium, in its examinations as to purity of\ndoctrine, was now more strict than formerly.\"\n\nThe sick lady required him to make a proof-shot, namely, to administer\nto her a sick-bed exhortation. By Heaven! he administered to her one of\nthe best. Her pride of birth now crouched before his pride of office\nand priesthood; for though he could not, with the Dominican monk,\nAlanus de Rupe, believe that a priest was greater than God, inasmuch as\nthe latter could only make a World, but the former a God (in the mass);\nyet he could not but fall in with Hostiensis, who shows that the\npriestly dignity is seven thousand six hundred and forty-four times\ngreater than the kingly, the Sun being just so many times greater than\nthe Moon. But a Rittmeisterinn--_she_ shrinks into absolute nothing\nbefore a parson.\n\nIn the servants' hall he applied to the lackeys for the last annual\nseries of the _Hamburg Political Journal_; perceiving that with these\nhistorical documents of the time they were scandalously papering the\nbuttons of travelling raiment. In gloomy harvest evenings, he could now\nsit down and read for himself what good news were transpiring in the\npolitical world--twelve months ago.\n\nOn a Triumphal Car, full-laden with laurel, and to which Hopes alone\nwere yoked, he drove home at night, and by the road advised the\nQuintaner not to be puffed up with any earthly honor, but silently to\nthank God, as himself was now doing.\n\n\nThe thickset blooming grove of his four canicular weeks, and the flying\ntumult of blossoms therein, are already painted on three of the sides.\nI will now clutch blindfold into his days, and bring out one of them;\none smiles and sends forth its perfumes like another.\n\nLet us take, for instance, the Saint's day of his mother, _Clara_, the\ntwelfth of August. In the morning, he had perennial, fire-proof joys,\nthat is to say, Employments. For he was writing, as I am doing. Truly,\nif Xerxes proposed a prize for the invention of a new pleasure, any man\nwho had sat down to write his thoughts on the prize-question had the\nnew pleasure already among his fingers. I know only one thing sweeter\nthan making a book, and that is, to project one. Fixlein used to write\nlittle works, of the twelfth part of an alphabet in size, which in\ntheir manuscript state he got bound by the bookbinder in gilt boards,\nand betitled with printed letters, and then inserted them among the\nliterary ranks of his book-board. Every one thought they were novelties\nprinted in writing types. He had labored--I shall omit his less\ninteresting performances--at a _Collection of Errors of the Press_, in\nGerman writings; he compared _Errata_ with each other; showed which\noccurred most frequently; observed that important results were to be\ndrawn from this, and advised the reader to draw them.\n\nMoreover, he took his place among the German _Masorites_. He observes\nwith great justice in his Preface: \"The Jews had their _Masora_ to\nshow, which told them how often every letter was to be found in their\nBible; for example, the Aleph (the A) 42,377 times; how many verses\nthere are in which all the consonants appear (there are 26 verses), or\nonly eighty (there are 3); how many verses we have into which 42 words\nand 160 consonants enter (there is just one, Jeremiah xxi. 7); which is\nthe middle letter in certain books (in the Pentateuch, it is in\nLeviticus xi. 42, the noble V[41]), or in the whole Bible itself. But\nwhere have we Christians any similar Masora for Luther's Bible to show?\nHas it been accurately investigated which is the middle word, or the\nmiddle letter here, which vowel appears seldomest, and how often each\nvowel? Thousands of Bible-Christians go out of the world, without ever\nknowing that the German A occurs 323,015 times (therefore above 7 times\noftener than the Hebrew one) in their Bible.\"\n\nI could wish that inquirers into Biblical Literature among our\nReviewers would publicly let me know if, on a more accurate summation,\nthey find this number incorrect.[42]\n\nMuch also did the Quintus _collect_; he had a fine _Almanack\nCollection_, a _Catechism_ and _Pamphlet Collection_; also, a\n_Collection of Advertisements_, which he began, is not so incomplete as\nyou most frequently see such things. He puts high value on his\n_Alphabetical Lexicon of German Subscribers for Books_, where my name\nalso occurs among the Js.\n\nBut what he liked best to produce were Schemes of Books. Accordingly,\nhe sewed together a large work, wherein he merely advised the Learned\nof things they ought to introduce in Literary History, which History he\nrated some ells higher than Universal or Imperial History. In his\nProlegomena to this performance, he transiently submitted to the\nLiterary republic that Hommel had given a register of Jurists who were\nsons of wh--, of others who had become Saints; that Baillet enumerates\nthe Learned who _meant_ to write something; and Ancillon those who\nwrote nothing at all; and the Luebeck Superintendent Goetze, those who\nwere shoemakers, those who were drowned; and Bernhard those whose\nfortunes and history before birth were interesting. This (he could now\ncontinue) should, as it seems, have excited us to similar muster-rolls\nand matriculations of other kinds of Learned; whereof he proposed a\nfew; for example, of the Learned who were unlearned; of those who were\nentire rascals; of such as wore their own hair,--of cue-preachers,\ncue-psalmists, cue-annalists, and so forth; of the Learned who\nhad worn black leather breeches, of others who had worn rapiers;\nof the Learned who had died in their eleventh year,--in their\ntwentieth,--twenty-first, &c.,--in their hundred and fiftieth, of which\nhe knew no instance, unless the Beggar Thomas Parr might be adduced; of\nthe Learned who wrote a more abominable hand than the other Learned\n(whereof we know only Rolfinken and his letters, which were as long as\nhis hands[43]); or of the Learned who had clipt nothing from each other\nbut the beard (whereof no instance is known, save that of Philelphus\nand Timotheus[44]).\n\nSuch by-studies did he carry on along with his official labors; but I\nthink the State in viewing these matters is actually mad: it compares\nthe man who is great in Philosophy and Belles-Lettres at the expense of\nhis jog-trot officialities, to _concert-clocks_, which, though striking\ntheir hours in flute-melodies, are worse time-keepers than your gross,\nstupid steeple-clocks.\n\nTo return to St. Clara's day. Fixlein, after such mental exertions,\nbolted out under the music-bushes and rustling trees; and returned not\nagain out of warm Nature, till plate and chair were already placed at\nthe table. In the course of the repast, something occurred which a\nBiographer must not omit; for his mother had, by request, been wont to\nmap out for him, during the process of mastication, the chart of his\nchild's-world, relating all the traits which in any way prefigured what\nhe had now grown to. This perspective sketch of his early Past he\ncommitted to certain little leaves which merit our undivided attention.\nFor such leaves exclusively, containing scenes, acts, plays of his\nchildhood, he used chronologically to file and arrange in separate\ndrawers in a little child's-desk of his; and thus to divide his\nBiography, as Moser did his Publicistic Materials, into separate\n_letter-boxes_. He had boxes or drawers for memorial-letters of his\ntwelfth, of his thirteenth, fourteenth, &c., of his twenty-first year,\nand so on. Whenever he chose to conclude a day of pedagogic drudgery by\nan evening of peculiar rest, he simply pulled out a letter-drawer, a\nregister-bar in his Life-hand-organ, and recollected the whole.\n\nAnd here must I, in reference to these reviewing Mutes, who may be for\ncasting the noose of strangulation round my neck, most particularly\nbeg, that, before doing so on account of my Chapters being called\nLetter-boxes, they would have the goodness to look whose blame it was,\nand to think whether I could possibly help it, seeing the Quintus had\ndivided his Biography into such Boxes himself: they have Christian\nbowels.\n\nBut about his elder brother he put no saddening question to his mother;\nthis poor boy a peculiar Fate had laid hold of, and with all his genial\nendowment dashed to pieces on the iceberg of Death. For he chanced to\nleap on an ice-board that had jammed itself among several others; but\nthese recoiled, and his shot forth with him; melted away as it floated\nunder his feet, and so sunk his heart of fire amid the ice and waves.\nIt grieved his mother that he was not found, that her heart had not\nbeen harrowed by the look of the swoln corpse.--O good mother, rather\nthank God for it!--\n\nAfter breakfast, to fortify himself with new vigor for his desk,\nhe for some time strolled idly over the house, and, like a Police\nFire-inspector, visited all the nooks of his cottage, to gather from\nthem here and there a live ember from the ash-covered rejoicing-fire of\nhis childhood. He mounted to the garret, to the empty bird-coops of his\nfather, who in winter had been a birder; and he transiently reviewed\nthe lumber of his old playthings, which were lying in the netted\nenclosure of a large canary breeding-cage. In the minds of children, it\nis regular _little_ forms, such as those of balls and dies, that\nimpress and express themselves most forcibly. From this may the reader\nexplain to himself Fixlein's delight in the red acorn-blockhouse,\nin the sparwork glued together out of white chips and husks of\npotato-plums, in the cheerful glasshouse of a cube-shaped lantern, and\nother the like products of his early architecture. The following,\nhowever, I explain quite differently; he had ventured, without leave\ngiven from any lord of the manor, to build a clay house; not for\ncottagers, but for flies; and which, therefore, you could readily\nenough have put in your pocket. This fly-hospital had its glass\nwindows, and a red coat of coloring, and very many alcoves, and three\nbalconies; balconies, as a sort of house within a house, he had loved\nfrom of old so much, that he could scarcely have liked Jerusalem well,\nwhere (according to Lightfoot) no such thing is permitted to be\nbuilt. From the glistening eyes with which the architect had viewed\nhis tenantry creeping about the windows, or feeding out of the\nsugar-trough,--for, like the Count St. Germain, they ate nothing but\nsugar,--from this joy an adept in the art of education might easily\nhave prophesied his turn for household contraction; to his fancy, in\nthose times, even gardeners'-huts were like large waste Arks and Halls,\nand nothing bigger than such a fly-Louvre seemed a true, snug\ncitizen's-house. He now felt and handled his old high child's-stool,\nwhich had in former days resembled the _Sedes Exploratoria_ of the\nPope; he gave his child's-coach a tug and made it run; but he could not\nunderstand what balsam and holiness so much distinguished it from all\nother child's-coaches. He wondered that the real sports of children\nshould not so delight him as the emblems of these sports, when the\nchild that had carried them on was standing grown up to manhood in his\npresence.\n\nBefore one article in the house he stood heart-melted and sad; before a\nlittle angular clothes-press, which was no higher than my table, and\nwhich had belonged to his poor drowned brother. When the boy with the\nkey of it was swallowed by the waves, the excruciated mother had made a\nvow that this toy-press of his should never be broken up by violence.\nMost probably there is nothing in it but the poor soul's playthings.\nLet us look away from this bloody urn.----\n\nBacon reckons the remembrances of childhood among wholesome, medicinal\nthings; naturally enough, therefore, they acted like a salutary\ndigestive on the Quintus. He could now again betake him with new heart\nto his desk, and produce something quite peculiar,--petitions for\nchurch livings. He took the Address-calendar, and, for every country\nparish that he found in it, got a petition in readiness; which he then\nlaid aside, till such time as the present incumbent should decease. For\nHukelum alone he did not solicit.--It is a pretty custom in\nFlachsenfingen, that, for every office which is vacant, you are\nrequired, if you want it, to sue. As the higher use of Prayer consists,\nnot in its fulfilment, but in its accustoming you to pray; so likewise\npetitionary papers ought to be given in, not indeed that you may get\nthe office,--this nothing but your money can do,--but that you may\nlearn to write petitions. In truth, if, among the Calmucks, the turning\nof a calabash[45] stands in place of Prayer, a slight movement of the\npurse may be as much as if you supplicated in words.\n\nTowards evening--it was Sunday--he went out roving over the village; he\npilgrimed to his old sporting-places, and to the common where he had so\noften driven his snails to pasture; visited the peasant who, from\nschool-times upwards, had been wont, to the amazement of the rest, to\n_thou_[46] him; went, an Academic Tutor, to the Schoolmaster; then to\nthe Senior; then to the Episcopal-barn or church. This last no mortal\nunderstands, till I explain it. The case was this. Some three-and-forty\nyears ago a fire had destroyed the church (not the steeple), the\nparsonage, and, what was not to be replaced, the church-records. (For\nthis reason it was only the smallest portion of the Hukelum people that\nknew exactly how old they were; and the memory of our Quintus himself\nvibrated between adopting the thirty-third year and the thirty-second.)\nIn consequence, the preaching had now to be carried on where formerly\nthere had been threshing; and the seed of the divine word to be\nturned over on the same threshing-floor with natural corn-seed. The\nChanter and the School-boys took up the threshing-floor; the female\nmother-church-people stood on the one sheaves-loft, the Schadeck\nwomankind on the other; and their husbands clustered pyramidically,\nlike groschen and farthing-gallery men; about the barn-stairs; and far\nup on the straw-loft, mixed souls stood listening. A little flute was\ntheir organ, an upturned beer-cask their altar, round which they had to\nwalk. I confess, I myself could have preached in such a place, not\nwithout humor. The Senior (at that time still a Junior), while the\nparsonage was building, dwelt and taught in the Castle; it was here,\naccordingly, that Fixlein had learned the _Irregular Verbs_ with\nThiennette.\n\nThese voyages of discovery completed, our Hukelum voyager could still,\nafter evening prayers, pick leaf-insects, with Thiennette, from the\nroses; worms from the beds, and a Heaven of joy from every minute.\nEvery dew-drop was colored as with oil of cloves and oil of gladness;\nevery star was a sparkle from the sun of happiness; and in the closed\nheart of the maiden, there lay near to him, behind a little wall of\nseparation, (as near to the Righteous man behind the thin wall of\nLife,) an outstretched blooming Paradise.... I mean, she loved him a\nlittle.\n\nHe might have known it, perhaps. But to his compressed delight he gave\nfreer vent, as he went to bed, by early recollections on the stair. For\nin his childhood he had been accustomed, by way of evening-prayer, to\ngo over, under his coverlet, as it were, a rosary, including fourteen\nBible Proverbs, the first verse of the Psalm, \"All people that on\nEarth,\" the Tenth Commandment, and, lastly, a long blessing. To get the\nsooner done with it, he had used to begin his devotion, not only on the\nstair, but before leaving that place where Alexander studied men, and\nSemler stupid books. Moored in the haven of the down-waves, he was\nalready over with his evening supplication; and could now, without\nfurther exertion, shut his eyes and plump into sleep.----Thus does\nthere lurk, in the smallest _homunculus_, the model of--the Catholic\nChurch.\n\nSo far the Dog-days of Quintus Zebedaeus Egidius Fixlein.--I, for the\nsecond time, close a Chapter of this _Life_, as Life itself is closed,\nwith a sleep.\n\n\n\n\n                           THIRD LETTER-BOX.\n\n               Christmas Recollections.--New Occurrence.\n\n\nFor all of us the passage to the grave is, alas! a string of empty,\ninsipid days, as of glass pearls, only here and there divided by an\norient one of price. But you die murmuring, unless, like the Quintus,\nyou regard your existence as a drum; this has only one single _tone_,\nbut variety of _time_ gives the sound of it cheerfulness enough. Our\nQuintus taught in the Fourth Class; vicariated in the Second; wrote at\nhis desk by night; and so lived on the usual monotonous fashion--all\nthe time from the Holidays--till Christmas eve, 1791; and nothing was\nremarkable in his history except this same eve, which I am now about to\npaint.\n\nBut I shall still have time to paint it, after, in the first place,\nexplaining shortly how, like birds of passage, he had contrived to soar\naway over the dim, cloudy Harvest. The secret was, he set upon the\n_Hamburg Political Journal_, with which the lackeys of Schadeck had\nbeen for papering their buttons. He could now calmly, with his back at\nthe stove, accompany the winter campaigns of the foregoing year; and\nfly after every battle, as the ravens did after that of Pharsalia. On\nthe printed paper he could still, with joy and admiration, walk round\nour German triumphal arches and scaffoldings for fireworks; while to\nthe people in the town, who got only the newest newspapers, the very\nfragments of these our trophies, maliciously torn down by the French,\nwere scarcely discernible; nay, with old plans he could drive back and\ndiscomfit the enemy, while later readers in vain tried to resist them\nwith new ones.\n\nMoreover, not only did the facility of conquering the French prepossess\nhim in favor of this journal; but also the circumstance that it--cost\nhim nothing. His attachment to gratis reading was decided. And does not\nthis throw light on the fact that he, as Morhof advised, was wont\nsedulously to collect the separate leaves of wastepaper books as they\ncame from the grocer, and to rake among the same, as Virgil did in\nEnnius? Nay, for him the grocer was a Fortius (the scholar), or a\nFrederick (the king), both which persons were in the habit of simply\ncutting from complete books such leaves as contained anything. It was\nalso this respect for all waste-paper that inspired him with such\nesteem for the aprons of French cooks, which it is well known consist\nof printed paper; and he often wished some German would translate these\naprons; indeed, I am willing to believe that a good version of more\nthan one of such paper aprons might contribute to elevate our\nLiterature (this Muse _a belles fesses_), and serve her in place of\ndrivel-bib.--On many things a man puts a _pretium affectionis_, simply\nbecause he hopes he may have half stolen them; on this principle,\ncombined with the former, our Quintus adopted into his belief anything\nhe could snap away from an open Lecture, or as a visitor in\nclass-rooms; opinions only for which the Professor must be paid, he\nrigorously examined.--I return to the Christmas eve.\n\nAt the very first, Egidius was glad, because out of doors millers and\nbakers were at fisticuffs (as we say of drifting snow in large flakes),\nand the ice-flowers of the window were blossoming; for external frost,\nwith a snug warm room, was what he liked. He could now put fir wood\ninto his stove, and Mocha coffee into his stomach; and shove his right\nfoot (not into the slipper, but) under the warm side of his Shock, and\nalso on the left keep swinging his pet Starling, which was pecking at\nthe snout of old Schil; and then with the right hand--with the left he\nwas holding his pipe--proceed, so undisturbed, so intrenched, so\ncloud-capt, without the smallest breath of frost, to the highest\nenterprise which a Quintus can attempt,--to writing the Class-prodromus\nof the Flachsenfingen Gymnasium, namely, the eighth part thereof. I\nhold the _first printing_ in the history of a literary man to be more\nimportant than the _first printing_ in the history of Letters. Fixlein\ncould not sate himself with specifying what he purposed, God willing,\nin the following year, to treat of; and accordingly, more for the sake\nof printing than of use, he further inserted three or four pedagogic\nglances at the plan of operations to be followed by his schoolmaster\ncolleagues as a body.\n\nHe lastly introduced a few dashes, by way of hooking his thoughts\ntogether; and then laid aside the _Opus_, and would no longer look at\nit, that so, when printed, he might stand astonished at his own\nthoughts. And now he could take the Leipzig Fair Catalogue, which he\npurchased yearly, instead of the books therein, and open it without a\nsigh; he too was in print, as well as I am.\n\nThe happy fool, while writing, had shaken his head, rubbed his hands,\nhitched about on his chair, puckered his face, and sucked the end of\nhis cue.--He could now spring up about five o'clock in the evening to\nrecreate himself; and across the magic vapor of his pipe, like a\nnew-caught bird, move up and down in his cage. On the warm smoke the\nlong galaxy of street-lamps was gleaming; and red on his bed-curtains\nlay the fitful reflection of the blazing windows and illuminated trees\nin the neighborhood. And now he shook away the snow of Time from the\nwinter-green of Memory; and beheld the fair years of his childhood,\nuncovered, fresh, green, and balmy, standing afar off before him. From\nhis distance of twenty years, he looked into the quiet cottage of his\nparents, where his father and his brother had not yet been reaped away\nby the sickle of Death. He said to himself: \"I will go through the\nwhole Christmas eve, from the very dawn, as I had it of old.\"\n\nAt his very rising he finds spangles on the table; sacred spangles from\nthe gold-leaf and silver-leaf with which the Christ-child[47] has been\nemblazoning and coating his apples and nuts, the presents of the\nnight.--On the mint-balance of joy, this metallic foam pulls heavier\nthan the golden cars, and golden Pythagoras-legs, and golden\nPhilistine-mice of wealthier capitalists.--Then came his mother,\nbringing him both Christianity and clothes; for in drawing on his\ntrousers, she easily recapitulated the Ten Commandments, and in tying\nhis garters, the Apostles' Creed. So soon as candle-light was over,\nand daylight come, he clambers to the arm of the settle, and\nthen measures the nocturnal growth of the yellow wiry grove of\nChristmas-Birch; and devotes far less attention than usual to the\nlittle white winter-flowerage, which the seeds shaken from the\nbird-cage are sending forth in the wet joints of the window-panes.--I\nnowise grudge J. J. Rousseau his _Flora Petrinsularis_;[48] but let him\nalso allow our Quintus his _Window-flora_.--There was no such thing as\nschool all day; so he had time enough to seek his Flescher (his\nbrother), and commence (when could there be finer frost for it?) the\nslaughtering of their winter-meat. Some days before, the brother,\nat the peril of his life and of a cudgelling, had caught their\nstalled-beast--so they called the sparrow--under a window-sill in the\nCastle. Their slaughtering wants not an axe (of wood), nor puddings,\nnor potted meat.--About three o'clock the old Gardener, whom neighbors\nmust call the Professor of Gardening, takes his place on his large\nchair, with his Cologne tobacco-pipe; and after this no mortal\nshall work a stroke. He tells nothing but lies; of the aeronautic\nChrist-child, and the jingling Ruprecht with his bells. In the dusk,\nour little Quintus takes an apple; divides it into all the figures of\nstereometry, and spreads the fragments in two heaps on the table; then\nas the lighted candle enters, he starts up in amazement at the\nunexpected present, and says to his brother, \"Look what the good\nChrist-child has given thee and me; and I saw one of his wings\nglittering.\" And for this same glittering he himself lies in wait the\nwhole evening.\n\nAbout eight o'clock--here he walks chiefly by the chronicle of his\nletter-drawer--both of them, with necks almost excoriated with washing,\nand in clean linen, and in universal anxiety lest the Holy Christ-child\nfind them up, are put to bed. What a magic night! What tumult of\ndreaming hopes!--The populous, motley, glittering cave of Fancy opens\nitself, in the length of the night, and in the exhaustion of dreamy\neffort, still darker and darker, fuller and more grotesque; but the\nawakening gives back to the thirsty heart its hopes. All accidental\ntones, the cries of animals, of watchmen, are, for the timidly devout\nFancy, sounds out of Heaven; singing voices of Angels in the air,\nchurch-music of the morning worship.--\n\nAh! it was not the mere Lubberland of sweetmeats and playthings, which\nthen, with its perspective, stormed like a river of joy against the\nchambers of our hearts; and which yet in the moonlight of memory, with\nits dusky landscapes, melts our souls in sweetness. Ah! this was it,\nthat then for our boundless wishes there were still boundless hopes;\nbut now reality is round us, and the wishes are all that we have left!\n\nAt last came rapid lights from the neighborhood playing through the\nwindow on the walls, and the Christmas trumpets, and the crowing from\nthe steeple, hurries both the boys from their bed. With their clothes\nin their hands, without fear for the darkness, without feeling for the\nmorning-frost, rushing, intoxicated, shouting, they hurry down-stairs\ninto the dark room. Fancy riots in the pastry and fruit perfume of the\nstill eclipsed treasures, and paints her air-castles by the glimmering\nof the Hesperides-fruit with which the Birch-tree is loaded. While\ntheir mother strikes a light, the falling sparks sportfully open and\nshroud the dainties on the table, and the many-colored grove on the\nwall; and a single atom of that fire bears on it a hanging garden of\nEden.----\n\n--On a sudden all grew light; and the Quintus got--the Conrectorship,\nand a table-clock.\n\n\n\n\n                           FOURTH LETTER-BOX.\n\n       Office-brokage.--Discovery of the Promised Secret.--Hans\n                             von Fuechslein.\n\n\nFor while the Quintus, in his vapory chamber was thus running over the\nsounding-board of his early years, the Rathsdiener, or City-officer,\nentered with a lantern and the Presentation; and behind him the courier\nof the Frau von Aufhammer with a note and a table-clock. The\nRittmeisterinn had transformed her payment for the Dog-days sick-bed\nexhortation into a Christmas present; which consisted, _first_, of a\ntable-clock, with a wooden ape thereon, starting out when the hour\nstruck, and drumming along with every stroke; _secondly_, of the\nConrectorate, which she had procured for him.\n\nAs in the public this appointment from the private Flachsenfingen\nCouncil has not been judged of as it deserved, I consider it my duty to\noffer a defence for the body corporate; and that rather here than in\nthe _Reichsanzeiger_, or _Imperial Indicator_.--I have already\nmentioned, in the Second Letter-Box, that the Town-Syndic drove a trade\nin Hamburg candles; and the then Burgermeister in coffee-beans, which\nhe sold as well whole as ground. Their joint traffic, however, which\nthey carried on exclusively, was in the eight School-offices of\nFlachsenfingen; the other members of the Council acting only as\nbale-wrappers, shopmen, and accountants in the Council wareroom. A\nCouncil-house, indeed, is like an India-house, where not only\nresolutions or appointments, but also shoes and cloth, are exposed to\nsale. Properly speaking, the Councillor derives his freedom of\noffice-trading from that principle of the Roman law, _Cui jus est\ndonandi, eidem et vendendi jus est_; that is to say, He who has the\nright of giving anything away has also a right to dispose of it for\nmoney, if he can. Now as the Council-members have palpably the right of\nconferring offices gratis, the right of selling them must follow of\ncourse.\n\n\n         _Short Extra-word on Appointment-brokers in general_.\n\nMy chief anxiety is lest the Academy-product-sale-Commission[49] of the\nState carry on its office-trade too slackly. And what but the\ncommonweal must suffer in the long run, if important posts are\ndistributed, not according to the current cash which is laid down for\nthem, but according to connections, relationships, party\nrecommendations, and bowings and cringings? Is it not a contradiction,\nto charge titulary offices dearer than real ones? Should one not rather\nexpect that the real Hofrath would pay higher by the _alterum tantum_\nthan the mere titulary Hofrath?--Money, among European nations, is now\nthe equivalent and representative of value in all things, and\nconsequently in understanding; the rather as a _head_ is stamped on it;\nto pay down the purchase-money of an office is therefore neither more\nnor less than to stand an _examen rigorosum_, which is held by a good\n_schema examinandi_. To invert this, to pretend exhibiting your\nqualifications, in place of these their surrogates, and assignates, and\n_monnoie de confiance_, is simply to resemble the crazy philosophers in\n_Gulliver's Travels_, who, for social converse, instead of names of\nthings, brought the things themselves tied up in a bag; it is, indeed,\nplainly as much as trying to fall back into the barbarous times of\ntrade by barter, when the Romans, instead of the figured cattle on\ntheir leather money, drove forth the beeves themselves.\n\nFrom all such injudicious notions I myself am so far removed, that\noften, when I used to read that the King of France was devising new\noffices, to stand and sell them under the booth of his Baldaquin, I\nhave set myself to do something of the like. This I shall now at least\ncalmly propose; not vexing my heart whether Governments choose to adopt\nit or not. As our Sovereign will not allow us to multiply offices\npurely for sale, nay, on the contrary, is day and night (like managers\nof strolling companies) meditating how to give more parts to one\nState-actor; and thus to the Three Stage Unities to add a Fourth, that\nof Players; as the above French method, therefore, will not apply, could\nwe not at least contrive to invent some Virtues harmonizing with the\noffices, along with which they might be sold as titles? Might we not,\nfor instance, with the office of a Referendary, put off at the same\ntime a titular Incorruptibility, for a fair consideration; and so that\nthis virtue, as not belonging to the office, must be separately paid\nfor by the candidate? Such a market-title and patent of nobility could\nnot but be ornamental to a Referendary. We forget that in former times\nsuch high titles were appended to all posts whatsoever. The scholastic\nProfessor then wrote himself (besides his official designation) \"The\nSeraphic,\" \"The Incontrovertible,\" \"The Penetrating\"; the King wrote\nhimself, \"The Great,\" \"The Bald,\" \"The Bold,\" and so also did the\nRabbins. Could it be unpleasant to gentlemen in the higher stations of\nJustice, if the titles of Impartiality, Rapidity, &c., might be\nconferred on them by sale, as well as the posts themselves? Thus with\nthe appointment of a Kammerrath, or Councillor of Revenue, the virtue\nof Patriotism might fitly be conjoined; and I believe few Advocates\nwould grudge purchasing the title of Integrity (as well as their common\none of Government-advocacy), were it to be had in the market. If,\nhowever, any candidate chose to take his post without the virtues, then\nit would stand with himself to do so, and in the adoption of this\nreflex morality Government should not constrain him.\n\nIt might be that, as, according to Tristram Shandy, clothes, according\nto Walter Shandy and Lavater, proper names, exert an influence on men,\nappellatives would do so still more; since, on us, as on testaceous\nanimals, _the foam so often hardens into shell_; but such internal\nmorality is not a thing the State can have an eye to; for, as in the\nfine arts, it is not this, but the _representation_ of it, which forms\nher true aim.\n\nI have found it rather difficult to devise for our different offices\ndifferent verbal-virtues; but I should think there might many such\ndivisions of Virtue (at this moment, Love of Freedom, Public-spirit,\nSincerity, and Uprightness occur to me) be hunted out; were but some\nwell-disposed minister of state to appoint a Virtue-board or Moral\nAddress Department, with some half-dozen secretaries, who, for a small\nsalary, might devise various virtues for the various posts. Were I in\ntheir place, I should hold a good prism before the white ray of Virtue,\nand divide it completely. Pity that it were not crimes we wanted--their\nsubdivision I mean;--our country Judges might then be selected for this\npurpose. For in their tribunals, where only inferior jurisdiction, and\nno penalty above five florins Frankish, is admitted, they have a daily\ntraining how out of every mischief to make several small ones, none of\nwhich they ever punish to a greater amount than their five florins.\nThis is a precious moral _Rolfinkenism_, which our Jurists have learned\nfrom the great Sin-cutters, St. Augustin and his Sorbonne, who together\nhave carved more sins on Adam's Sin-apple than ever Rolfinken did faces\non a cherry-stone. How different one of our Judges from a Papal\nCasuist, who, by side-scrapings, will rasp you down the best deadly sin\ninto a venial!--\n\nSchool-offices (to come to these) are a small branch of traffic\ncertainly; yet still they are monarchies,--school-monarchies, to\nwit,--resembling the Polish crown, which, according to Pope's verse, is\ntwice exposed to sale in the century; a statement, I need hardly say,\narithmetically false, Newton having settled the average duration of a\nreign at twenty-two years. For the rest, whether the city Council bring\nthe young of the community a Hamel's _Rat_-and-Child-_catcher_; or a\nWeissen's _Child's-friend_,--this to the Council can make no\ndifference; seeing the Schoolmaster is not a horse, for whose secret\ndefects the horse-dealer is to be responsible. It is enough if\nTown-Syndic and Co. cannot reproach themselves with having picked out\nany fellow of genius; for a genius, as he is useless to the State,\nexcept for recreation and ornament, would at the very least exclude the\nduller, cooler head, who properly forms the true care and profit of the\nState; as your costly carat-pearl is good for show alone, but coarse\ngrain-pearls for medicine. On the whole, if a schoolmaster be adequate\nto flog his scholars, it should suffice; and I cannot but blame our\nCommission of Inspectors, when they go examining schools, that they do\nnot make the schoolmaster go through the duty of firking one or two\nyoung persons of his class in their presence, by way of trial, to see\nwhat is in him.\n\n\n      _End of the Extra-word on Appointment-brokers in general_.\n\nNow again to our history! The Councillor Heads of the Firm had\nconferred the Conrectorate on my hero, not only with a view to the\ncontinued consumpt of candles and beans, but also on the strength of a\nquite mad notion: they believed the Quintus would very soon die.\n\n--And here I have reached a most important circumstance in this\nHistory, and one into which I have yet let no mortal look; now,\nhowever, it no longer depends on my will whether I shall shove aside\nthe folding-screen from it or not; but I must positively lay it open,\nnay, hang a reverberating-lamp over it.\n\nIn medical history, it is a well-known fact, that in certain families\nthe people all die precisely at the same age, just as in these families\nthey are all born at the same age (of nine months); nay, from Voltaire,\nI recollect one family, the members of which at the same age all killed\nthemselves. Now, in the Fixleinic lineage, it was the custom that the\nmale ascendants uniformly on Cantata-Sunday, in their thirty-second\nyear, took to bed and died; every one of my readers would do well to\ninsert in his copy of the _Thirty Years' War_, Schiller having entirely\nomitted it, the fact, that, in the course thereof, one Fixlein died of\nthe plague, another of hunger, another of a musket-bullet; all in their\nthirty-second year. True Philosophy explains the matter thus: \"The\nfirst two or three times, it happened purely by accident; and the other\ntimes, the people died of sheer fright: if not so, the whole fact is\nrather to be questioned.\"\n\nBut what did Fixlein make of the affair? Little or nothing; the only\nthing he did was, that he took little or no pains to fall in love with\nThiennette; that so no other might have cause for fear on his account.\nHe himself, however, for five reasons, minded it so little, that he\nhoped to be older than Senior Astmann before he died. First, because\nthree Gypsies, in three different places, and at three different times,\nhad each shown him the same long vista of years in her magic mirror.\nSecondly, because he had a sound constitution. Thirdly, because his own\nbrother had formed an exception, and perished before the thirties.\nFourthly, on this ground: When a boy he had fallen sick of sorrow, on\nthe very Cantata-Sunday when his father was lying in the winding-sheet,\nand only been saved from death by his playthings; and with this\nCantata-sickness, he conceived that he had given the murderous Genius\nof his race the slip. Fifthly, the church-books being destroyed, and\nwith them the certainty of his age, he could never fall into a right\ndefinite deadly fear: \"It may be,\" said he, \"that I have got whisked\naway over this whoreson year, and no one the wiser.\" I will not deny\nthat last year he had fancied he was two-and-thirty; \"however,\" said\nhe, \"if I am not to be so till, God willing, the next (1792), it may\nrun away as smoothly as the last; am I not always in _His_ keeping? And\nwere it unjust if the pretty years that were broken off from the life\nof my brother should be added to mine?\" Thus, under the cold snow of\nthe Present, does poor man strive to warm himself, or to mould out of\nit a fair snow-man.\n\nThe Councillor Oligarchy, however, built upon the opposite opinion;\nand, like a Divinity, elevated our Quintus all at once from the\nQuintusship to the Conrectorate; swearing to themselves that he would\nsoon vacate it again. Properly speaking, by school-seniority, this holy\nchair should have belonged to the Subrector Hans von Fuechslein; but he\nwished it not; being minded to become Hukelum Parson; especially, as\nAstmann's Death-angel, according to sure intelligence, was opening more\nand more widely the door of this spiritual sheepfold. \"If the fellow\nweather another year, 't is more than I expect,\" said Hans.\n\nThis Hans was such a churl, that it is pity he had not been a\nHanoverian Post-boy; that so, by the Mandate of the Hanoverian\nGovernment, enjoining on all its Post-officers an elegant style of\nmanners, he might have somewhat refined himself. To our poor Quintus,\nwhom no mortal disliked, and who again could hate no mortal, he alone\nbore a grudge; simply because _Fixlein_ did not write himself\n_Fuechslein_, and had not chosen along with him to purchase a Patent of\nNobility. The Subrector, on this his Patent triumphal chariot, drawn by\na team of four specified ancestors, was obliged to see the Quintus, who\nwas related to him, clutching by the lackey-straps behind the carriage;\nand to hear him, in the most despicable raiment, saying to the train:\n\"He that rides there is my cousin, and a mortal, and I always remind\nhim of it.\" The mild, compliant Quintus never noticed this large\nwasp-poison-bag in the Subrector, but took it for a honey-bag; nay, by\nhis brotherly warmness, which the nobleman regarded as mere show, he\nconcreted these venomous juices into still feller consistency. The\nQuintus, in his simplicity, took Fuechslein's contempt for envy of his\npedagogic talents.\n\nA Catherinenhof, an Annenhof, an Elizabethhof, Stralenhof, and\nPetershof, all these Russian pleasure palaces, a man can dispense with\n(if not despise), who has a room, in which on Christmas eve he walks\nabout with a Presentation in his hand. The new Conrector now longed for\nnothing but--daylight; joys always (cares never) nibbled from him, like\nsparrows, his sleep-grains; and to-night, moreover, the registrator of\nhis glad time, the clock-ape, drummed out every hour to him, which,\naccordingly, he spent in gay dreaming, rather than in sound snoring.\n\nOn Christmas morn he looked at his Class-prodromus, and thought but\nlittle of it; he scarcely knew what to make of his last night's foolish\ninflation about his Quintusship. \"The Quintus-post,\" said he to\nhimself, \"is not to be named in the same day with the Conrectorate; I\nwonder how I could parade so last night before my promotion; at\npresent, I had more reason.\" To-day he eat, as on all Sundays and\nholidays, with the Master-Butcher Steinberger, his former Guardian. To\nthis man Fixlein was, what common people are _always_, but polished,\nphilosophical, and sentimental people very _seldom_ are,--_thankful_; a\nman thanks you the less for presents, the more inclined he is to give\npresents of his own; and the beneficent is rarely a grateful person.\nMeister Steinberger, in the character of storemaster, had introduced\ninto the wire-cage of a garret, where Fixlein, while a Student\nat Leipzig, was suspended, many a well-filled trough with good\ncanary-meat, of hung-beef, of household bread, and _Sauerkraut_. Money\nindeed was never to be wrung from him; it is well known that he often\nsent the best calf-skins gratis to the tanner, to be boots for our\nQuintus; but the tanning-charges the Ward himself had to bear.--On\nFixlein's entrance, as was at all times customary, a smaller damask\ntable-cloth was laid upon the large coarser one; the arm-chair, silver\nimplements, and a wine-soup were handed him; mere waste, which, as the\nGuardian used to say, suited well enough for a Scholar; but for a\nFlescher not at all. Fixlein first took his victuals, and then\nsignified that he was made Conrector. \"Ward,\" said Steinberger, \"if you\nare made that, it is well.--Seest thou, Eva, I cannot buy a tail of thy\ncows now; I must have smelt it beforehand.\" He was hereby informing his\ndaughter that the cash set apart for the fatted cattle must now be\napplied to the Conrectorate; for he was in the habit of advancing all\ninstalment-dues to his Ward, at an interest of four and a half per\ncent. Fifty gulden he had already lent the Quintus on his advancement\nto the Quintusship; of these the interest had to be duly paid; yet, on\nthe day of payment, the Quintus always got some abatement; being wont\nevery Sunday after dinner to instruct his guardian's daughter in\narithmetic, writing, and geography. Steinberger with justice required\nof his own grown-up daughter that she should know all the towns where\nhe in his wanderings as a journeyman had slain fat oxen; and if she\nslipped, or wrote crookedly, or subtracted wrong, he himself, as\nAcademical Senate and Justiciary, was standing behind her chair, ready,\nso to speak, with the forge-hammer of his fist to beat out the dross\nfrom her brain, and at a few strokes hammer it into right ductility.\nThe soft Quintus, for his part, had never struck her. On this account\nshe had perhaps, with a few glances, appointed him executor and\nassignee of her heart. The old Flescher--simply because his wife was\ndead--had constantly been in the habit of searching with mine-lamps and\npokers into all the corners of Eva's heart; and had in consequence long\nago observed--what the Quintus never did--that she had a mind for the\nsaid Quintus. Young women conceal their sorrows more easily than their\njoys; to-day, at the mention of this Conrectorate, Eva had become\nunusually _red_.\n\nWhen she went after breakfast to bring in coffee, which the Ward had to\ndrink down to the grounds: \"I beat Eva to death if she but look at\nhim,\" said he. Then addressing Fixlein: \"Hear you, Ward, did you never\ncast an eye on my Eva? She can suffer you, and if you want her, you get\nher; but _we_ have done with one another; for a learned man needs quite\nanother sort of thing.\"\n\n\"Herr Regiments-Quartermaster,\" said Fixlein, (for this post\nSteinberger filled in the Provincial Militia,) \"such a match were far\ntoo rich, at any rate, for a Schoolman.\" The Quartermaster nodded fifty\ntimes; and then said to Eva, as she returned,--at the same time taking\ndown from the shelf a wooden crook, on which he used to rack out and\nsuspend his slain calves: \"Stop!--Hark, dost wish the present Herr\nConrector here for thy husband?\"\n\n\"Ah, good Heaven!\" said Eva.\n\n\"Mayst wish him or not,\" continued the Flescher; \"with this crook thy\nfather knocks thy brains out, if thou but think of a learned man. Now\nmake his coffee.\" And so by the dissevering stroke of this wooden crook\nwas a love easily smitten asunder, which in a higher rank, by such\ncutting through it with the sword, would only have foamed and hissed\nthe keenlier.\n\nFixlein might now, at any hour he liked, lay hold of fifty florins\nFrankish, and clutch the pedagogic sceptre, and become coadjutor of the\nRector, that is, Conrector. We may assert, that it is with debts, as\nwith proportions in Architecture; of which Wolf has shown that those\nare the best which can be expressed in the smallest numbers.\nNevertheless, the Quartermaster cheerfully took learned men under his\narm; for the notion that his debtor would decease in his thirty-second\nyear, and that so Death, as creditor in the first rank, must be paid\nhis Debt of Nature, before the other creditors could come forward with\ntheir debts--this notion he named stuff and old-wifery; he was neither\nSuperstitious nor Fanatical, and he walked by firm principles of\naction, such as the common man much oftener has than your vaporing man\nof letters, or your empty, dainty man of rank.\n\nAs it is but a few clear Ladydays, warm Mayday-nights, at the most a\nfew odorous Rose-weeks, which I am digging from this Fixleinic Life,\nembedded in the dross of week-day cares; and as if they were so many\nveins of silver, am separating, stamping, smelting, and burnishing for\nthe reader,--I must now travel on with the stream, his history to\nCantata-Sunday, 1792, before I can gather a few handfuls of this\ngold-dust, to carry in and wash in my biographical gold-hut. That\nSunday, on the contrary, is very metalliferous; do but consider that\nFixlein is yet uncertain (the ashes of the Church-books not being\nlegible) whether it is conducting him into his thirty-second or his\nthirty-third year.\n\nFrom Christmas till then he did nothing, but simply became Conrector.\nThe new chair of office was a Sun-altar, on which, from his\nQuintus-ashes, a young Ph[oe]nix combined itself together. Great\nchanges--in offices, marriages, travels--make us younger; we always\ndate our history from the last revolution, as the French have done from\ntheirs. A colonel, who first set foot on the ladder of seniority as\ncorporal, is five times younger than a king, who in his whole life has\nnever been aught else except a--crown-prince.\n\n\n\n\n                           FIFTH LETTER-BOX.\n\n         Cantata-Sunday.--Two Testaments.--Pontac; Blood; Love.\n\n\nThe spring months clothe the earth in new variegated hues; but man they\nusually dress in black. Just when our icy regions are becoming\nfruitful, and the flower-waves of the meadows are rolling together over\nour quarter of the globe, we on all hands meet with men in sables, the\nbeginning of whose Spring is full of tears. But, on the other hand,\nthis very upblooming of the renovated earth is itself the best balm for\nsorrow over those who lie under it; and graves are better hid by\nblossoms than by snow.\n\nIn April, which is no less deadly than it is fickle, old Senior\nAstmann, our Conrector's teacher, was overtaken by death. His departure\nit was meant to hide from the Rittmeisterinn; but the unusual ringing\nof funeral peals carried his swan-song to her heart; and gradually set\nthe curfew-bell of her life into similar movement. Age and sufferings\nhad already marked out the first incisions for Death, so that he\nrequired but little effort to cut her down; for it is with men as with\ntrees, they are notched long before felling, that their life-sap may\nexude. The second stroke of apoplexy was soon followed by the last; it\nis strange that Death, like criminal courts, cites the apoplectic\nthrice.\n\nMen are apt to postpone their _last_ will as long as their _better_\none; the Rittmeisterinn would perhaps have let all her hours, till the\nspeechless and deaf one, roll away without testament, had not\nThiennette, during the last night before from sick-nurse she became\ncorpse-watcher, reminded the patient of the poor Conrector, and\nof his meagre, hunger-bitten existence, and of the scanty aliment and\nboard-wages which Fortune had thrown him, and of his empty Future,\nwhere, like a drooping, yellow plant in the parched deal-box of the\nschool-room, between scholars and creditors, he must languish to the\nend. Her own poverty offered her a model of his; and her inward tears\nwere the fluid tints with which she colored her picture. As the\nRittmeisterinn's testament related solely to domestics and dependants,\nand as she began with the male one, Fixlein stood at the top; and\nDeath, who must have been a special friend of the Conrector's, did not\nlift his scythe and give the last stroke, till his _protege_ had\nbeen with audible voice declared testamentary heir; then he cut all\naway,--life, testament, and hopes.\n\nWhen the Conrector, in a wash-bill from his mother, received these two\nDeath's-posts and Job's-posts in his class, the first thing he did was\nto dismiss his class-boys, and break into tears before reaching home.\nThough the mother had informed him that he had been remembered in the\nwill (I could wish, however, that the Notary had blabbed how much it\nwas), yet almost with every O which he masoretically excerpted from his\nGerman Bible, and entered in his Masoretic Work, great drops fell down\non his pen, and made his black ink pale. His sorrow was not the\ngorgeous sorrow of the Poet, who veils the gaping wounds of the\ndeparted in the winding-sheet, and breaks the cry of anguish in soft\ntones of plaintiveness; nor the sorrow of the Philosopher, who, through\none open grave, must look into the whole catacomb-Necropolis of the\nPast, and before whom the spectre of a friend expands into the spectral\nShadow of this whole Earth; but it was the woe of a child, of a mother,\nwhom this thought itself, without subsidiary reflections, bitterly\ncuts asunder: \"So I shall never more see thee; so must thou moulder\naway, and I shall never see thee, thou good soul, never, never any\nmore!\"--And even because he neither felt the philosophical nor the\npoetical sadness, every trifle could make a division, a break in his\nmourning; and, like a woman, he was that very evening capable of\nsketching some plans for the future employment of his legacy.\n\nFour weeks after, to wit, on the 5th of May, the testament was\nunsealed; but not till the 6th (Cantata-Sunday) did he go down to\nHukelum. His mother met his salutations with tears; which she shed,\nover the corpse for grief, over the testament for joy.--To the now\nConrector Egidius Zebedaeus was left: _In the first place_, a large\nsumptuous bed, with a mirror-tester, in which the giant Goliath might\nhave rolled at his ease, and to which I and my fair readers will by and\nby approach nearer, to examine it; _secondly_, there was devised to\nhim, as unpaid Easter-godchild-money, for every year that he had lived,\none ducat; _thirdly_, all the admittance and instalment dues, which his\nelevation to the Quintate and Conrectorate had cost him, were to be\nmade good to the utmost penny. \"And dost thou know, then,\" proceeded\nthe mother, \"what the poor Fraeulein has got? Ah Heaven! Nothing! Not\none brass farthing!\" For Death had stiffened the hand, which was just\nstretching itself out to reach the poor Thiennette a little rain-screen\nagainst the foul weather of life. The mother related this perverse\ntrick of Fortune with true condolence; which in women dissipates envy,\nand comes easier to them than congratulation, a feeling belonging\nrather to men. In many female hearts sympathy and envy are such near\ndoor-neighbors that they could be virtuous nowhere except in Hell,\nwhere men have such frightful times of it; and vicious nowhere except\nin Heaven, where people have more happiness than they know what to do\nwith.\n\nThe Conrector was now enjoying on Earth that Heaven to which his\nbenefactress had ascended. First of all, he started off--without\nso much as putting up his handkerchief, in which lay his\nemotion--up-stairs to see the legacy-bed unshrouded; for he had a\n_female_ predilection for furniture. I know not whether the reader ever\nlooked at or mounted any of these ancient chivalric beds, into which,\nby means of a little stair without balustrades, you can easily ascend;\nand in which you, properly speaking, sleep always at least one story\nabove ground. Nazianzen informs us (_Orat_. XVI.) that the Jews, in old\ntimes, had high beds with cock-ladders of this sort; but simply because\nof vermin. The legacy bed-Ark was quite as large as one of these; and a\nflea would have measured it, not in Diameters of the Earth, but in\nDistances of Sirius. When Fixlein beheld this colossal dormitory, with\nthe curtains drawn asunder, and its canopy of looking-glass, he could\nhave longed to be in it; and had it been in his power to cut from the\nopaque hemisphere of Night, at that time in America, a small section,\nhe would have established himself there along with it, just to swim\nabout, for one half-hour, with his thin lath figure, in this sea of\ndown. The mother, by longer chains of reasoning and chains of\ncalculation than the bed was, had not succeeded in persuading him to\nhave the broad mirror on the top cut in pieces, though his large\ndressing-table had nothing to see itself in but a mere shaving-glass;\nhe let the mirror lie where it was for this reason: \"Should I ever, God\nwilling, get married,\" said he, \"I shall then, towards morning, be able\nto look at my sleeping wife, without sitting up in bed.\"\n\nAs to the second article of the testament, the godchild Easter-pence,\nhis mother had, last night, arranged it perfectly. The Lawyer took her\nevidence on the years of the heir; and these she had stated at exactly\nthe teeth-number, two-and-thirty. She would willingly have lied, and\npassed off her son, like an Inscription, for older than he was; but\nagainst this _venia aetatis_, she saw too well the authorities would\nhave taken exception, \"that it was falsehood and cozenage; had the son\nbeen two-and-thirty, he must have been dead some time ago, as it could\nnot but be presumed that he then was.\"\n\nAnd just as she was recounting this, a servant from Schadeck called;\nand delivered to the Conrector, in return for a discharge and\nratification of the birth-certificate given out by his mother, a gold\nbar of two-and-thirty ducat age-counters, like a helm-bar for the\nvoyage of his life; Herr von Aufhammer was too proud to engage in any\npettifogging discussion over a plebeian birth-certificate.\n\nAnd thus, by a proud open-handedness, was one of the best lawsuits\nthrown to the dogs; seeing this gold bar might, in the wire-mill of the\njudgment-bench, have been drawn out into the finest threads. From such\na tangled lock, which was not to be unravelled--for in the first place,\nthere was no document to prove Fixlein's age; in the second place, so\nlong as he lived, the necessary conclusion was, that he was not yet\nthirty-two[50]--from such a lock might not only silk and hanging-cords,\nbut whole drag nets, have been spun and twisted? Clients in general\nwould have less reason to complain of their causes, if these lasted\nlonger. Philosophers contend for thousands of years over philosophical\nquestions; and it seems an unaccountable thing, therefore, that\nAdvocates should attempt to end their juristical questions in a space\nof eighty, or even sometimes of sixty years. But the professors of Law\nare not to blame for this; on the other hand, as Lessing asserts of\nTruth, that not the _finding_, but the _seeking_ of it profits men, and\nthat he himself would willingly make over his claim to all truths in\nreturn for the sweet labor of investigation, so is the professor of Law\nnot profited by the finding and deciding, but by the investigation of a\njuridical truth,--which is called pleading and practising,--and he\nwould willingly consent to approximate to Truth forever, like an\nhyperbola to its asymptote, without ever meeting it, seeing he can\nsubsist as an honorable man with wife and child, let such approximation\nbe as tedious as it likes.\n\nThe Schadeck servant had, besides the gold legacy, a further commission\nfrom the Lawyer, whereby the testamentary heir was directed to sum up\nthe mint-dues which he had been obliged to pay while lying under the\ncoining-press of his superiors, as Quintus and Conrector; the which,\nproperly documented and authenticated, were forthwith to be made good\nto him.\n\nOur Conrector, who now rated himself among the great capitalists of the\nworld, held his short gold-roll like a sceptre in his hand; like a\nbasket-net lifted from the sea of the Future, which was now to run on,\nand bring him all manner of fed-fishes, well-washed, sound, and in good\nseason.\n\nI cannot relate all things at once; else I should ere now have told the\nreader, who must long have been waiting for it, that to the moneyed\nConrector his two-and-thirty godchild-pennies but too much prefigured\nthe two-and-thirty years of his age; besides which, to-day the\nCantata-Sunday, this Bartholomew-night and Second of September of his\nfamily, came in as a further aggravation. The mother, who should have\nknown the age of her child, said she had forgotten it; but durst wager\nhe was thirty-two a year ago; only the Lawyer was a man you could not\nspeak to. \"I could swear it myself,\" said the capitalist; \"I recollect\nhow stupid I felt Cantata-Sunday last year.\" Fixlein beheld Death, not\nas the poet does, in the uptowering, asunder-driving concave-mirror of\nImagination; but as the child, as the savage, as the peasant, as the\nwoman does, in the plane octavo-mirror on the board of a Prayer-book;\nand Death looked to him like an old white-headed man, sunk down into\nslumber in some latticed pew.--\n\nAnd yet he thought oftener of him than last year; for joy readily melts\nus into softness; and the lackered Wheel of Fortune is a cistern-wheel\nthat empties its water in our eyes.... But the friendly Genius of this\nterrestrial, or rather aquatic Ball--for, in the physical and in the\nmoral world, there are more tear-seas than firm land--has provided for\nthe poor water-insects that float about in it, for us, namely, a quite\nspecial elixir against spasms in the soul; I declare this same Genius\nmust have studied the whole pathology of man with care; for to the poor\ndevil who is no Stoic, and can pay no Soul-doctor, that for the\nfissures of his cranium and his breast might prepare costly\nprescriptions of simples, he has stowed up cask-wise in all cellarages\na precious wound-water, which the patient has only to take and pour\nover his slashes and bone-breakages--gin-twist, I mean, or beer, or a\ntouch of wine.... By Heaven! it is either stupid ingratitude towards\nthis medicinal Genius on the one hand, or theological confusion of\npermitted tippling with prohibited drunkenness on the other, if men do\nnot thank God that they have something at hand, which, in the nervous\nvertigoes of life, will instantly supply the place of Philosophy,\nChristianity, Judaism, Paganism, and _Time_;--liquor, as I said.\n\nThe Conrector had long before sunset given the village post three\ngroschens of post-money, and commissioned--for he had a whole cabinet\nof ducats in his pocket, which all day he was surveying in the dark\nwith his hand--three thalers' worth of Pontac from the town. \"I must\nhave a Cantata merry-making,\" said he; \"if it be my last day, let it be\nmy gayest too!\" I could wish he had given a larger order; but he kept\nthe bit of moderation between his teeth at all times; even in a\nthreatened sham-death-night, and in the midst of jubilee. The question\nis, whether he would not have restricted himself to a single bottle, if\nhe had not wished to treat his mother and the Fraeulein. Had he lived in\nthe tenth century, when the Day of Judgment was thought to be at hand,\nor in other centuries, when new Noah's Deluges were expected, and when,\naccordingly, like sailors in a shipwreck, people boused up all,--he\nwould not have spent one kreuzer more on that account. His joy was,\nthat with his legacy he could now satisfy his head-creditor\nSteinberger, and leave the world an honest man. Just people, who make\nmuch of money, pay their debts the most punctually.\n\nThe purple Pontac arrived at a time when Fixlein could compare the\nred-chalk-drawings and red-letter-titles of joy, which it would\nbring out on the cheeks of its drinker and drinkeresses,--with the\nEvening-carnation of the last clouds about the Sun....\n\nI declare, among all the spectators of this History, no one can be\nthinking more about poor Thiennette than I; nevertheless, it is not\npermitted me to bring her out from her tiring-room to my historical\nscene before the time. Poor girl! The Conrector cannot wish more warmly\nthan his Biographer, that, in the Temple of Nature as in that of\nJerusalem, there were a special door--besides that of Death--standing\nopen, through which only the afflicted entered, that a Priest might\ngive them solace. But Thiennette's heart-sickness over all her vanished\nprospects, over her entombed benefactress, over a whole life enwrapped\nin the pall, had hitherto, in a grief which the stony Rittmeister\nrather made to bleed than alleviated, swept all away from her,\noccupations excepted; had fettered all her steps which led not to some\ntask, and granted to her eyes nothing to dry them or gladden them, save\ndown-falling eyelids full of dreams and sleep.\n\nAll sorrow raises us above the civic Ceremonial-law, and makes the\nProsaist a Psalmist; in sorrow alone have women courage to front\nopinion. Thiennette walked out only in the evening, and then only in\nthe garden.\n\nThe Conrector could scarcely wait for the appearance of his fair\nfriend, to offer his thanks,--and to-night also--his Pontac. Three\nPontac decanters and three wineglasses were placed outside on the\nprojecting window-sill of his cottage; and every time he returned from\nthe dusky covered-way amid the flower forests, he drank a little from\nhis glass,--and the mother sipped now and then from within through the\nopened window.\n\nI have already said, his Life-laboratory lay in the southwest corner of\nthe garden or park, over against the Castle-Escurial, which stretched\nback into the village. In the northwest corner bloomed an acacia grove,\nlike the floral crown of the garden. Fixlein turned his steps in that\ndirection also; to see if, perhaps, he might not cast a happy glance\nthrough the wide-latticed grove over the intervening meads to\nThiennette. He recoiled a little before two stone steps leading down\ninto a pond before this grove, which were sprinkled with fresh blood.\nOn the flags, also, there was blood hanging. Man shudders at this oil\nof our life's lamp where he finds it shed; to him it is the red\ndeath-signature of the Destroying Angel. Fixlein hurried apprehensively\ninto the grove; and found here his paler benefactress leaning on the\nflower-bushes; her hands with her knitting-ware sunk into her bosom,\nher eyes lying under their lids as if in the bandage of slumber; her\nleft arm in the real bandage of bloodletting; and with cheeks to which\nthe twilight was lending as much red, as late woundings--this day's\nincluded--had taken from them. Fixlein, after his first terror--not at\nthis flower's sleep, but at his own abrupt entrance--began to unroll\nthe spiral butterfly's-sucker of his vision, and to lay it on the\nmotionless leaves of this same sleeping flower. At bottom, I may\nassert, that this was the first time he had ever looked at her; he was\nnow among the thirties; and he still continued to believe, that, in a\nyoung lady, he must look at the clothes only, not the person, and wait\non her with his ears, not with his eyes.\n\nI impute it to the elevating influences of the Pontac, that the\nConrector plucked up courage to--turn, to come back, and employ the\nresuscitating means of coughing, sneezing, trampling, and calling to\nhis Shock, in stronger and stronger doses on the fair sleeper. To take\nher by the hand, and with some medical apology, gently pull her out of\nsleep, this was an audacity of which the Conrector, so long as he could\nstand for Pontac, and had any grain of judgment left, could never\ndream.\n\nHowever, he did awake her, by those other means.\n\nWearied, heavy-laden Thiennette! how slowly does thy eye open! The\nwarmest balsam of this earth, soft sleep has shifted aside, and the\nnight-air of memory is again blowing on thy naked wounds!--and yet was\nthe smiling friend of thy youth the fairest object which thy eye could\nlight on, when it sank from the hanging-garden of Dreams into this\nlower one round thee.\n\nShe herself was little conscious,--and the Conrector not at all,--that\nshe was bending her flower-leaves imperceptibly towards a terrestrial\nbody, namely, towards Fixlein. She resembled an Italian flower, that\ncontains cunningly concealed within it a new-year's gift, which the\nreceiver knows not at first how to extract. But now the golden chain of\nher late kind deed attracted her as well towards him, as him towards\nher. She at once gave her eye and her voice a mask of joy; for she did\nnot put her tears, as Catholics do those of Christ, in relic-vials,\nupon altars, to be worshipped. He could very suitably preface his\ninvitation to the Pontac festival with a long acknowledgment of thanks\nfor the kind intervention which had opened to him the sources for\nprocuring it. She rose slowly, and walked with him to the banquet of\nwine; but he was not so discreet, as at first to attempt leading her,\nor rather not so courageous; he could more easily have offered a young\nlady his hand (that is, with marriage ring) than offered her his arm.\nOne only time in his life had he escorted a female, a Lombard Countess\nfrom the theatre; a thing truly not to be believed, were not this the\nsecret of it, that he was obliged; for the lady, a foreigner, parted in\nthe press from all her people, in a bad night, had laid hold of him as\na sable Abbe by the arm, and requested him to take her to her inn. He,\nhowever, knew the fashions of society, and attended her no farther than\nthe porch of his Quintus-mansion, and there directed her with his\nfinger to her inn, which, with thirty blazing windows, was looking down\nfrom another street.\n\nThese things he cannot help. But to-night he had scarcely, with his\nfair, faint companion, reached the bank of the pond, into which some\nsuperstitious dread of water-spirits had lately poured the pure blood\nof her left arm,--when, in his terror lest she fell in, with the rest\nof her blood, over the brink, he quite valiantly laid hold of the sick\narm. Thus will much Pontac and a little courage at all times put a\nConrector in case to lay hold of a Fraeulein. I aver that at the\nbanquet-board of the wine, at the window-sill, he continued in the same\nconducting position. What a soft group in the penumbra of the Earth,\nwhile Night, with its dusky waters, was falling deeper and deeper, and\nthe silver-light of the Moon was already glancing back from the copper\nball of the steeple! I call the group soft, because it consists of a\nmaiden that in two senses has been bleeding; of a mother again with\ntears giving her thanks for the happiness of her child; and of a pious,\nmodest man, pouring wine, and drinking health to both, and who traces\nin his veins a burning lava-stream, which is boiling through his heart,\nand threatening piece by piece to melt it and bear it away. A candle\nstood without among the three bottles, like Reason among the Passions;\non this account the Conrector looked without intermission at the\nwindow-panes, for on them (the darkness of the room served as\nmirror-foil) was painted, among other faces which Fixlein liked, the\nface he liked best of all, and which he dared to look at only in\nreflection, the face of Thiennette.\n\nEvery minute was a Federation-festival, and every second a\nPreparation-Sabbath for it. The Moon was gleaming from the evening dew,\nand the Pontac from their eyes, and the bean-stalks were casting a\nshorter grating of shadow. The quicksilver-drops of stars were hanging\nmore and more continuous in the sable of night. The warm vapor of the\nwine set our two friends (like steam-engines) again in motion.\n\nNothing makes the heart fuller and bolder than walking to and fro in\nthe night. Fixlein now led the Fraeulein in his arm without scruple. By\nreason of her lancet-wound, Thiennette could only put her hand, in a\nclasping position, in his arm; and he, to save her the trouble of\nholding fast, held fast himself, and pressed her fingers as well as\nmight be with his arm to his heart. It would betray a total want of\npolished manners to censure his. At the same time, trifles are the\nprovender of Love; the fingers are electric discharges of a fire\nsparkling along every fibre; sighs are the guiding tones of two\napproximating hearts; and the worst and most effectual thing of all in\nsuch a case is some misfortune; for the fire of Love, like that of\nnaphtha, likes to swim on water. Two tear-drops, one in another's, one\nin your own eyes, compose, as with two convex lenses, a microscope\nwhich enlarges everything, and changes all sorrows into charms. Good\nsex! I too consider every sister in misfortune as fair; and, perhaps,\nthou wouldst deserve the name of the Fair, even because thou art the\nSuffering sex!\n\nAnd if Professor Hunczogsky in Vienna modelled all the wounds of the\nhuman frame in wax, to teach his pupils how to cure them, I also, thou\ngood sex, am representing in little figures the cuts and scars of thy\nspirit, though only to keep away rude hands from inflicting new\nones....\n\nThiennette felt not the loss of the inheritance, but of her that should\nhave left it; and this more deeply for one little trait, which she had\nalready told his mother, as she now told him. In the last two nights of\nthe Rittmeisterinn, when the feverish watching was holding up to\nThiennette's imagination nothing but the winding-sheet and the\nmourning-coaches of her protectress; while she was sitting at the foot\nof the bed, looking on those fixed eyes, unconsciously quick drops\noften trickled over her cheeks, while in thought she prefigured the\nheavy, cumbrous dressing of her benefactress for the coffin. Once after\nmidnight, the dying lady pointed with her finger to her own lips.\nThiennette understood her not; but rose and bent over her face. The\nEnfeebled tried to lift her head, but could not,--and only rounded her\nlips. At last, a thought glanced through Thiennette, that the\nDeparting, whose dead arms could now press no beloved heart to her own,\nwished that she herself should embrace her. O then, that instant, keen\nand tearful, she pressed her warm lips on the colder,--and she was\nsilent like her that was to speak no more,--and she embraced alone and\nwas not embraced. About four o'clock, the finger waved again; she sank\ndown on the stiffened lips,--but this had been no signal, for the lips\nof her friend under the long kiss had grown stiff and cold....\n\nHow deeply now, before the infinite Eternity's-countenance of Night,\ndid the cutting of this thought pass through Fixlein's warm soul: \"O\nthou forsaken one beside me! No happy accident, no twilight hast thou,\nlike that now glimmering in the heavens, to point to the prospect of a\nsunny day; without parents art thou, without brother, without friend;\nhere alone on a disblossomed, emptied corner of the Earth; and thou,\nleft Harvest-flower, must wave lonely and frozen over the withered\nstubble of the Past.\" That was the meaning of his thoughts, whose\ninternal words were: \"Poor young lady! Not so much as a half-cousin\nleft; no nobleman will seek her, and she grows old so forgotten, and\nshe is so good from the very heart,--Me she has made happy,--Ah, had I\nthe presentation to the parish of Hukelum in my pocket, I should make a\ntrial.\" ... Their mutual lives, which a straitcutting bond of Destiny\nwas binding so closely together, now rose before him overhung with\nsable,--and he forthwith conducted his friend (for a bashful man may in\nan hour and a half be transformed into the boldest, and then continues\nso) back to the last flask, that all these upsprouting thistles and\npassion-flowers of sorrow might therewith be swept away. I remark, in\npassing, that this was stupid; the torn vine is full of water-veins as\nwell as grapes; and a soft oppressed heart the beverage of joy can melt\nonly into tears.\n\nIf any man disagree with me, I shall desire him to look at the\nConrector, who demonstrates my experimental maxim like a very\nsyllogism.--One might arrive at some philosophic views, if one traced\nout the causes, why liquors--that is to say, in the long run, more\nplentiful secretion of the nervous spirits--make men at once pious,\nsoft, and poetical. The Poet, like Apollo his father, is _forever a\nyouth_; and is, what other men are only once, namely, in love,--or only\nafter Pontac, namely, intoxicated,--all his life long. Fixlein, who had\nbeen no poet in the morning, now became one at night; wine made him\npious and soft; the Harmonica-bells in man, which sound to the tones of\na higher world, must, like the glass Harmonica-bells, if they are to\nact, be kept _moist_.\n\nHe was now standing with her again beside the wavering pond, in which\nthe second blue hemisphere of heaven, with dancing stars and amid\nquivering trees, was playing; over the green hills ran the white,\ncrooked footpaths dimly along; on the one mountain was the twilight\nsinking together, on the other was the mist of night rising up;\nand over all these vapors of life hung motionless and naming the\nthousand-armed lustre of the starry heaven, and every arm held in it a\nburning galaxy....\n\nIt now struck eleven.... Amid such scenes, an unknown hand stretches\nitself out in man, and writes in foreign language on his heart, a dread\n_Mene Mene Tekel Upharsin_. \"Perhaps by twelve I am dead,\" thought our\nfriend, in whose soul the Cantata-Sunday, with all its black funeral\npiles, was mounting up.\n\nThe whole future Crucifixion of his friend lay prickly and bethorned\nbefore him; and he saw every bloody trace from which she lifted her\nfoot,--she who had made his own way soft with flowers and leaves. He\ncould no longer restrain himself; trembling in his whole frame, and\nwith a trembling voice, he solemnly said to her: \"If the Lord this\nnight call me away, let the half of my fortune be yours; for it is your\ngoodness I must thank that I am free of debts, as few Teachers are.\"\n\nThiennette, unacquainted with our sex, naturally mistook this speech\nfor a proposal of marriage; and the fingers of her wounded arm to-night\nfor the first time pressed suddenly against the arm in which they lay;\nthe only living mortal's arm by which Joy, Love, and the Earth were\nstill united with her bosom. The Conrector, rapturously terrified\nat the first pressure of a female hand, bent over his right to take\nhold of her left; and Thiennette, observing his unsuccessful movement,\nlifted her fingers, and laid her whole wounded arm in his, and\nher whole left hand in his right. Two lovers dwell in the\nWhispering-gallery,[51] where the faintest breath bodies itself forth\ninto a sound. The good Conrector received and returned this blissful\nlove-pressure, wherewith our poor, powerless soul, stammering, hemmed\nin, longing, distracted, seeks for a warmer language, which exists not;\nhe was overpowered; he had not the courage to look at her; but he\nlooked into the gleam of the twilight, and said (and here for\nunspeakable love the tears were running warm over his cheeks): \"Ah, I\nwill give you all; fortune, life, and all that I have, my heart and my\nhand.\"\n\nShe was about to answer, but, casting a side glance, she cried, with a\nshriek: \"Ah, Heaven!\" He started round, and perceived the white muslin\nsleeve all dyed with blood; for in putting her arm into his, she had\npushed away the bandage from the open vein. With the speed of\nlightning, he hurried her into the acacia-grove; the blood was already\nrunning from the muslin; he grew paler than she, for every drop of it\nwas coming from his heart. The blue-white arm was bared; the bandage\nwas put on: he tore a piece of gold from his pocket; clapped it, as one\ndoes with open arteries, on the spouting fountain, and bolted with this\ngolden bar, and with the bandage over it, the door out of which her\nafflicted life was hurrying.--\n\nWhen it was over, she looked up to him; pale, languid, but her eyes\nwere two glistening fountains of an unspeakable love, full of sorrow\nand full of gratitude.--The exhausting loss of blood was spreading her\nsoul asunder in sighs. Thiennette was dissolved into inexpressible\nsoftness; and the heart lacerated by so many years, by so many arrows,\nwas plunging with all its wounds in warm streams of tears, to be\nhealed, as chapped flutes close together by lying in water, and get\nback their tones. Before such a magic form, before such a pure,\nheavenly love, her sympathizing friend was melted between the flames of\njoy and grief; and sank, with stifled voice, and bent down by love and\nrapture, on the pale, angelic face, the lips of which he timidly\npressed, but did not kiss, till all-powerful Love bound its girdles\nround them, and drew the two closer and closer together, and their two\nsouls, like two tears, melted into one. O now, when it struck twelve,\nthe hour of death, did not the lover fancy that her lips were drawing\nhis soul away, and all the fibres and all the nerves of his life closed\nspasmodically round the last heart in this world, round the last\nrapture of existence.... Yes, happy man, thou didst express thy love;\nfor in thy love thou thoughtest to die....\n\nHowever, he did not die. After midnight, there floated a balmy morning\nair through the shaken flowers, and the whole spring was breathing.\nThe blissful lover, setting bounds even to his sea of joy, reminded\nhis delicate beloved, who was now his bride, of the dangers from\nnight-cold; and himself of the longer night-cold of Death, which was\nnow for long years passed over.--Innocent and blessed, they rose\nfrom the grove of their betrothment, from its dust broken by white\nacacia-flowers and straggling moonbeams. And without, they felt as if a\nwhole wide Past had sunk away in a convulsion of the world; all was\nnew, light, and young. The sky stood full of glittering dew-drops from\nthe everlasting Morning; and the stars quivered joyfully asunder, and\nsank, resolved into beams, down into the hearts of men.--The Moon, with\nher fountain of light, had overspread and kindled all the garden, and\nwas hanging above in a starless blue, as if she had consumed the\nnearest stars; and she seemed like a smaller wandering Spring, like a\nChrist's-face smiling in love of man.--\n\nUnder this light they looked at one another for the first time after\nthe first words of love; and the sky gleamed magically down on the\ndisordered features with which the first rapture of love was still\nstanding written on their faces....\n\nDream, ye beloved, as ye wake, happy as in Paradise, innocent as in\nParadise!\n\n\n\n\n                           SIXTH LETTER-BOX.\n\n         Office-impost.--One of the Most Important of Petitions.\n\n\nThe finest thing was his awakening in his European Settlement in the\ngiant Schadeck bed!--With the inflammatory, tickling, eating fever of\nlove in his breast; with the triumphant feeling that he had now got the\nintroductory programme of love put happily by; and with the sweet\nresurrection from his living, prophetic burial; and with the joy that\nnow, among his thirties, he could, for the first time, cherish hopes of\na longer life (and did not longer mean at least till seventy?) than he\ncould ten years ago;--with all this stirring life-balsam, in which the\nliving fire-wheel of his heart was rapidly revolving, he lay here, and\nlaughed at his glancing portrait in the bed-canopy; but he could not do\nit long; he was obliged to move. For a less happy man, it would have\nbeen gratifying to have measured--as pilgrims measure with the length\nof their pilgrimage, not so much by steps as by body-lengths, like\nEarth-diameters--the superficial content of the bed. But Fixlein, for\nhis own part, had to launch from his bed into warm, billowy life; he\nhad now his dear good Earth again to look after, and a Conrectorship\nthereon, and a bride to boot. Besides all this, his mother down-stairs\nnow admitted that he had last night actually glided through beneath the\nscythe of Death, like supple grass, and that yesterday she had not told\nhim, merely out of fear of his fear. Still a cold shudder went over\nhim--especially as he was sober now--when he looked round at the high\nTarpeian Rock, four hours' distance behind him, on the battlements of\nwhich he had last night walked hand in hand with Death.\n\nThe only thing that grieved him was, that it was Monday, and that he\nmust back to the Gymnasium. Such a freightage of joys he had never\ntaken with him on his road to town. After four, he issued from his\nhouse, satisfied with coffee (which he drank in Hukelum merely for his\nmother's sake, who, for two days after, would still have portions of\nthis woman's-wine to draw from the lees of the pot-sediment), into the\n_cooling_ dawning May-morning (for joy needs coolness, sorrow sun); his\nBetrothed comes--not indeed to meet him, but still--into his hearing,\nby her distant morning hymn; he makes but one momentary turn into the\nblissful haven of the blooming acacia-grove, which still, like the\ncovenant sealed in it, has no thorns; he dips his warm hand in the\ncold-bath of the dewy leaves; he wades with pleasure through the\nbeautifying-water of the dew, which, as it imparts color to faces, eats\nit away from boots (\"but with thirty ducats, a Conrector may make shift\nto keep two pairs of boots on the hook\"). And now the Moon, as it were\nthe hanging seal of his last night's happiness, dips down into the\nWest, like an emptied bucket of light, and in the East the other\noverrunning bucket, the Sun, mounts up, and the gushes of light flow\nbroader and broader.\n\nThe city stood in the celestial flames of Morning. Here his\ndivining-rod (his gold-roll, which, excepting one sixteenth of an inch\nbroken off from it, he carried along with him) began to quiver over all\nthe spots where booty and silver-veins of enjoyment were concealed; and\nour rod-diviner easily discovered that the city and the future were a\ntrue entire Potosi of delights.\n\nIn his Conrectorate closet he fell upon his knees and thanked God--not\nso much for his heritage and bride as--for his life; for he had gone\naway on Sunday morning with doubts whether he should ever come back;\nand it was purely out of love to the reader, and fear lest he might\nfret himself too much with apprehension, that I cunningly imputed\nFixlein's journey more to his desire of knowing what was in the will,\nthan of making his own will in presence of his mother. Every recovery\nis a bringing back and palingenesia of our youth; one loves the Earth\nand those that are on it with a new love. The Conrector could have\nfound in his heart to take all his class by the locks, and press them\nto his breast; but he only did so to his adjutant, the Quartaner, who,\nin the first Letter-box, was still sitting in the rank of a\nQuintaner....\n\nHis first expedition, after school-hours, was to the house of Meister\nSteinberger, where, without speaking a word, he counted down fifty\nflorins cash in ducats, on the table: \"At last I repay you,\" said\nFixlein, \"the moiety of my debt, and give you many thanks.\"\n\n\"Ey, Herr Conrector,\" said the Quartermaster, and continued calmly\nstuffing puddings as before, \"in my bond it is said, _payable at three\nmonths' mutual notice_. How could a man like me go on, else? However, I\nwill change you the gold-pieces.\" Thereupon he advised him that it\nmight be more judicious to take back a florin or two, and buy himself\na better hat, and whole shoes. \"If you like,\" added he, \"to get a\ncalf-skin and half a dozen hare-skins dressed, they are lying\nup-stairs.\" I should think, for my own part, that to the reader it must\nbe as little a matter of indifference as it was to the Butcher, whether\nthe hero of such a History appeared before him with an old tattered\npotlid of a hat, and a pump-sucker and leg-harness pair of boots, or in\nsuitable apparel. In short, before St. John's day, the man was dressed\nwith taste and pomp.\n\nBut now came two most peculiarly important papers--at bottom only one,\nthe petition for the Hukelum parsonship--to be elaborated; in regard to\nwhich I feel as if I myself must assist.... It were a simple turn, if\nnow at least the assembled public did not pay attention.\n\nIn the first place, the Conrector searched out and sorted all the\nConsistorial and Councillor quittances, or rather the toll-bills of the\nroad-money, which he had been obliged to pay before the toll-gates at\nthe Quintusship and Conrectorship had been thrown open; for the\nexecutor of the Schadeck testament had to reimburse him the whole, as\nhis discharge would express it, \"to penny and farthing.\" Another would\nhave summed up his post-excise much more readily; by merely looking\nwhat he--owed; as these debt-bills and those toll-bills, like parallel\npassages, elucidate and confirm each other. But in Fixlein's case,\nthere was a small circumstance of peculiarity at work, which I cannot\nexplain till after what follows.\n\nIt grieved him a little that for his two offices he had been obliged\nto pay and to borrow no larger a sum than 135 florins, 41 kreuzers,\nand one halfpenny. The legacy, it is true, was to pass directly\nfrom the hands of the testamentary executor into those of the\nRegiments-Quartermaster; but yet he could have liked well had he--for\nman is a fool from the very foundation of him--had more to pay, and\ntherefore to inherit. The whole Conrectorate he had, by a slight\ndeposit of 90 florins, plucked, as it were, from the Wheel of Fortune;\nand so small a sum must surprise my reader; but what will he say, when\nI tell him that there are countries where the entry-money into\nschool-rooms is even more moderate? In Scherau, a Conrector is charged\nonly 88 florins, and perhaps he may have an income triple of this sum.\nNot to speak of Saxony (what, in truth, was to be expected from the\ncradle of the Reformation, in Religion and Polite Literature), where a\nschoolmaster and a parson have _nothing_ to pay,--even in Baireuth, for\nexample, in Hof, the progress of improvement has been such that a\nQuartus,--a Quartus, do I say,--a Tertius--a Tertius, do I say,--a\nConrector,--at entrance on his post, is not required to pay down more\nthan:--\n\n\n      Fl.rhen.    Kr.rhen.\n         30          49    For taking the oaths at the Consistorium.\n          4           0    To the Syndic for the Presentation.\n          2           0    To the then Burgermeister.\n         45           71/2   For the Government-sanction.\n         ---------------\nTotal,   81 fl.      561/2 kr.\n\n\nIf the printing-charges of a Rector do stand a little higher in some\npoints, yet, on the other hand, a Tertius, Quartus, &c., come cheaper\nfrom the press than even a Conrector. Now, it is clear, that in this\ncase a schoolmaster can subsist; since, in the course of the very first\nyear, he gets an overplus beyond this _dockmoney_ of his office. A\nschoolmaster must, like his scholars, have been advanced from class to\nclass, before these his loans to Government, together with the interest\nfor delay of payment, can jointly amount to so much as his yearly\nincome in the highest class. Another thing in his favor is, that our\ninstitutions do not--as those of Athens did--prohibit people from\nentering on office while in debt; but every man, with his debt-knapsack\non his shoulders, mounts up, step after step, without obstruction. The\nPope, in large benefices, appropriates the income of the first year,\nunder the title of _Annates_, or First-Fruits; and accordingly he, in\nall cases, bestows any large benefice on the possessor of a smaller\none, thereby to augment both his own revenues and those of others; but\nit shows, in my opinion, a bright distinction between Popery and\nLutheranism, that the Consistoriums of the latter abstract from their\nschool-ministers and church-ministers not perhaps above two thirds of\ntheir first yearly income; though they too, like the Pope, must\nnaturally have an eye to vacancies.\n\nIt may be that I shall here come in collision with the Elector of\nMentz, when I confess, that, in Schmausen's _Corp. jur. pub. Germ_., I\nhave turned up the Mentz-Imperial-Court-Chancery-tax-ordinance of\nthe 6th January, 1659, and there investigated how much this same\nImperial-Court-Chancery demands, as contrasted with a Consistorium. For\nexample, any man that wishes to be baked or sodden into a _Poet\nLaureate_, has 50 florins tax-dues, and 20 florins Chancery-dues, to\npay down; whereas, for 20 florins more, he might have been made a\nConrector, who is a poet of this species, as it were by the by and _ex\nofficio_. The institution of a Gymnasium is permitted for 1,000\nflorins; an extraordinary sum, with which the whole body of the\nteachers in the instituted Gymnasium might with us clear off the\nentry-moneys of their school-rooms. Again, a Freiherr, who, at any\nrate, often enough grows old without knowing how, must purchase the\n_venia aetatis_ with 200 hard florins; while, with the half sum, he\nmight have become a schoolmaster, and here _age_ would have come of its\nown accord. And a thousand such things! They prove, however, that\nmatters can be at no bad pass in our Governments and Circles, where\npromotions are sold dearer to Folly than to Diligence, and where it\ncosts more to institute a school than to serve in one.\n\nThe remarks I made on this subject to a Prince, as well as the remarks\na Town-syndic made on it to myself, are too remarkable to be omitted\nfor mere dread of digressiveness.\n\nThe Syndic--a man of enlarged views, and of fiery patriotism, the\nwarmth of which was the more beneficent that he collected all the beams\nof it into one focus, and directed them to himself and his family--gave\nme (I had perhaps been comparing the School-bench and the School-stair\nto the _bench_ and the _ladder_, on which people are laid when about to\nbe tortured) the best reply: \"If a schoolmaster consume nothing but 30\nreichsthalers;[52] if he annually purchase manufactured goods,\naccording as Political Economists have calculated for each individual,\nnamely, to the amount of 5 reichsthalers; and no more hundred-weights\nof victual than these assume, namely, 10; in short, if he live like a\nsubstantial wood-cutter, then the Devil must be in it if he cannot\nyearly lay by so much net profit as shall, in the long run, pay the\ninterest of his entry debts.\"\n\nThe Syndic must have failed to convince me at that time, since I\nafterwards told the Flachsenfingen Prince:[53]\n\n\n\"Illustrious sir, you know not, but I do,--not a player in your Theatre\nwould act the Schoolmaster in Engel's _Prodigal Son_, three nights\nrunning, for such a sum as every real Schoolmaster has to take for\nacting it all the days of the year. In Prussia, invalids are made\nSchoolmasters; with us, Schoolmasters are made invalids.\" ....\n\n\nBut to our story! Fixlein wrote out the inventory of his Crown-debts;\nbut with quite a different purpose than the reader will guess, who has\nstill the Schadeck testament in his head. In one word, he wanted to be\nParson of Hukelum. To be a clergyman, and in the place where his cradle\nstood, and all the little gardens of his childhood, his mother also,\nand the grove of betrothment,--this was an open gate into a New\nJerusalem, supposing even that the living had been nothing but a meagre\npenitentiary. The main point was, he might marry, if he were appointed.\nFor, in the capacity of lank Conrector, supported only by the\nstrengthening-girth of his waistcoat, and with emoluments whereby\nscarcely the purchase-money of a--purse was to be come at; in this way\nhe was more like collecting wick and tallow for his burial torch than\nfor his bridal one.\n\nFor the Schoolmaster class are, in well-ordered states, as little\npermitted to marry as the soldiery. In _Conringius de Antiquitatibus\nAcademicis_, where in every leaf it is proved that all cloisters were\noriginally schools, I hit upon the reason. Our schools are now\ncloisters, and consequently we endeavor to maintain in our teachers at\nleast an imitation of the Three Monastic Vows. The Vow of Obedience\nmight perhaps be sufficiently enforced by School-Inspectors; but the\nsecond vow, that of Celibacy, would be more hard of attainment, were it\nnot that, by one of the best political arrangements, the third vow, I\nmean a beautiful equality in Poverty, is so admirably attended to,\nthat no man who has made it needs any further _testimonium\npaupertatis_;--and now _let_ this man, if he likes, lay hold of a\nmatrimonial half, when of the two halves each has a whole stomach, and\nnothing for it but half-coins and half-beer!...\n\nI know well, millions of my readers would themselves compose this\nPetition for the Conrector, and ride with it to Schadeck to his\nLordship, that so the poor rogue might get the sheepfold, with the\nannexed wedding-mansion; for they see clearly enough, that directly\nthereafter one of the best Letter-Boxes would be written that ever came\nfrom such a repository.\n\nFixlein's Petition was particularly good and striking; it submitted to\nthe Rittmeister four grounds of preference: 1. \"He was a native of the\nparish; his parents and ancestors had already done Hukelum service;\ntherefore he prayed,\" &c.\n\n2. \"The here documented official debts of 135 florins, 41 kreuzers, and\none halfpenny, the cancelling of which a never-to-be-forgotten\ntestament secured him, he himself could clear, in case he obtained the\nliving, and so hereby give up his claim to the legacy,\" &c.\n\n_Voluntary Note by me_. It is plain he means to bribe his Godfather,\nwhom the lady's testament has put into a fume. But, gentle reader,\nblame not without mercy a poor, oppressed, heavy-laden school-man and\nschool-horse for an indelicate insinuation, which truly was never mine.\nConsider, Fixlein knew that the Rittmeister was a cormorant towards the\npoor, as he was a squanderer towards the rich. It may be, too, the\nConrector might once or twice have heard, in the Law Courts, of patrons\nby whom not indeed the church and churchyard--though these things are\narticles of commerce in England--so much as the true management of\nthem, had been sold, or rather farmed to farming-candidates. I know\nfrom Lange,[54] that the Church must support its patron, when he has\nnothing to live upon; and might not a nobleman, before he actually\nbegan begging, be justified in taking a little advance, a fore-payment\nof his alimentary moneys, from the hands of his pulpit-farmer?--\n\n3. \"He had lately betrothed himself with Fraeulein von Thiennette, and\ngiven her a piece of gold, as marriage-pledge; and could therefore wed\nthe said Fraeulein, were he once provided for,\" &c.\n\n_Voluntary Note by me_. I hold this ground to be the strongest in the\nwhole Petition. In the eyes of Herr von Aufhammer, Thiennette's\ngenealogical tree was long since stubbed, disleaved, worm-eaten, and\nfull of millepedes; she was his [Oe]conoma, his Castle-Stewardess, and\nLegatess _a Latere_ for his domestics; and with her pretensions for an\nalms-coffer, was threatening in the end to become a burden to him. His\nindignant wish that she had been provided for with Fixlein's legacy\nmight now be fulfilled. In a word, if Fixlein become Parson, he will\nhave the third ground to thank for it; not at all the mad fourth....\n\n4. \"He had learned with sorrow, that the name of his Shock, which he\nhad purchased from an Emigrant at Leipzig, meant Egidius in German; and\nthat the dog had drawn upon him the displeasure of his Lordship. Far be\nit from him so to designate the Shock in future; but he would take it\nas a special grace, if for the dog, which he at present called without\nany name, his Lordship would be pleased to appoint one himself.\"\n\n_My Voluntary Note_. The dog then, it seems, to which the nobleman has\nhitherto been godfather, is to receive its name a _second_ time from\nhim!--But how can the famishing gardener's son, whose career never\nmounted higher than from the school-bench to the school-chair, and who\nnever spoke with polished ladies, except singing, namely in the church,\nhow can he be expected, in fingering such a string, to educe from it\nany finer tone than the pedantic one? And yet the source of it lies\ndeeper; not the contracted _situation_, but the contracted _eye_, not a\nfavorite science, but a narrow plebeian soul, makes us pedantic,--a\nsoul that cannot _measure_ and _separate_ the _concentric_ circles of\nhuman knowledge and activity, that confounds the focus of universal\nhuman life, by reason of the focal distance, with every two or three\nconverging rays; and that cannot see all, and tolerate all---- In\nshort, the true Pedant is the Intolerant.\n\n\nThe Conrector wrote out his Petition splendidly in five propitious\nevenings; employed a peculiar ink for the purpose; worked not indeed so\nlong over it as the stupid Manucius over a Latin letter, namely, some\nmonths, if Scioppius's word is to be taken; still less so long as\nanother scholar at a Latin epistle, who--truly we have nothing but\nMorhof's word for it--hatched it during four whole months; inserting\nhis variations, adjectives, feet, with the authorities for his phrases,\naccurately marked between the lines. Fixlein possessed a more\nthoroughgoing genius, and had completely mastered the whole enterprise\nin sixteen days. While sealing, he thought, as we all do, how this\ncover was the seed-husk of a great entire Future, the rind of many\nsweet or bitter fruits, the swathing of his whole after life.\n\nHeaven bless his cover; but I let you throw me from the Tower of Babel,\nif he get the parsonage; can't you see, then, that Aufhammer's hands\nare tied? In spite of all his other faults, or even because of them, he\nwill stand like iron by his word, which he has given so long ago to the\nSubrector. It were another matter had he been resident at Court; for\nthere, where old German manners still are, no promise is kept; for as,\naccording to Moeser, the Ancient Germans kept only such promises as they\nmade in the _forenoon_ (in the afternoon they were all dead-drunk),--so\nthe Court Germans likewise keep no afternoon promise; forenoon ones\nthey would keep if they made any, which, however, cannot possibly\nhappen, as at those hours they are--sleeping.\n\n\n\n\n                          SEVENTH LETTER-BOX.\n\n             Sermon.--School-Exhibition.--Splendid Mistake.\n\n\nThe Conrector received his 135 florins, 43 kreuzers, one halfpenny\nFrankish; but no answer; the dog remained without name, his master\nwithout parsonage. Meanwhile the summer passed away; and the\nDragoon Rittmeister had yet drawn out no pike from the Candidate\n_breeding-pond_, and thrown him into the _feeding-pond_ of the Hukelum\nparsonage. It gratified him to be behung with prayers like a Spanish\nguardian Saint; and he postponed (though determined to prefer the\nSubrector) granting any one petition, till he had seven-and-thirty\ndyers', button-makers', tinsmiths' sons, whose petitions he could at\nthe same time refuse. Grudge not him of Aufhammer this outlengthening\nof his electorial power! He knows the privileges of rank; feels that a\nnobleman is like Timoleon, who gained his greatest victories on his\nbirthday, and had nothing more to do than name some squiress, countess,\nor the like, as his mother. A man, however, who has been exalted to the\nPeerage, while still a f[oe]tus, may with more propriety be likened to\nthe _spinner_, which, contrariwise to all other insects, passes from\nthe chrysalis state, and becomes a perfect insect in its mother's\nwomb.--\n\nBut to proceed! Fixlein was at present not without cash. It will be the\nsame as if I made a present of it to the reader, when I reveal to him,\nthat of the legacy, which was clearing off old scores, he had still 35\nflorins left to himself, as _allodium_ and pocket-money, wherewith he\nmight purchase whatsoever seemed good to him. And how came he by so\nlarge a sum, by so considerable a competence? Simply by this means;\nevery time he changed a piece of gold, and especially at every payment\nhe received, it had been his custom to throw in, blindly at random,\ntwo, three, or four small coins, among the papers of his trunk. His\npurpose was to astonish himself one day, when he summed up and took\npossession of this sleeping capital. And, by Heaven! he reached it too,\nwhen, on mounting the throne of his Conrectorate, he drew out these\nfunds from his papers, and applied them to the coronation charges. For\nthe present, he sowed them in again among his waste letters. Foolish\nFixlein! I mean, had he not luckily exposed his legacy to jeopardy,\nhaving offered it as bounty-money and luckpenny to the patron, this\nfalse clutch of his at the knocker of the Hukelum church door, would\ncertainly have vexed him; but now, if he had missed the knocker, he had\nthe luckpenny again, and could be merry.\n\nI now advance a little way in his History, and hit, in the rock of his\nLife, upon so fine a vein of silver, I mean upon so fine a day, that I\nmust (I believe) content myself even in regard to the twenty-third of\nTrinity-term, when he preached a vacation sermon in his dear native\nvillage, with a brief transitory notice.\n\nIn itself the sermon was good and glorious; and the day a rich day of\npleasure; but I should really need to have more hours at my disposal\nthan I can steal from May, in which I am at present living and writing;\nand more strength than wandering through this fine weather has left me\nfor landscape pictures of the same, before I could attempt, with any\nwell-founded hope, to draw out a mathematical estimate of the length\nand thickness, and the vibrations and accordant relations to each\nother, of the various strings, which combined together to form for his\nheart a Music of the Spheres, on this day of Trinity-term, though such\na thing would please myself as much as another.... Do not ask me! In my\nopinion, when a man preaches on Sunday, before all the peasants, who\nhad carried him in their arms when a gardener's boy; further, before\nhis mother, who is leading off her tears through the conduit of her\nsatin muff; further, before his Lordship, whom he can positively\ncommand to be blessed; and finally before his muslin bride, who is\nalready blessed, and changing almost into stone, to find that the same\nlips can both kiss and preach; in my opinion, I say, when a man effects\nall this, he has some right to require of any Biographer who would\npaint his situation, that he--hold his jaw; and of the reader who would\nsympathize with it, that he open his, and preach himself.----\n\nBut what I must _ex officio_ depict, is the day to which this Sunday\nwas but the prelude, the vigil, and the whet; I mean the prelude, the\nvigil, and the whet to the _Martini Actus_, or _Martinmas Exhibition_\nof his school. On Sunday was the sermon, on Wednesday the Actus, on\nTuesday the Rehearsal. This Tuesday shall now be delineated to the\nuniverse.\n\nI count upon it that I shall not be read by mere people of the world\nalone, to whom a School-Actus cannot truly appear much better, or more\ninteresting, than some Investiture of a Bishop, or the _opera seria_ of\nFrankfort Coronation; but that I likewise have people before me, who\nhave been at schools, and who know how the School-Drama of an Actus and\nthe stage-manager, and the playbill (the programme) thereof are to be\nestimated, still without overrating their importance.\n\nBefore proceeding to the Rehearsal of the _Martini Actus_, I impose\nupon myself, as dramaturgist of the play, the duty, if not of\nextracting, at least of recording, the Conrector's Letter of\nInvitation. In this composition he said many things; and (what an\nauthor likes so well) made proposals rather than reproaches;\ninterrogatively reminding the public, whether, in regard to the\nwell-known head-breakages of Priscian on the part of the Magnates in\nPest and Poland, our school-houses were not the best quarantine and\nlazar-houses to protect us against infectious _barbarisms_? Moreover,\nhe defended in schools what could be defended (and nothing in the world\nis sweeter or easier than a defence); and said, Schoolmasters, who, not\nquite justifiably, like certain Courts, spoke nothing, and let nothing\nbe spoken to them, but Latin, might plead the Romans in excuse, whose\nsubjects, and whose kings, at least in their epistles and public\ntransactions, were obliged to make use of the Latin tongue. He wondered\nwhy only our Greek, and not also oar Latin Grammars, were composed in\nLatin, and put the pregnant question, whether the Romans, when they\ntaught their little children the Latin tongue, did it in any other than\nin this same. Thereupon he went over to the Actus, and said what\nfollows, in his own words:--\n\n\"I am minded to prove, in a subsequent Invitation, that everything\nwhich can be said or known about the great founder of the Reformation,\nthe subject of our present Martini Prolusions, has been long ago\nexhausted, as well by Seckendorf as others. In fact, with regard to\nLuther's personalities, his table-talk, incomes, journeys, clothes, and\nso forth, there can now nothing new be brought forward, if at the same\ntime it is to be true. Nevertheless, the field of the Reformation\nhistory is, to speak in a figure, by no means wholly cultivated; and it\ndoes appear to me as if the inquirer even of the present day might in\nvain look about for correct intelligence respecting the children,\ngrandchildren, and children's children, down to our own times, of this\ngreat Reformer; all of whom, however, appertain, in a more remote\ndegree, to the Reformation history, as he himself in a nearer. Thou\nshalt not perhaps be threshing, said I to myself, altogether empty\nstraw, if, according to thy small ability, thou bring forward and\ncultivate this neglected branch of History. And so have I ventured,\nwith the last male descendant of Luther, namely, with the Advocate\nMartin Gottlob Luther, who practised in Dresden, and deceased there in\n1759, to make a beginning of a more special Reformation history. My\nfeeble attempt, in regard to this Reformationary Advocate, will be\nsufficiently rewarded, should it excite to better works on the subject;\nhowever, the little which I have succeeded in digging up and collecting\nwith regard to him I here submissively, obediently, and humbly request\nall friends and patrons of the Flachsenfingen Gymnasium to listen to,\non the 14th of November, from the mouths of six well-conditioned\nperorators. In the first place, shall\n\n\"_Gottlieb Spiesglass_, a Flachsenfinger, endeavor to show, in a Latin\noration, that Martin Gottlob Luther was certainly descended of the\nLuther family. After him strives\n\n\"_Friedrich Christian Krabbler_, from Hukelum, in German prose, to\nappreciate the influence which Martin Gottlob Luther exercised on the\nthen existing Reformation; whereupon, after him, will\n\n\"_Daniel Lorenz Stenzinger_ deliver, in Latin verse, an account of\nMartin Gottlob Luther's lawsuits; embracing the probable merits of\nAdvocates generally, in regard to the Reformation. Which then will give\nopportunity to\n\n\"_Nikol Tobias Pfizman_ to come forward in French, and recount the most\nimportant circumstances of Martin Gottlob Luther's school-years,\nuniversity-life, and riper age. And now, when\n\n\"_Andreas Eintarm_ shall have endeavored, in German verse, to apologize\nfor the possible failings of this representative of the great Luther,\nwill\n\n\"_Justus Strobel_, in Latin verse according to ability, sing his\nuprightness and integrity in the Advocate profession; whereafter I\nmyself shall mount the cathedra, and most humbly thank all the patrons\nof the Flachsenfingen School, and then further bring forward those\nportions in the life of this remarkable man, of which we yet know\nabsolutely nothing, they being spared, _Deo volente_, for the speakers\nof the next _Martini Actus_.\"\n\n                           *   *   *   *   *\n\nThe day before the Actus offered as it were the proof-shot and\nsample-sheet of the Wednesday. Persons who on account of dress could\nnot be present at the great school-festival, especially ladies, made\ntheir appearance on Tuesday, during the six proof-orations. No\none can be readier than I to subordinate the proof-Actus to the\nWednesday-Actus; and I do anything but need being stimulated suitably\nto estimate the solemn feast of a School; but, on the other hand, I am\nequally convinced that no one, who did not go to the real Actus of\nWednesday, could possibly figure anything more splendid than the\nproof-day preceding; because he could have no object wherewith to\ncompare the pomp in which the Primate of the festival drove in with\nhis triumphal chariot and six--to call the six brethren-speakers\ncoach-horses--next morning in presence of ladies and Councillor\ngentleman. Smile away, Fixlein, at this astonishment over thy today's\n_Ovation_, which is leading on to-morrow's _Triumph_; on thy dissolving\ncountenance quivers happy Self, feeding on these incense-fumes; but a\nvanity like thine, and that only, which enjoys without comparing or\ndespising, can one tolerate, will one foster. But what flowed over all\nhis heart, like a melting sunbeam over wax, was his mother, who after\nmuch persuasion had ventured in her Sunday's clothes humbly to place\nherself quite low down, beside the door of the Prima class-room. It\nwere difficult to say who is happier, the mother, beholding how he whom\nshe has borne under her heart can direct such noble young gentlemen,\nand hearing how he along with them can talk of these really high things\nand understand them too;--or the son, who, like some of the heroes of\nAntiquity, has the felicity of triumphing in the lifetime of his\nmother. I have never in my writings or doings cast a stone upon the\nlate Burchardt Grossmann, who, under the initial letters of the stanzas\nin his song \"_Brich an, du liebe Morgenroethe_,\" inserted the letters of\nhis own name; and still less have I ever censured any poor herb-woman\nfor smoothing out her winding-sheet, while still living, and making\nherself one twelfth of a dozen of grave-shifts. Nor do I regard the man\nas wise--though indeed as very clever and pedantic--who can fret his\ngall-bladder full because every one of us leaf-miners views the leaf\nwhereon he is mining as a park-garden, as a fifth Quarter of the World\n(so near and rich is it); the leaf-pores as so many Valleys of Tempe,\nthe leaf-skeleton as a Liberty-tree, a Bread-tree, and Life-tree, and\nthe dewdrops as the Ocean. We poor day-moths, evening-moths, and\nnight-moths fall universally into the same error, only on different\nleaves; and whosoever (as I do) laughs at the important airs with which\nthe schoolmaster issues his programmes, the dramaturgist his playbills,\nthe classical variation-alms-gatherer his alphabetic letters,--does it,\nif he is wise (as is the case here), with the consciousness of his own\n_similar_ folly; and laughs, in regard to his neighbor, at nothing but\nmankind and himself.\n\nThe mother was not to be detained; she must off, this very night, to\nHukelum, to give the Fraeulein Thiennette at least some tidings of this\nglorious business.--\n\nAnd now the World will bet a hundred to one, that I forthwith take\nbiographical wax, and emboss such a wax-figure cabinet of the Actus\nitself as shall be single of its kind.\n\nBut on Wednesday morning, while the hope-intoxicated Conrector was just\nabout putting on his fine raiment, something knocked.----\n\nIt was the well-known servant of the Rittmeister, carrying the Hukelum\nPresentation for the Subrector _Fuechslein_ in his pocket. To the\nlast-named gentleman he had been sent with this call to the parsonage;\nbut he had distinguished ill betwixt _Sub_ and _Con_rector; and had\nbesides his own good reasons for directing his steps to the latter; for\nhe thought, \"Who can it be that gets it, but the parson that preached\nlast Sunday, and that comes from the village, and is engaged to our\nFraeulein Thiennette, and to whom I brought a clock and a roll of ducats\nalready?\" That his Lordship could pass over his own godson never\nentered the man's head.\n\nFixlein read the address of the Appointment: \"To the Reverend the\nParson _Fixlein_ of Hukelum.\" He naturally enough made the same mistake\nas the lackey; and broke up the Presentation as his own; and finding\nmoreover in the body of the paper no special mention of persons, but\nonly of a _Schul-unterbefehlshaber_, or School-undergovernor (instead\nof Subrector), he could not but persist in his error.\n\nBefore I properly explain why the Rittmeister's Lawyer, the framer of\nthe Presentation, had so designated a Subrector--we two, the reader\nand myself, will keep an eye for a moment on Fixlein's joyful\nsalutations--on his gratefully-streaming eyes--on his full hands so\nladen with bounty--on the present of two ducats, which he drops into\nthe hands of the mitre-bearer, as willingly as he will soon drop his\nown pedagogic office. Could he tell what to think (of the Rittmeister),\nor to write (to the same), or to table (for the lackey)? Did he not\nask tidings of the noble health of his benefactor over and over,\nthough the servant answered him with all distinctness at the very\nfirst? And was not this same man, who belonged to the nose-upturning,\nshoulder-shrugging, shoulder-knotted, toad-eating species of men, at\nlast so moved by the joy which he had imparted, that he determined, on\nthe spot, to bestow his presence on the new clergyman's School-Actus,\nthough no person of quality whatever was to be there? Fixlein, in the\nfirst place, sealed his letter of thanks; and courteously invited this\nmessenger of good news to visit him frequently in the Parsonage; and to\ncall this evening, in passing, at his mother's, and give her a lecture\nfor not staying last night, when she might have seen the Presentation\nfrom his Lordship arrive to-day.\n\nThe lackey being gone, Fixlein for joy began to grow sceptical--and\ntimorous (wherefore, to prevent filching, he stowed his Presentation\nsecurely in his coffer, under keeping of two padlocks); and devout and\nsoftened, since he thanked God without scruple for all good that\nhappened to him, and never wrote this Eternal Name but in pulpit\ncharacters, and with colored ink; as the Jewish copyists never wrote it\nexcept ornamental letters and when newly washed;[55]--and deaf also did\nthe parson, grow, so that he scarcely heard the soft wooing-hour of the\nActus--for a still softer one beside Thiennette, with its rose-bushes\nand rose-honey, would not leave his thoughts. He who of old, when\nFortune made a wry face at him, was wont, like children in their sport\nat one another, to laugh at her so long till she herself was obliged to\nbegin smiling--he was now flying as on a huge seesaw higher and higher,\nquicker and quicker aloft.\n\nBut before the Actus, let us examine the Schadeck Lawyer. _Fixlein_\ninstead of _Fuechslein_[56] he had written from uncertainty about the\nspelling of the name; the more naturally as in transcribing the\nRittmeisterinn's will the former had occurred so often. _Von_, this\ntriumphal arch, he durst not set up before Fuechslein's new name,\nbecause Aufhammer forbade it, considering Hans Fuechslein as a mushroom,\nwho had no right to _vons_ and titles of nobility, for all his patents.\nIn fine, the Presentation-writer was possessed with Campe's[57] whim of\nGermanizing everything, minding little though when Germanized it should\ncease to be intelligible;--as if a word needed any better act of\nnaturalization than that which universal unintelligibility imparts to\nit. In itself it is the same--the rather as all languages, like all\nmen, are cognate, intermarried and intermixed--whether a word was\ninvented by a savage or a foreigner; whether it grew up like moss amid\nthe German forests, or like street-grass, in the pavement of the Roman\nForum. The Lawyer, on the other hand, contended that it was different;\nand accordingly he hid not from any of his clients that _Tagefarth_\n(Day-turn) meant _Term_, and that _Appealing_ was _Berufen_\n(Becalling). On this principle, he dressed the word _Subrector_ in the\nnew livery of _School-undergovernor_. And this version further\nconverted the Schoolmaster into Parson; to such a degree does our\n_civic_ fortune--not our _personal_ well-being, which supports\nitself on our own internal soil and resources--grow merely on the\n_drift-mould_ of accidents, connections, acquaintances, and Heaven or\nthe Devil knows what!--\n\nBy the by, from a Lawyer, at the same time a Country Judge, I should\ncertainly have looked for more sense; I should (I may be mistaken) have\npresumed he knew that the _Acts_, or Reports, which in former times\n(see Hoffmann's _German or un-German Law-practice_) were written in\nLatin, as before the times of Joseph the Hungarian,--are now, if\nwe may say so without offence, perhaps written fully more in the\nGerman dialect than in the Latin; and in support of this opinion,\nI can point to whole lines of German language to be found in these\nImperial-Court-Confessions. However, I will not believe that the Jurist\nis endeavoring, because Imhofer declares the Roman tongue to be the\nmother tongue in the other world, to disengage himself from a language,\nby means of which, like the Roman _Eagle_, or later, like the Roman\n_Fish-heron_ (Pope), he has clutched such abundant booty in his\ntalons.----\n\nToll, toll your bell for the Actus; stream in, in to the ceremony; who\ncares for it? Neither I nor the Ex-Conrector. The six pygmy Ciceros\nwill in vain set forth before us in sumptuous dress their thoughts and\nbodies. The draught-wind of Chance has blown away from the Actus its\npowder-nimbus of glory; and the Conrector that was has discovered how\nsmall a matter a cathedra is, and how great a one a pulpit. \"I should\nnot have thought,\" thought he now, \"when I became Conrector, that there\ncould be anything grander, I mean a parson.\" Man, behind his\neverlasting blind, which he only colors differently, and makes no\nthinner, carries his pride with him from one step to another; and on\nthe higher step, blames only the pride of the lower.\n\nThe best of the Actus was, that the Regiments-Quartermaster and Master\nButcher, Steinberg, attended there, embaled in a long woollen shag.\nDuring the solemnity, the Subrector Hans von Fuechslein cast several\ngratified and inquiring glances on the Schadeck servant, who did not\nonce look at him. Hans would have staked his head, that, after the\nActus, the fellow would wait upon him. When at last the sextuple\ncockerel-brood had on their dunghill done crowing, that is to say,\nhad perorated, the scholastic cocker, over whom a higher banner\nwas now waving, himself came upon the stage; and delivered to the\nSchool-Inspectorships, to the Subrectorship, to the Guardianship, and\nthe lackeyship, his most grateful thanks for their attendance; shortly,\nannouncing to them at the same time, \"that Providence had now called\nhim from his post to another; and committed to him, unworthy as he was,\nthe cure of souls in the Hukelum parish, as well as in the Schadeck\nchapel of ease.\"\n\nThis little address, to appearance, wellnigh blew up the then Subrector\nHans von Fuechslein from his chair; and his face looked of a mingled\ncolor, like red bole, green chalk, tinsel-yellow, and _vomissement de\nla reine_.\n\nThe tall Quartermaster erected himself considerably in his shag, and\nhummed loud enough in happy forgetfulness: \"The Dickens!--Parson?\"----\n\nThe Subrector dashed by like a comet before the lackey; ordered him to\ncall and take a letter for his master; strode home, and prepared for\nhis patron, who at Schadeck was waiting for a long thanksgiving psalm,\na short satirical epistle, as nervous as haste would permit, and\nmingled a few nicknames and verbal injuries along with it.\n\nThe courier handed in to his master Fixlein's song of gratitude and\nFuechslein's invectives with the same hand. The dragoon Rittmeister,\nincensed at the ill-mannered churl, and bound to his word, which\nFixlein had publicly announced in his Actus, forthwith wrote back to\nthe new Parson an acceptance and ratification; and Fixlein is and\nremains, to the joy of us all, incontestible ordained parson of\nHukelum.\n\nHis disappointed rival has still this consolation, that he holds a seat\nin the wasp-nest of the _Neue Allgemeine Deutsche Bibliothek_.[58]\nShould the Parson ever chrysalize himself into an author, the\nwatch-wasp may then buzz out, and dart its sting into the chrysalis,\nand put its own brood in the room of the murdered butterfly. As the\nSubrector everywhere went about, and threatened in plain terms that he\nwould review his colleague, let not the public be surprised that\nFixlein's _Errata_, and his Masoretic _Exercitationes_, are to this\nhour withheld from it.\n\nIn spring, the widowed church receives her new husband; and how it will\nbe, when Fixlein, under a canopy of flower-trees, takes the _Sponsa\nChristi_ in one hand, and his own _Sponsa_ in the other,--this without\nan Eighth Letter-Box, which, in the present case, may be a true\njewel-box and rainbow-key,[59] can no mortal figure, except the\n_Sponsus_ himself.\n\n\n\n\n                           EIGHTH LETTER-BOX.\n\n                      Instalment in the Parsonage.\n\n\nOn the 15th of April, 1793, the reader may observe, far down in the\nhollow, three baggage-wagons groaning along. These baggage-wagons are\ntransporting the house-gear of the new Parson to Hukelum; the\nproprietor himself, with a little escort of his parishioners, is\nmarching at their side, that of his china sets and household furniture\nthere may be nothing broken in the eighteenth century, as the whole\ncame down to him unbroken from the seventeenth. Fixlein hears the\nSchool-bell ringing behind him; but this chime now sings to him,\nlike a curfew, the songs of future rest; he is now escaped from the\nDeath-valley of the Gymnasium, and admitted into the abodes of the\nBlessed. Here dwells no envy, no colleague, no Subrector; here, in the\nheavenly country, no man works in the _New Universal German Library_;\nhere in the heavenly Hukelumic Jerusalem, they do nothing but sing\npraises in the church; and here the Perfected requires no more increase\nof knowledge.... Here, too, one needs not sorrow that Sunday and\nSaint's day so often fall together into one.\n\nTruth to tell, the parson goes too far; but it was his way from of old\nnever to paint out the whole and half shadows of a situation till he\nwas got into a new one; the beauties of which he could then enhance by\ncontrast with the former. For it requires little reflection to discover\nthat the torments of a Schoolmaster are nothing so extraordinary; but,\non the contrary, as in the Gymnasium, he mounts from one degree to\nanother, not very dissimilar to the common torments of Hell, which, in\nspite of their eternity, grow weaker from century to century. Moreover,\nsince, according to the saying of a Frenchman, _deux afflictions mises\nensemble peuvent devener une consolation_, a man gets afflictions\nenow in a school to console him; seeing out of eight combined\nafflictions--reckon only one for every teacher--certainly more\ncomfort is to be extracted than out of two. The only pity is, that\nschool-people will never act towards each other as court-people do:\nnone but polished men and polished glasses will readily cohere. In\naddition to all this, in schools--and in offices generally--one is\nalways recompensed; for, as in the second life a greater virtue is the\nrecompense of an earthly one, so, in the Schoolmaster's case, his\nmerits are always rewarded by more opportunities for new merits; and\noften enough he is not dismissed from his post at all.--\n\nEight Gymnasiasts are trotting about in the Parsonage, setting up,\nnailing to, hauling in. I think, as a scholar of Plutarch, I am right\nto introduce such seeming _minutiae_. A man whom grown-up people love,\nchildren love still more. The whole school had smiled on the smiling\nFixlein, and liked him-in their hearts, because he did not thunder, but\nsport with them; because he said _Sie_ (They), to the Secundaners, and\nthe Subrector said _Ihr_ (Ye); because his uprearing forefinger was his\nonly sceptre and baculus; because in the Secunda he had interchanged\nLatin epistles with his scholars; and in the Quinta had taught not with\nNapier's Rods (or rods of a sharper description), but with sticks of\nbarley-sugar.\n\nTo-day his churchyard appeared to him so solemn and festive, that he\nwondered (though it was Monday) why his parishioners were not in their\nholiday, but merely in their week-day drapery. Under the door of the\nParsonage stood a weeping woman; for she was too happy, and he was\nher--son. Yet the mother, in the height of her emotion, contrives quite\nreadily to call upon the carriers, while disloading, not to twist off\nthe four corner globes from the old Frankish chest of drawers. Her son\nnow appeared to her as venerable as if he had sat for one of the\ncopperplates in her pictured Bible; and that simply because he had cast\noff his pedagogue hair-cue, as the ripening tadpole does its tail; and\nwas now standing in a clerical periwig before her; he was now a Comet,\nsoaring away from the profane Earth, and had accordingly changed from a\n_stella caudata_ into a _stella crinita_.\n\nHis bride also had, on former days, given sedulous assistance in this\nnew improved edition of his house, and labored faithfully among the\nother furnishers and furbishers. But to-day she kept aloof; for she was\ntoo good to forget the maiden in the bride. Love, like men, dies\noftener of excess than of hunger; it lives on love, but it resembles\nthose Alpine flowers which feed themselves by _suction_ from the wet\nclouds, and die if you _besprinkle_ them.\n\nAt length the Parson is settled, and of course he must--for I know my\nfair readers, who are bent on it as if they were bridemaids--without\ndelay get married. But he may not; before Ascension-day there can\nnothing be done, and till then are full four weeks and a half.\nThe matter was this. He wished in the first place to have the\nmurder-Sunday, the Cantata, behind him; not indeed because he doubted\nof his earthly continuance, but because he would not (even for the\nbride's sake) that the slightest apprehension should mingle with these\nweeks of glory.\n\nThe main reason was, he did not wish to marry till he were betrothed;\nwhich latter ceremony was appointed, with the Introduction Sermon, to\ntake place next Sunday. It is the Cantata-Sunday. Let not the reader\nafflict himself with fears. Indeed, I should not have molested an\nenlightened century with this Sunday-_Wauwau_ at all, were it not that\nI delineate with such extreme fidelity. Fixlein himself--especially as\nthe Quartermaster asked him if he was a baby--at last grew so sensible\nthat he saw the folly of it; nay, he went so far that he committed a\ngreater folly. For as dreaming that you die signifies, according to the\nexegetic _rule of false_, nothing else than long life and welfare, so\ndid Fixlein easily infer that his death-imagination was just such a\nlucky dream; the rather as it was precisely on this Cantata-Sunday that\nFortune had turned up her cornucopia over him, and at once showered\ndown out of it a bride, a presentation, and a roll of ducats. Thus can\nSuperstition imp its wings, let Chance favor it or not.\n\nA Secretary of State, a Peace-Treaty writer, a Notary, any such\nincarcerated Slave of the Desk, feels excellently well how far he is\nbeneath a Parson composing his inaugural sermon. The latter (do but\nlook at my Fixlein) lays himself heartily over the paper,--injects the\nvenous system of his sermon-preparation with colored ink,--has a\nText-Concordance on the right side, and a Song-Concordance on the\nleft; is there digging out a marrowy sentence, here clipping off a\nsong-blossom, with both to garnish his homiletic pastry;--sketches out\nthe finest plan of operations, not, like a man of the world, to subdue\nthe heart of one woman, but the hearts of all women that hear him, and\nof their husbands to boot; draws every peasant passing by his window\ninto some niche of his discourse, to co-operate with the result;--and,\nfinally, scoops out the butter of the smooth, soft hymn-book, and\ntherewith exquisitely fattens the black broth of his sermon, which is\nto feed five thousand men.----\n\nAt last, in the evening, as the red sun is dazzling him at the desk, he\ncan rise with heart free from guilt; and, amid twittering sparrows and\nfinches, over the cherry-trees encircling the parsonage, look toward\nthe west, till there is nothing more in the sky but a faint gleam among\nthe clouds. And then when Fixlein, amid the tolling of the evening\nprayer-bell, _slowly_ descends the stair to his cooking mother, there\nmust be some miracle in the case, if for him whatever has been done or\nbaked, or served up in the lower regions, is not right and good.... A\nbound, after supper, into the Castle; a look into a pure loving eye; a\nword without falseness to a bride without falseness; and then under the\ncoverlet, a soft-breathing breast, in which there is nothing but\nParadise, a sermon, and evening prayer.... I swear, with this I will\nsatisfy a Mythic God, who has left his Heaven, and is seeking a new one\namong us here below!\n\nCan a mortal, can a Me in the wet clay of Earth, which Death will soon\ndry into dust, ask more in one week than Fixlein is gathering into his\nheart? I see not how. At least I should suppose, if such a dust-framed\nbeing, after such a twenty-thousand prize from the Lottery of Chance,\ncould require aught more, it would at most be the twenty-one-thousand\nprize, namely, the inaugural discourse itself.\n\nAnd this prize our Zebedaeus actually drew on Sunday; he preached,--he\npreached with unction,----he did it before the crowding, rustling press\nof people; before his Guardian, and before the Lord of Aufhammer, the\ngodfather of the priest and the dog;--a flock, with whom in Childhood\nhe had driven out the Castle herds about the pasture, he was now,\nhimself a spiritual sheep-smearer, leading out to pasture;--he was\nstanding to the ankles among Candidates and Schoolmasters, for to-day\n(what none of them could) at the altar, with the nail of his finger, he\nmight scratch a large cross in the air, baptisms and marriages not once\nmentioned.... I believe I should feel less scrupulous than I do to\nchecker this sunshiny esplanade with that thin shadow of the grave\nwhich the preacher threw over it, when, in the application, with wet,\nheavy eyes, he looked round over the mute, attentive church, as if in\nsome corner of it he would seek the mouldering teacher of his youth and\nof this congregation, who without, under the white tombstone, the\nwrong-side of life, had laid away the garment of his pious spirit. And\nwhen he, himself hurried on by the internal stream, inexpressibly\nsoftened by the further recollections of his own fear of death on this\nday, of his life now overspread with flowers and benefits, of his\nentombed benefactress resting here in her narrow bed,--when he now,\nbefore the dissolving countenance of her friend, his Thiennette,\noverpowered, motionless, and weeping, looked down from the pulpit to\nthe door of the Schadeck vault, and said: \"Thanks, thou pious soul, for\nthe good thou hast done to this flock and to their new teacher; and, in\nthe fulness of time, may the dust of thy god-fearing and man-loving\nbreast gather itself, transfigured as gold-dust, round thy reawakened\nheavenly heart,\"--was there an eye in the audience dry? Her husband\nsobbed aloud, and Thiennette, her beloved, bowed her head, sinking down\nwith inconsolable remembrances, over the front of the seat, like\nkindred mourners in a funeral train.\n\nNo fairer forenoon could prepare the way for an afternoon in which a\nman was to betroth himself forever, and to unite the exchanged rings\nwith the Ring of Eternity. Except the bridal pair, there was none\npresent but an ancient pair; the mother and the long Guardian. The\nbridegroom wrote out the marriage-contract or marriage-charter with his\nown hand; hereby making over to his bride, from this day, his whole\nmovable property (not, as you may suppose, his pocket-library, but his\nwhole library; whereas, in the Middle Ages, the daughter of a noble was\nglad to get one or two books for marriage-portion);--in return for\nwhich, she liberally enough contributed--a whole nuptial coach or car,\nladen as follows: with nine pounds of feathers, not feathers for the\ncap such as we carry, but of the lighter sort such as carry us;--with a\nsumptuous dozen of godchild-plates and godchild-spoons (gifts from\nSchadeck), together with a fish-knife;--of silk, not only stockings\n(though even King Henry II. of France could dress no more than his legs\nin silk), but whole gowns;--with jewels and other furnishings of\nsmaller value. Good Thiennette! in the chariot of thy spirit lies the\ntrue dowry; namely, thy noble, soft, modest heart, the morning-gift of\nNature!\n\nThe Parson--who, not from mistrust, but from \"the uncertainty of life,\"\ncould have wished for a notary's seal on everything; to whom no\nsecurity but a hypothecary one appeared sufficient; and who, in the\ndepositing of every barleycorn, required quittances and contracts--had\nnow, when the marriage-charter was completed, a lighter heart; and\nthrough the whole evening the good man ceased not to thank his bride\nfor what she had given him. To me, however, a marriage-contract were a\nthing as painful and repulsive,--I confess it candidly, though you\nshould in consequence upbraid me with my great youth,--as if I had to\ntake my love-letter to a Notary Imperial, and make him docket and\ncountersign it before it could be sent. Heavens! to see the light\nflower of Love, whose perfume acts not on the balance, so laid like\ntulip-bulbs on the hay-beam of Law; two hearts on the cold councillor\nand flesh-beam of relatives and Advocates, who are heaping on the\nscales nothing but houses, fields, and tin,--this, to the interested\nparty, maybe as delightful as, to the intoxicated suckling and nursling\nof the Muses and Philosophy, it is to carry the evening and morning\nsacrifices he has offered up to his goddess into the book-shop, and\nthere to change his devotions into money, and sell them by weight and\nmeasure.----\n\nFrom Cantata-Sunday to Ascension, that is, to marriage-day, are one and\na half weeks--or one and a half blissful eternities. If it is pleasant\nthat nights or winter separate the days and seasons of joy to a\ncomfortable distance; if, for example, it is pleasant that birthday,\nSaint's-day, betrothment, marriage, and baptismal day, do not all occur\non the same day (for with very few do those festivities, like Holiday\nand Apostle's day, commerge),--then is it still more pleasant to make\nthe interval, the flower-border, between betrothment and marriage, of\nan extraordinary breadth. Before the marriage-day are the true\nhoney-weeks; then come the wax-weeks; then the honey-vinegar-weeks.\n\nIn the Ninth Letter-Box our Parson celebrates his wedding; and here, in\nthe Eighth, I shall just briefly skim over his way and manner of\nexistence till then; an existence, as might have been expected,\ncelestial enough. To few is it allotted, as it was to him, to have at\nonce such wings and such flowers (to fly over) before his nuptials;\nto few is it allotted, I imagine, to purchase flour and poultry\non the same day, as Fixlein did;--to stuff the wedding-turkey\nwith hangman-meals;--to go every night into the stall, and see\nwhether the wedding-pig, which his Guardian had given him by way of\nmarriage-present, is still standing and eating;--to spy out for his\nfuture wife the flax-magazines and clothes-press-niches in the\nhouse;--to lay in new wood-stores in the prospect of winter;--to obtain\nfrom the Consistorium directly, and for little smart-money, their Bull\nof Dispensation, their remission of the threefold proclamation of\nbanns;--to live not in a city, where you must send to every fool\n(because you are one yourself), and disclose to him that you are going\nto be married; but in a little angular hamlet, where you have no one to\ntell aught, but simply the Schoolmaster that he is to ring a little\nlater, and put a knee-cushion before the altar.----\n\nO, if the Ritter Michaelis maintains that Paradise was little, because\notherwise the people would not have found each other,--a hamlet and its\njoys are little and narrow, so that some shadow of Eden may still\nlinger on our Ball.----\n\nI have not even hinted that, the day before the wedding, the\nRegiments-Quartermaster came uncalled, and killed the pig, and made\npuddings gratis, such as were never eaten at any Court.\n\nAnd besides, dear Fixlein, on this soft, rich oil of joy there\nwas also floating gratis a vernal sun,--and red twilights,--and\nflower-garlands,--and a bursting half-world of buds!...\n\nHow didst thou behave thee in these hot whirlpools of pleasure?--Thou\nmovedst thy Fishtail (Reason), and therewith describedst for thyself a\nrectilineal course through the billows. For even half as much would\nhave hurried another Parson from his study; but the very crowning\nfelicity of ours was, that he stood as if rooted to the boundary-hill\nof Moderation, and from thence looked down on what thousands flout\naway. Sitting opposite the Castle-windows, he was still in a condition\nto reckon up that _Amen_ occurs in the Bible one hundred and thirty\ntimes. Nay, to his old learned laboratory he now appended a new\nchemical stove; he purposed writing to Nuernberg and Baireuth, and there\noffering his pen to the Brothers Senft, not only for composing\npractical _Receipts_ at the end of their _Almanacs_, but also for\nseparate _Essays_ in front under the copperplate title of each Month,\nbecause he had a thought of making some reformatory cuts at the common\npeople's mental habitudes ... And now, when in the capacity of Parson\nhe had less to do, and could add to the holy resting-day of the\ncongregation six literary creating-days, he determined (even in these\nCarnival weeks) to strike his plough into the hitherto quite fallow\nHistory of Hukelum, and soon to follow the plough with his drill....\n\nThus roll his minutes, on golden wheels-of-fortune, over the twelve\ndays, which form the glancing star-paved road to the third heaven of\nthe thirteenth, that is, to the\n\n\n\n\n                           NINTH LETTER-BOX.\n\n                          Or to the Marriage.\n\n\nRise, fair Ascension and Marriage day, and gladden readers also! Adorn\nthyself with the fairest jewel, with the bride, whose soul is as pure\nand glittering as its vesture; like pearl and pearl-muscle, the one, as\nthe other, lustrous and ornamental! And so over the espalier, whose\nfruit-hedge has hitherto divided our darling from his Eden, every\nreader now presses after him!--\n\nOn the 9th of May, 1793, about three in the morning, there came a sharp\npeal of trumpets, like a light-beam, through the dim-red May-dawn; two\ntwisted horns, with a straight trumpet between them, like a note of\nadmiration between interrogation-points, were clanging from a house in\nwhich only a parishioner (not the Parson) dwelt and blew; for this\nparishioner had last night been celebrating the same ceremony which the\npastor had this day before him. The joyful tallyho raised our Parson\nfrom his broad bed (and the Shock from beneath it, who some weeks ago\nhad been exiled from the white, sleek coverlet), and this so early,\nthat in the portraying tester, where on every former morning he had\nobserved his ruddy visage, and his white bedclothes, all was at present\ndim and crayoned.\n\nI confess, the new-painted room, and a gleam of dawn on the wall, made\nit so light, that he could see his knee-buckles glancing on the chair.\nHe then softly awakened his mother (the other guests were to lie for\nhours in the sheets), and she had the city cook-maid to awaken, who,\nlike several other articles of wedding-furniture, had been borrowed for\na day or two from Flachsenfingen. At two doors he knocked in vain, and\nwithout answer; for all were already down at the hearth, cooking,\nblowing; and arranging.\n\nHow softly does the Spring day gradually fold back its nun-veil,\nand the Earth grow bright, as if it were the morning of a\nResurrection!--The quicksilver-pillar of the barometer, the guiding\nFire-pillar of the weather-prophet, rests firmly on Fixlein's Ark\nof the Covenant. The Sun raises himself, pure and cool, into the\nmorning-blue, instead of into the morning-red. Swallows, instead of\nclouds, shoot skimming through the melodious air ... O, the good\nGenius of Fair Weather, who deserves many temples and festivals\n(because without him no festival could be held), lifted an ethereal,\nazure Day, as it were, from the well-clear atmosphere of the Moon,\nand sent it down, on blue butterfly-wings,--as if it were a _blue_\nMonday,--glittering below the Sun, in the zigzag of joyful, quivering\ndescent, upon the narrow spot of Earth, which our heated fancies are\nnow viewing .... And on this balmy, vernal spot stand, amid flowers,\nover which the trees are shaking blossoms instead of leaves, a bride\nand a bridegroom.... Happy Fixlein! how shall I paint thee without\ndeepening the sighs of longing in the fairest souls?\n\nBut soft! we will not drink the magic cup of Fancy to the bottom at six\nin the morning; but keep sober till towards night!\n\nAt the sound of the morning prayer-bell, the bridegroom, for the din of\npreparation was disturbing his quiet orison, went out into the\nchurchyard, which (as in many other places), together with the church,\nlay round his mansion like a court. Here on the moist green, over whose\nclosed flowers the churchyard wall was still spreading broad shadows,\ndid his spirit cool itself from the warm dreams of Earth; here, where\nthe white flat gravestone of his Teacher lay before him like the\nfallen-in door on the Janus's-temple of Life, or like the windward side\nof the narrow house, turned towards the tempests of the world; here,\nwhere the little shrunk metallic door on the grated cross of his father\nuttered to him the inscriptions of death, and the year when his parent\ndeparted, and all the admonitions and mementos, graven on the\nlead;--there, I say, his mood grew softer and more solemn; and he now\nlifted up by heart his morning prayer, which usually he read; and\nentreated God to bless him in his office, and to spare his mother's\nlife, and to look with favor and acceptance on the purpose of to-day.\nThen over the graves he walked into his fenceless little angular\nflower-garden; and here, composed and confident in the Divine keeping,\nhe pressed the stalks of his tulips deeper into the mellow earth.\n\nBut on returning to the house, he was met on all hands by the\nbell-ringing and the Janizary-music of wedding-gladness;--the\nmarriage-guests had all thrown off their nightcaps, and were\ndrinking diligently;--there was a clattering, a cooking, a\nfrizzling;--tea-services, coffee-services, and warm beer-services, were\nadvancing in succession; and plates full of bride-cakes were going\nround like potters' frames or cistern-wheels.--The Schoolmaster, with\nthree young lads, was heard rehearsing from his own house an _Arioso_,\nwith which, so soon as they were perfect, he purposed to surprise his\nclerical superior.--But now rushed all the arms of the foaming\njoy-streams into one, when the sky-queen besprinkled with blossoms, the\nbride, descended upon Earth in her timid joy, full of quivering, humble\nlove;--when the bells began;--when the procession-column set forth with\nthe whole village round and before it;--when the organ, the\ncongregation, the officiating priest, and the sparrows on the trees of\nthe church-window, struck louder and louder their rolling peals on the\ndrum of the jubilee-festival.... The heart of the singing bridegroom\nwas like to leap from its place for joy, \"that on his bridal-day it was\nall so respectable and grand.\"--Not till the marriage benediction could\nhe pray a little.\n\nStill worse and louder grew the business during dinner, when\npastry-work and marchpane-devices were brought forward,--when glasses\nand slain fishes (laid under the napkins to frighten the guests) went\nround;--and when the guests rose, and themselves went round, and at\nlength danced round; for they had instrumental music from the city\nthere.\n\nOne minute handed over to the other the sugar-bowl and bottle-case of\njoy; the guests heard and saw less and less, and the villagers began to\nsee and hear more and more, and towards night they penetrated like a\nwedge into the open door,--nay, two youths ventured even, in the middle\nof the parsonage-court, to mount a plank over a beam, and commence\nseesawing. Out of doors, the gleaming vapor of the departed Sun was\nencircling the Earth, the evening star was glittering over parsonage\nand churchyard; no one heeded it.\n\nHowever, about nine o'clock,--when the marriage-guests had wellnigh\nforgotten the marriage-pair, and were drinking or dancing along for\ntheir own behoof; when poor mortals, in this sunshine of Fate, like\nfishes in the sunshine of the sky, were leaping up from their wet, cold\nelement; and when the bridegroom, under the star of happiness and love,\ncasting like a comet its long train of radiance over all his heaven,\nhad in secret pressed to his joy-filled breast his bride and his\nmother,--then did he lock a slice of wedding-bread privily into a\npress, in the old superstitious belief, that this residue secured\ncontinuance of bread for the whole marriage. As he returned, with\ngreater love for the sole partner of his life, she herself met him with\nhis mother, to deliver him in private the bridal-nightgown and\nbridal-shirt, as is the ancient usage. Many a countenance grows pale in\nviolent emotions, even of joy; Thiennette's wax-face was bleaching\nstill whiter under the sunbeams of Happiness. O never fall, thou lily\nof Heaven, and may four springs instead of four seasons open and shut\nthy flower-bells to the sun! All the arms of his soul as he floated on\nthe sea of joy were quivering to clasp the soft, warm heart of his\nbeloved, to encircle it gently and fast, and draw it to his own....\n\nHe led her from the crowded dancing-room into the cool evening. Why\ndoes the evening, does the night, put warmer love in our hearts? Is it\nthe nightly pressure of helplessness; or is it the exalting separation\nfrom the turmoil of life; that veiling of the world, in which for the\nsoul nothing more remains but souls;--is it therefore, that the letters\nin which the loved name stands written on our spirit appear, like\nphosphorus-writing, by night _in fire_, while by day in their _cloudy_\ntraces they but smoke?\n\nHe walked with his bride into the Castle-garden; she hastened quickly\nthrough the castle, and past its servants'-hall, where the fair flowers\nof her young life had been crushed broad and dry, under a long, dreary\npressure; and her soul expanded, and breathed in the free open garden,\non whose flowery soil destiny had cast forth the first seeds of the\nblossoms which to-day were gladdening her existence. Still Eden! Green\nflower-checkered _chiaroscuro_!--The moon is sleeping under ground like\na dead one; but beyond the garden the sun's red evening-clouds have\nfallen down like rose-leaves; and the evening-star, the brideman of the\nsun, hovers, like a glancing butterfly, above the rosy red, and, modest\nas a bride, deprives no single starlet of its light.\n\nThe wandering pair arrived at the old gardener's hut; now standing\nlocked and dumb, with dark windows in the light garden, like a fragment\nof the Past surviving in the Present. Bared twigs of trees were\nfolding, with clammy, half-formed leaves, over the thick, intertwisted\ntangles of the bushes.--The Spring was standing, like a conqueror,\nwith Winter at his feet.--In the blue pond, now bloodless, a dusky\nevening-sky lay hollowed out, and the gushing waters were moistening\nthe flower-beds.--The silver sparks of stars were rising on the altar\nof the East, and falling down extinguished in the red sea of the West.\n\nThe wind whirred, like a night-bird, louder through the trees; and gave\ntones to the acacia-grove, and the tones called to the pair who had\nfirst become happy within it: \"Enter, new mortal pair, and think of\nwhat is past, and of my withering and your own; and be holy as\nEternity, and weep not only for joy, but for gratitude also!\"--And the\nwet-eyed bridegroom led his wet-eyed bride under the blossoms, and laid\nhis soul, like a flower, on her heart, and said: \"Best Thiennette, I am\nunspeakably happy, and would say much, and cannot.--Ah, thou Dearest,\nwe will live like angels, like children together! Surely I will do all\nthat is good to thee; two years ago I had nothing, no nothing; ah, it\nis through thee, best love, that I am happy. I call thee Thou, now,\nthou dear good soul!\" She drew him closer to her, and said, though\nwithout kissing him: \"Call me Thou always, Dearest!\"\n\nAnd as they stept forth again from the sacred grove into the\nmagic-dusky garden, he took off his hat; first, that he might\ninternally thank God, and secondly, because he wished to look into this\nfairest evening sky.\n\nThey reached the blazing, rustling marriage-house, but their softened\nhearts sought stillness; and a foreign touch, as in the blossoming\nvine, would have disturbed the flower-nuptials of their souls. They\nturned rather, and winded up into the churchyard to preserve their\nmood. Majestic on the groves and mountains stood the Night before man's\nheart, and made it also great. Over the _white_ steeple-obelisk the sky\nrested _bluer_ and _darker_; and behind it wavered the withered summit\nof the May-pole with faded flag. The son noticed his father's grave, on\nwhich the wind was opening and shutting, with harsh noise, the little\ndoor of the metal cross, to let the year of his death be read on the\nbrass plate within. An overpowering sadness seized his heart with\nviolent streams of tears, and drove him to the sunk hillock, and he led\nhis bride to the grave, and said: \"Here sleeps he, my good father; in\nhis thirty-second year he was carried hither to his long rest. O Thou\ngood, dear father, couldst thou to-day but see the happiness of thy\nson, like my mother! But thy eyes are empty, and thy breast is full of\nashes, and thou seest us not.\"--He was silent. The bride wept aloud;\nshe saw the mouldering coffins of her parents open, and the two dead\narise and look round for their daughter, who had stayed so long behind\nthem, forsaken on the Earth. She fell upon his heart, and faltered: \"O\nbeloved, I have neither father nor mother; do not forsake me!\"\n\nO thou who hast still a father and a mother, thank God for it, on the\nday when thy soul is full of joyful tears, and needs a bosom wherein to\nshed them....\n\nAnd with this embracing at a father's grave, let this day of joy be\nholily concluded.--\n\n\n\n\n                           TENTH LETTER-BOX.\n\n                     St. Thomas's-Day and Birthday.\n\n\nAn Author is a sort of bee-keeper for his reader-swarm; in whose behalf\nhe separates the Flora kept for their use into different seasons, and\nhere accelerates, and there retards, the blossoming of many a flower,\nthat so in all chapters there be blooming.\n\nThe goddess of Love and the angel of Peace conducted our married pair\non tracks running over full meadows, through the Spring; and on\nfootpaths hidden by high corn-fields, through the Summer; and Autumn,\nas they advanced towards Winter, spread her marble leaves under their\nfeet. And thus they arrived before the low, dark gate of Winter, full\nof life, full of love, trustful, contented, sound, and ruddy.\n\nOn St. Thomas's-day was Thiennette's birthday as well as Winter's.\nAbout a quarter past nine, just when the singing ceases in the church,\nwe shall take a peep through the window into the interior of the\nparsonage. There is nothing here but the old mother, who has all day\n(the son having restricted her to rest, and not work) been gliding\nabout, and brushing, and burnishing, and scouring, and wiping; every\ncarved chair-leg, and every brass nail of the waxcloth-covered table,\nshe has polished into brightness;--everything hangs, as with all\nmarried people who have no children, in its right place, brushes,\nfly-flaps, and almanacs;--the chairs are stationed by the room-police\nin their ancient corners;--a flax-rock, encircled with a diadem, or\nscarf of azure riband, is lying in the Schadeck-bed, because, though it\nis a half-holiday, some spinning may go on;--the narrow slips of paper,\nwhereon heads of sermons are to be arranged, lie white beside the\nsermons themselves, that is, beside the octavo paper-book which\nholds them, for the Parson and his work-table, by reason of the cold,\nhave migrated from the study to the sitting-room;--his large furred\ndoublet is hanging beside his clean bridegroom-nightgown; there is\nnothing wanting in the room but He and She. For he had preached her\nwith him to-night into the empty Apostle's-day church, that so\nher mother, without witnesses,--except the two or three thousand\nreaders who are peeping with me through the window,--might arrange\nthe provender-baking, and whole commissariat department of the\nbirthday-festival, and spread out her best table-gear and\nvictual-stores without obstruction.\n\nThe soul-curer reckoned it no sin to admonish, and exhort, and\nencourage, and threaten his parishioners, till he felt pretty\ncertain that the soup must be smoking on the plates. Then he led\nhis birthday helpmate home, and suddenly placed her before the altar\nof meat-offering, before a sweet title-page of bread-tart, on which\nher name stood baked, in true _monastic characters_, in tooth-letters\nof almonds. In the background of time and of the room, I yet conceal\ntwo--bottles of Pontac. How quickly, under the sunshine of joy, do thy\ncheeks grow ripe, Thiennette, when thy husband solemnly says: \"This is\nthy birthday; and may the Lord bless thee, and watch over thee, and\ncause his countenance to shine on thee, and send thee, to the joy of\nour mother and thy husband especially, a happy, glad _recovery_.\nAmen!\"--And when Thiennette perceived that it was the old mistress who\nhad cooked and served up all this herself, she fell upon her neck, as\nif it had been not her husband's mother, but her own.\n\nEmotion conquers the appetite. But Fixlein's stomach was as strong as\nhis heart; and with him no species of movement could subdue the\nperistaltic. Drink is the friction-oil of the tongue, as eating is its\ndrag. Yet, not till he had eaten and spoken much, did the pastor fill\nthe glasses. Then indeed he drew the corksluice from the bottle, and\nset forth its streams. The sickly mother, of a being still hid beneath\nher heart, turned her eyes, in embarrassed emotion, on the old\nwoman only; and could scarcely chide him for sending to the city\nwine-merchant on her account. He took a glass in each hand, for each of\nthe two whom he loved, and handed them to his mother and his wife, and\nsaid: \"To thy long, long life, Thiennette!--And your health and\nhappiness, Mamma!--And a glad arrival to our little one, if God so\nbless us!\" \"My son,\" said the gardeneress, \"it is to thy long life that\nwe must drink; for it is by thee we are supported. God grant thee\nlength of days!\" added she, with stifled voice, and her eyes betrayed\nher tears.\n\nI nowhere find a livelier emblem of the female sex, in all its\nboundless levity, than in the case where a woman is carrying the angel\nof Death beneath her heart, and yet in these nine months full of mortal\ntokens thinks of nothing more important than of who shall be the\ngossips, and what shall be cooked at the christening. But thou,\nThiennette, hadst nobler thoughts, though these too along with them.\nThe still hidden darling of thy heart was resting before thy eyes like\na little angel sculptured on a gravestone, and pointing with its small\nfinger to the hour when thou shouldst die; and every morning and every\nevening thou thoughtest of death with a certainty of which I yet knew\nnot the reasons; and to thee it was as if the Earth were a dark mineral\ncave, where man's blood, like stalactitic water, drops down, and in\ndropping raises shapes which gleam so transiently, and so quickly fade\naway! And that was the cause why tears were continually trickling from\nthy soft eyes, and betraying all thy anxious thoughts about thy child;\nbut thou repaidst these sad effusions of thy heart by the embrace in\nwhich, with new-awakened love, thou fellest on thy husband's neck, and\nsaidst: \"Be as it may, God's will be done, so thou and my child are\nleft alive!--But I know well that thou, Dearest, lovest me as I do\nthee.\" ... Lay thy hand, good mother, full of blessings, on the two;\nand thou, kind Fate, never lift thine away from them!--\n\nIt is with emotion and good wishes that I witness the kiss of two fair\nfriends, or the embracing of two virtuous lovers; and from the fire of\ntheir altar sparks fly over to me; but what is this to our sympathetic\nexaltation when we see two mortals, bending under the same burden,\nbound to the same duties, animated to the same care for the same little\ndarlings, fall on one another's overflowing hearts, in some fair hour?\nAnd if these, moreover, are two mortals who already wear the mourning\nweeds of life, I mean old age, whose hair and cheeks are now grown\ncolorless, and eyes grown dim, and whose faces a thousand thorns have\nmarred into images of Sorrow;--when these two clasp each other with\nsuch wearied, aged arms, and so near to the precipice of the grave, and\nwhen they say or think: \"All in us is dead, but not our love--O we have\nlived and suffered long together, and now we will hold out our hands to\nDeath together also, and let him carry us away together,\"--does not all\nwithin us cry: O Love, thy spark is superior to Time; it burns neither\nin joy nor in the cheek of roses; it dies not, neither under a\nthousand tears nor under the snow of old age, nor under the ashes of\nthy--beloved. It never dies; and Thou, All-good! if there were no\neternal love, there were no love at all....\n\nTo the Parson it was easier than it is to me to pave for himself a\ntransition from the heart to the digestive faculty. He now submitted to\nThiennette (whose voice at once grew cheerful, while her eyes time\nafter time began to sparkle) his purpose to take advantage of the\nfrosty weather and have the winter meat slaughtered and salted. \"The\npig can scarcely rise,\" said he; and forthwith he fixed the\ndetermination of the women, further the butcher, and the day, and all\n_et ceteras_; appointing everything with a degree of punctuality,\nsuch as the war-college (when it applies the cupping-glass, the\nbattle-sword, to the overfull system of mankind) exhibits on the\nprevious day, in its arrangements, before it drives a province into the\nbaiting-ring and slaughter-house.\n\nThis settled, he began to talk and feel quite joyously about the course\nof winter, which had commenced to-day at two-and-twenty minutes past\neight in the morning; \"for,\" said he, \"new-year is close at hand; and\nwe shall not need so much candle to-morrow night as to-night.\" His\nmother, it is true, came athwart him with the weapons of her five\nsenses; but he fronted her with his Astronomical Tables, and proved\nthat the lengthening of the day was no less undeniable than\nimperceptible. In the last place, like most official and married\npersons, heeding little whether his women took him or not, he informed\nthem, in juristico-theological phrase: \"That he would put off no\nlonger, but write this very afternoon to the venerable Consistorium,\nin whose hands lay the _jus circa sacra_, for a new Ball to the\nchurch-steeple; and the rather, as he hoped before new-year's day to\nraise a bountiful subscription from the parish for this purpose. If God\nspare us till spring,\" added he, with peculiar cheerfulness, \"and thou\nwert happily recovered, I might so arrange the whole that the ball\nshould be set up at thy first churchgoing, dame!\"\n\nThereupon he shifted his chair from the dinner and dessert table to the\nwork-table; and spent the half of his afternoon over the petition for\nthe steeple-ball. As there still remained a little space till dusk, he\nclapped his tackle to his new learned _Opus_, of which I must now\nafford a little glimpse. Out of doors among the snow, there stood near\nHukelum an old Robber-Castle, which Fixlein, every day in Autumn, had\nhovered round like a _revenant_, with a view to gauge it,\nichnographically to delineate it, to put every window-bar and every\nbridle-hook of it correctly on paper. He believed he was not expecting\ntoo much, if thereby--and by some drawings of the not so much vertical\nas horizontal walls--he hoped to impart to his \"_Architectural\nCorrespondence of two Friends concerning the Hukelum Robber-Castle_\"\nthat last polish and labor _limae_ which contents Reviewers. For towards\nthe critical Star-chamber of the Reviewers he entertained not that\ncontempt which some authors actually feel--or only affect, as, for\ninstance, I. From this mouldered Robber-_Louvre_, there grew for him\nmore flowers of joy than ever in all probability had grown from it of\nold for its owners.--To my knowledge, it is an anecdote not hitherto\nmade public, that for all this no man but _Buesching_ has to answer.\nFixlein had, not long ago, among the rubbish of the church letter-room,\nstumbled on a paper wherein the Geographer had been requesting special\ninformation about the statistics of the village. Buesching, it is true,\nhad picked up nothing,--accordingly, indeed, Hukelum, in his\n_Geography_, is still omitted altogether;--but this pestilential letter\nhad infected Fixlein with the spring-fever of Ambition, so that his\npalpitating heart was no longer to be stilled or held in check, except\nby the assaf[oe]tida-emulsion of a review. It is with authorcraft as\nwith love; both of them for decades long one may equally desire and\nforbear; but is the first spark once thrown into the powder-magazine,\nit burns to the end of the chapter.\n\nSimply because winter had commenced by the Almanac, the fire must be\nlarger than usual; for warm rooms, like large furs and bear-skin caps,\nwere things which he loved more than you would figure. The dusk, this\nfair _chiaroscuro_ of the day, this colored foreground of the night, he\nlengthened out as far as possible, that he might study Christmas\ndiscourses therein; and yet could his wife, without scruple, just as he\nwas pacing up and down the room, with the sowing-sheet full of divine\nword-seeds hung round his shoulder,--hold up to him a spoonful of\nalegar, that he might try the same in his palate, and decide whether\nshe should yet draw it off. Nay, did he not in all cases, though\nfonder of roe-fishes himself, order a milter to be drawn from the\nherring-barrel, because his good-wife liked it better?--\n\nHere light was brought in; and as Winter was just now commencing\nhis glass-painting on the windows, his ice flower-pieces, and his\nsnow-foliage, our Parson felt that it was time to read something cold,\nwhich he pleasantly named his cold collation; namely, the description\nof some unutterably frosty land. On the present occasion, it was the\nwinter history of the four Russian sailors on Nova Zembla. I, for my\nshare, do often in summer, when the sultry zephyr is inflating the\nflower-bells, append certain charts and sketches of Italy, or the East,\nas additional landscapes to those among which I am sitting. And yet\nto-night he further took up the _Weekly Chronicle_ of Flachsenfingen;\nand amid the bombshells, pestilences, famines, comets with long tails,\nand the roaring of all the Hell-floods of another Thirty Years' War, he\ncould still listen with the one ear towards the kitchen, where the\nsalad for his roast-duck was just a-cutting.\n\nGood-night, old Fixlein! I am tired. May kind Heaven send thee, with\nthe young year 1794, when the Earth shall again carry her people, like\nprecious night-moths, on leaves and flowers, the new steeple-ball, and\na thick, handsome--boy, to boot!\n\n\n\n\n                          ELEVENTH LETTER-BOX.\n\n                     Spring; Investiture; and Childbirth.\n\n\nI have just risen from a singular dream; but the foregoing Box makes it\nnatural. I dreamed that all was verdant, all full of odors; and I was\nlooking up at a steeple-ball glittering in the sun, from my station\nin the window of a little white garden-house, my eyelids full of\nflower-pollen, my shoulders full of thin cherry-blossoms, and my ears\nfull of humming from the neighboring beehives. Then, methought,\nadvancing slowly through the beds, came the Hukelum Parson, and stept\ninto the garden-house, and solemnly said to me: \"Honored Sir, my wife\nhas just brought me a little boy; and I make bold to solicit _your\nHonor_ to do the holy office for the same, when it shall be received\ninto the bosom of the church.\"\n\nI naturally started up, and there was--Parson Fixlein standing bodily\nat my bedside, and requesting me to be godfather; for Thiennette had\ngiven him a son last night about one o'clock. The confinement had been\nas light and happy as could be conceived; for this reason, that the\nfather had, some months before, been careful to provide one of those\n_Klappersteins_, as we call them, which are found in the aerie of the\neagle, and therewith to alleviate the travail; for this stone performs,\nin its way, all the service which the bonnet of that old Minorite monk\nin Naples, of whom Gorani informs us, could accomplish for people in\nsuch circumstances, who put it on....\n\n--I might vex the reader still longer; but I willingly give up, and\nshow him how the matter stood.\n\nSuch a May as the present (of 1794) Nature has not, in the memory of\nman--begun; for this is but the fifteenth of it. People of reflection\nhave for centuries been vexed once every year, that our German singers\nshould indite May-songs, since several other months deserve such a\npoetical night-music much better; and I myself have often gone so far\nas to adopt the idiom of our market-women, and instead of May butter,\nto say June butter, as also June, March, April songs.--But thou, kind\nMay of this year, thou deservest to thyself all the songs which were\never made on thy rude namesakes!--By Heaven! when I now issue from the\nwavering, checkered acacia-grove of the Castle-garden, in which I am\nwriting this Chapter, and come forth into the broad, living day, and\nlook up to the warming Heaven, and over its Earth budding out beneath\nit,--the Spring rises before me like a vast full cloud, with a splendor\nof blue and green. I see the Sun standing amid roses in the western\nsky, into which he has thrown his ray-brush, wherewith he has to-day\nbeen painting the Earth;--and when I look round a little in our\npicture-exhibition, his enamelling is still hot on the mountains; on\nthe moist chalk of the moist Earth, the flowers full of sap-colors are\nlaid out to dry, and the forget-me-not with miniature colors; under the\nvarnish of the streams, the skyey Painter has pencilled his own eye;\nand the clouds, like a decoration-painter, he has touched off with wild\noutlines and single tints; and so he stands at the border of the Earth,\nand looks back upon his stately Spring, whose robe-folds are valleys,\nwhose breast-bouquet is gardens, and whose blush is a vernal evening,\nand who, when she arises, shall be--Summer.\n\nBut to proceed! Every spring--and especially in such a spring--I\nimitate on foot our birds of passage; and travel off the\nhypochondriacal sediment of winter; but I do not think I should have\nseen even the steeple-ball of Hukelum, which is to be set up one of\nthese days, to say nothing of the Parson's family, had not I happened\nto be visiting the Flachsenfingen Superintendent and Consistorialrath.\nFrom him I got acquainted with Fixlein's history,--every Candidatus\nmust deliver an account of his life to the Consistorium,--and with his\nstill madder petition for a steeple-ball. I observed, with pleasure,\nhow gayly the cob was diving and swashing about in his duck-pool and\nmilk-bath of life; and forthwith determined on a journey to his shore.\nIt is singular, that is to say, manlike, that when we have for years\nkept prizing and describing some original person or original book, yet\nthe moment we see such, they anger us; we would have them fit us and\ndelight us in all points, as if any originality could do this but our\nown.\n\nIt was Saturday, the third of May, when I, with the Superintendent, the\n_Senior Capituli_, and some temporal Raths, mounted and rolled off, and\nin two carriages were driven to the Parson's door. The matter was, he\nwas not yet--_invested_, and to-morrow this was to be done. I little\nthought, while we whirled by the white espalier of the Castle-garden,\nthat there I was to write another book.\n\nI still see the Parson, in his peruke-minever and head-case, come\nspringing to the coach-door and lead us out; so smiling--so\ncourteous--so vain of the disloaded freight, and so attentive to it. He\nlooked as if in the journey of life he had never once put on the\n_travelling-gauze_ of Sorrow; Thiennette again seemed never to have\nthrown hers back. How neat was everything in the house, how dainty,\ndecorated, and polished! And yet so quiet, without the cursed\nalarm-ringing of servants' bells, and without the bass-drum tumult of\nstair-pedalling. Whilst the gentlemen, my road-companions, were sitting\nin state in the upper room, I flitted, as my way is, like a smell over\nthe whole house, and my path led me through the sitting-room over the\nkitchen, and at last into the churchyard beside the house. Good\nSaturday! I will paint thy hours as I may, with the black asphaltos of\nink, on the tablets of other souls! In the sitting-room, I lifted from\nthe desk a volume gilt on the back and edges, and bearing this title:\n\"_Holy Sayings, by Fixlein. First Collection_.\" And as I looked to see\nwhere it had been printed, the Holy Collection turned out to be in\nwriting. I handled the quills, and dipped into the negro-black of the\nink, and I found that all was right and good. With your fluttering\ngentlemen of letters, who hold only a department of the foreign, and\nnone of the home affairs nothing (except some other things about them)\ncan be worse than their ink and pens. I also found a little\ncopperplate, to which I shall in due time return.\n\nIn the kitchen, a place not more essential for the writing of an\nEnglish novel than for the acting of a German one, I could plant myself\nbeside Thiennette, and help her to blow the fire, and look at once into\nher face and her burning coals. Though she was in wedlock, a state in\nwhich white roses on the cheeks are changed for red ones, and young\nwomen are similar to a similitude given in my Note;[60]--and although\nthe blazing wood threw a false rouge over her, I guessed how pale she\nmust have been; and my sympathy in her paleness rose still higher at\nthe thought of the burden which Fate had now not so much taken from\nher, as laid in her arms and nearer to her heart. In truth, a man must\nnever have reflected on the Creation-moment, when the Universe first\nrose from the bosom of an Eternity, if he does not view with\nphilosophic reverence a woman, whose thread of life a secret,\nall-wondrous Hand is spinning to a second thread, and who veils within\nher the transition from Nothingness to Existence, from Eternity to\ntime;--but still less can a man have any heart of flesh, if his soul,\nin presence of a woman, who, to an unknown, unseen being, is\nsacrificing more than we will sacrifice when it is seen and known,\nnamely, her nights, her joys, often her life, does not bow lower, and\nwith deeper emotion, than in presence of a whole nun-orchestra on their\nSahara-desert;--and worse than either is the man for whom his own\nmother has not made all other mothers venerable.\n\n\"It is little serviceable to thee, poor Thiennette,\" thought I, \"that\nnow, when thy bitter cup of sickness is made to run over, thou must\nhave loud festivities come crowding round thee.\" I meant the\nInvestiture and the Ball-raising. My rank, the diploma of which the\nreader will find stitched in with the _Dog-post-days_, and which had\nformerly been hers, brought about my ears a host of repelling,\nembarrassed, wavering titles of address from her; which people, to whom\nthey have once belonged, are at all times apt to parade before\nsuperiors or inferiors, and which it now cost me no little trouble to\ndisperse. Through the whole Saturday and Sunday I could never get into\nthe right track either with her or him, till the other guests were\ngone. As for the mother, she acted, like obscure ideas, powerfully and\nconstantly, but out of view; this arose in part from her idolatrous\nfear of us; and partly also from a slight shade of care (probably\nspringing from the state of her daughter), which had spread over her\nlike a little cloud.\n\nI cruised about, so long as the moon-crescent glimmered in the sky,\nover the churchyard; and softened my fantasies, which are at any rate\ntoo prone to paint with the brown of crumbling mummies, not only by the\nred of twilight, but also by reflecting how easily our eyes and our\nhearts can become reconciled even to the ruins of Death; a reflection\nwhich the Schoolmaster, whistling as he arranged the charnel-house for\nthe morrow, and the Parson's maid singing, as she reaped away the grass\nfrom the graves, readily enough suggested to me. And why should not\nthis habituation to all forms of Fate in the other world, also, be a\ngift reserved for us in our nature by the bounty of our great\nPreserver?--I perused the gravestones; and I think even now that\nSuperstition[61] is right in connecting with the reading of such things\na loss of _memory_; at all events, one does _forget_ a thousand things\nbelonging to this world....\n\nThe Investiture on Sunday (whose Gospel, of the Good Shepherd,\nsuited well with the ceremony) I must despatch in few words; because\nnothing truly sublime can bear to be treated of in many. However, I\nshall impart the most memorable circumstances, when I say that\nthere was--drinking (in the Parsonage),--music-making (in the\nChoir),--reading (of the Presentation by the Senior, and of the\nRatification-rescript by the lay Rath),--and preaching, by the\nConsistorialrath, who took the soul-curer by the hand, and presented,\nmade over, and guaranteed him to the congregation, and them to him.\nFixlein felt that he was departing as a high-priest from the church\nwhich he had entered as a country parson, and all day he had not once\nthe heart to ban. When a man is treated with solemnity, he looks upon\nhimself as a higher nature, and goes through his solemn feasts\ndevoutly.\n\nThis indenturing, this monastic profession, our Head-Rabbis and\nLodge-masters (our Superintendents) have usually a taste for putting\noff till once the pastor has been some years ministering among the\npeople, to whom they hereby present him; as the early Christians\nfrequently postponed their consecration and investiture to\nChristianity, their baptism namely, till the day when they died. Nay, I\ndo not even think this clerical Investiture would lose much of its\nusefulness, if it and the declaring-vacant of the office were reserved\nfor the same day; the rather, as this usefulness consists entirely in\ntwo items; what the Superintendent and his Raths can eat, and what they\ncan pocket.\n\nNot till towards evening did the Parson and I get acquainted. The\nInvestiture officials and elevation pulley-men had, throughout the\nwhole evening, been very violently--breathing. I mean thus; as these\ngentlemen could not but be aware, by the most ancient theories and the\nlatest experiments, that air was nothing else than a sort of rarefied\nand exploded water, it became easy for them to infer, that, conversely,\nwater was nothing else than a denser sort of air. Wine-drinking,\ntherefore, is nothing else but the breathing of an air pressed together\ninto proper spissitude, and sprinkled over with a few perfumes. Now, in\nour days, by clerical persons too much (fluid) breath can never be\ninhaled through the mouth; seeing the dignity of their station excludes\nthem from that breathing through the _smaller_ pores which Abernethy so\nhighly recommends under the name of _air-bath_; and can the Gullet in\ntheir case be aught else than door-neighbor to the Windpipe, the\n_consonant_ and fellow-shoot of the Windpipe?--I am running astray; I\nmeant to signify that I this evening had adopted the same opinion; only\nthat I used air or ether, not like the rest for loud laughter, but for\nthe more quiet contemplation of life in general. I even shot forth at\nmy gossip certain speeches which betrayed devoutness. These he at first\ntook for jests, being aware that I was from Court, and of quality. But\nthe concave mirror of the wine-mist at length suspended the images of\nmy soul, enlarged and embodied like spiritual shapes, in the air before\nme.--Life shaded itself off to my eyes like a hasty summer night, which\nwe little fireflies shoot across with transient gleam;--I said to him\nthat man must turn himself like the leaves of the great mallow, at the\ndifferent day-seasons of his life, now to the rising sun, now to the\nsetting, now to the night, towards the Earth and its graves;--I said,\nthe omnipotence of Goodness was driving us and the centuries of the\nworld towards the gates of the City of God, as, according to Euler, the\nresistance of the _Ether_ leads the circling Earth towards the Sun,\n&c., &c.\n\nOn the strength of these entremets, he considered me the first\ntheologian of his age; and had he been obliged to go to war, would\npreviously have taken my advice on the matter, as belligerent powers\nwere wont of old from the theologians of the Reformation. I hide not\nfrom myself, however, that what preachers call vanity of the world is\nsomething altogether different from what philosophy so calls. When I,\nmoreover, signified to him that I was not ashamed to be an Author; but\nhad a turn for working up this and the other biography; and that I had\ngot a sight of his _Life_ in the hands of the Superintendent; and might\nbe in case to prepare a printed one therefrom, if so were he would\nassist me with here and there a tint of flesh-color,--then was my silk,\nwhich, alas! not only isolates one from electric fire, but also from a\nkindlier sort of it, the only grate which rose between his arms and me;\nfor, like the most part of poor country parsons, it was not in his\npower to forget the rank of any man, or to vivify his own on a higher\none. He said: \"He would acknowledge it with veneration, if I should\nmention him in print; but he was much afraid his life was too common\nand too poor for a biography.\" Nevertheless, he opened me the drawer of\nhis Letter-boxes, and said, perhaps he had hereby been paving the way\nfor me.\n\nThe main point, however, was, he hoped that his _Errata_, his\n_Exercitationes_, and his _Letters on the Robber-Castle_, if I should\npreviously send forth a Life of the Author, might be better received;\nand that it would be much the same as if I accompanied them with a\nPreface.\n\nIn short, when on Monday the other dignitaries with their nimbus of\nsplendor had dissipated, I alone, like a precipitate, abode with him;\nand am still abiding, that is, from the fifth of May (the Public should\ntake the Almanac of 1794, and keep it open beside them) to the\nfifteenth; to-day is Thursday, to-morrow is the sixteenth and Friday,\nwhen comes the Spinat-Kirmes, or Spinage-Wake, as they call it, and the\nuplifting of the steeple-ball, which I just purposed to await before I\nwent. Now, however, I do not go so soon; for on Sunday I have to assist\nat the baptismal ceremony, as baptismal agent for my little future\ngodson. Whoever pays attention to me, and keeps the Almanac open, may\nreadily guess why the christening is put off till Sunday; for it is\nthat memorable Cantata-Sunday, which once, for its mad, narcotic\nhemlock-virtues, was of importance in our History; but is now so only\nfor the fair betrothment, which after two years we mean to celebrate\nwith a baptism.\n\nTruly it is not in my power--for want of colors and presses--to paint\nor print upon my paper the soft, balmy flower-garland of a fortnight\nwhich has here wound itself about my sickly life; but with a single day\nI shall attempt it. Man, I know well, cannot prognosticate either his\njoys or his sorrows, still less repeat them, either in living or\nwriting.\n\nThe black hour of coffee has gold in its mouth for us and honey; here,\nin the morning coolness, we are all gathered; we maintain popular\nconversation, that so the parsoness and the gardeneress may be able to\ntake share in it. The morning service in the church, where often the\nwhole people[62] are sitting and singing, divides us. While the bell is\nsounding, I march with my writing-gear into the singing Castle-garden;\nand seat myself in the fresh acacia-grove, at the dewy two-legged\ntable. Fixlein's Letter-boxes I keep by me in my pocket; and I\nhave only to look and abstract from his what can be of use In my\nown.--Strange enough! so easily do we forget a thing in describing it,\nI really did not recollect for a moment that I am now sitting at the\nvery grove-table of which I speak, and writing all this.--\n\nMy gossip in the mean time is also laboring for the world. His study is\na sort of sacristy, and his printing-press a pulpit, wherefrom he\npreaches to all men; for an Author is the Town-chaplain of the\nUniverse. A man who is making a book will scarcely hang himself; all\nrich lords'-sons, therefore, should labor for the press; for, in that\ncase, when you awake too early in bed, you have always a _plan_, an\naim, and therefore a cause before you why you should get out of it.\nBetter off, too, is the author who collects rather than invents,--for\nthe latter with its eating fire calcines the heart; I praise the\nAntiquary, the Heraldist, Note-maker, Compiler; I esteem the\n_Title-perch_ (a fish called _Perca-Diagramma_, because of the letters\non its scales), and the _Printer_ (a chafer, called _Scarabaeus\nTypographus_, which eats letters in the bark of fir),--neither of them\nneeds any greater or fairer arena in the world than a piece of\nrag-paper, or any other laying apparatus than a pointed pencil,\nwherewith to lay his four-and-twenty letter-eggs.--In regard to the\n_catalogue raisonne_, which my gossip is now drawing up of German\n_Errata_, I have several times suggested to him, \"that it were good if\nhe extended his researches in one respect, and revised the rule by\nwhich it has been computed, that, e. g. for a hundred-weight of pica\nblack-letter, four hundred and fifty semicolons, three hundred periods,\n&c., are required; and to recount, and see whether, in Political\nwritings and Dedications, the fifty notes of admiration for a\nhundred-weight of pica black-letter were not far too small an\nallowance, and if so, what the real quantity was.\"\n\nSeveral days he wrote nothing; but wrapped himself in the slough of his\nparson's-cloak; and so in his canonicals, beside the Schoolmaster, put\nthe few A-b-c shooters which were not, like forest-shooters, absent on\nfurlough by reason of the spring, through their platoon firing in the\nHornbook. He never did more than his duty, but also never less. It\nbrought a soft, benignant warmth over his heart, to think that he, who\nhad once ducked under a School-inspectorship, was now one himself.\n\nAbout ten o'clock we meet from our different museums, and examine the\nvillage, especially the Biographical furniture and holy places, which I\nchance that morning to have had under my pen or pentagraph; because I\nlook at them with more interest _after_ my description than _before_\nit.\n\nNext comes dinner.--\n\nAfter the concluding grace, which is too long, we both of us set to\nentering the charitable subsidies and religious donations, which our\nparishioners have remitted to the sinking or rather rising fund of the\nchurch-box for the purchase of the new steeple-globe, into two ledgers;\nthe one of these, with the names of the subscribers, or (in case they\nhave subscribed for their children) with their children's names\nalso, is to be inurned in a leaden capsule, and preserved in the\nsteeple-ball; the other will remain below among the parish Registers.\nYou cannot fancy what contributions the ambition of getting into the\nBall brings us in; I declare, several peasants, who had given and well\nonce already, contributed again when they had baptisms; must not little\nHans be in the Ball too?\n\nAfter this book-keeping by double entry, my gossip took to engraving on\ncopper. He had been so happy as to elicit the discovery, that, from a\ncertain stroke resembling an inverted Latin S, the capital letters of\nour German Chancery-hand, beautiful and intertwisted as you see them\nstand in Law-deeds and Letters-of-nobility, may every one of them be\ncomposed and spun out.\n\n\"Before you can count sixty,\" said he to me, \"I take my\nfundamental-stroke and make you any letter out of it.\"\n\nI merely inverted this fundamental-stroke, that is, gave him a German\nS, and counted sixty till he had it done. This line of beauty, when\nonce it has been twisted and flourished into all the capitals, he\npurposes, by copperplates which he is himself engraving, to make more\ncommon for the use of Chanceries; and I may take upon me to give the\nRussian, the Prussian, and a few other smaller Courts, hopes of proof\nimpressions from his hand; to under-secretaries they are indispensable.\n\nNow comes evening; and it is time for us both, here forking about with\nour fruit-hooks on the literary Tree of Knowledge, at the risk of our\nnecks, to clamber down again into the meadow-flowers and pasturages of\nrural joy. We wait, however, till the busy Thiennette, whom we are now\nto receive into our communion, has no more walks to take but the one\nbetween us. Then slowly we stept along (the sick lady was weak) through\nthe office-houses; that is to say, through stalls and their population,\nand past a horrid lake of ducks, and past a little milk-pond of carps,\nto both of which colonies, I and the rest, like princes, gave bread,\nseeing we had it in view, on the Sunday after the christening, to--take\nthem for bread for ourselves.\n\nThe sky is still growing kindlier and redder, the swallows and the\nblossom-trees louder, the house-shadows broader, and men more happy.\nThe clustering blossoms of the acacia-grove hang down over our cold\ncollation; and the ham is not stuck (which always vexes me) with\nflowers, but beshaded with them from a distance....\n\nAnd now the deeper evening and the nightingale conspire to soften me;\nand I soften in my turn the mild beings round me, especially the pale\nThiennette, to whom, or to whose heart, after the apoplectic crushings\nof a down-pressed youth, the most violent pulses of joy are heavier\nthan the movements of pensive sadness. And thus beautifully runs our\npure transparent life along, under the blooming curtains of May; and in\nour modest pleasure, we look with timidity neither behind us nor\nbefore; as people who are lifting treasure gaze not round at the road\nthey came, or the road they are going.\n\nSo pass our days. To-day, however, it was different; by this time,\nusually, the evening meal is over; and the Shock has got the\nosseous-preparation of our supper between his jaws; but to-night\nI am still sitting here alone in the garden, writing the Eleventh\nLetter-Box, and peeping out every instant over the meadows, to see if\nmy gossip is not coming.\n\nFor he is gone to town, to bring a whole magazine of spiceries; his\ncoat-pockets are wide. Nay, it is certain enough that oftentimes\nhe brings home with him, simply in his coat-pocket, considerable\nflesh-tithes from his Guardian, at whose house he alights; though\ntruly, intercourse with the polished world and city, and the refinement\nof manners thence arising--for he calls on the bookseller, on\nschool-colleagues, and several respectable shop-keepers--does, much\nmore than flesh-fetching, form the object of these journeys to the\ncity. This morning he appointed me regent-head of the house, and\ndelivered me the _fasces_ and _curule chair_. I sat the whole day\nbeside the young, pale mother; and could not but think, simply because\nthe husband had left me there as his representative, that I liked the\nfair soul better. She had to take dark colors, and paint out for me the\nwinter landscape and ice region of her sorrow-wasted youth; but often,\ncontrary to my intention, by some simple elegiac word, I made her still\neye wet; for the too full heart, which had been crushed with other than\nsentimental woes, overflowed at the smallest pressure. A hundred times\nin the recital I was on the point of saying: \"O yes, it was with\nwinter that your life began, and the course of it has resembled\nwinter!\"--Windless, cloudless day! Three more words about thee the\nworld will still not take amiss from me!\n\nI advanced nearer and nearer to the heart-central-fire of the woman;\nand at last they mildly broke forth in censure of the Parson; the best\nwives will complain of their husbands to a stranger, without in the\nsmallest liking them the less on that account. The mother and the wife,\nduring dinner, accused him of buying lots at every book-auction; and,\nin truth, in such places, he does strive and bid, not so much for good\nor for bad books--or old ones--or new ones--or such as he likes to\nread--or any sort of favorite books--but simply for books. The mother\nblamed especially his squandering so much on copperplates; yet some\nhours after, when the Schultheis, or Mayor, who wrote a beautiful hand,\ncame in to subscribe for the steeple-ball, she pointed out to him how\nfinely her son could engrave, and said that it was well worth while to\nspend a groschen or two on such capitals as these.\n\nThey then handed me--for when once women are in the way of a full,\nopen-hearted effusion, they like (only you must not turn the stop-cock\nof inquiry) to pour out the whole--a ring-case, in which he kept a\nChamberlain's key that he had found, and asked me if I knew who had\nlost it. Who could know such a thing, when there are almost more\nChamberlains than picklocks among us?--\n\nAt last I took heart, and asked after the little toy-press of the\ndrowned son, which hitherto I had sought for in vain over all the\nhouse. Fixlein himself had inquired for it, with as little success.\nThiennette gave the old mother a persuading look full of love; and the\nlatter led me up-stairs to an outstretched hoop-petticoat, covering the\npoor press as with a dome. On the way thither, the mother told me she\nkept it hid from her son because the recollection of his brother would\npain him. When this deposit-chest of Time (the lock had fallen off) was\nlaid open to me, and I had looked into the little charnel-house, with\nits wrecks of a childlike, sportful Past, I, without saying a word,\ndetermined, some time ere I went away, to unpack these playthings of\nthe lost boy before his surviving brother. Can there be aught finer\nthan to look at these ash-buried, deep-sunk, Herculanean ruins of\nchildhood, now dug up and in the open air?\n\nThiennette sent twice to ask me whether he was come. He and she,\nprecisely because they do not give their love the weakening expression\nof phrases, but the strengthening one of actions, have a boundless\nfeeling of it towards one another. Some wedded pairs eat each others\nlips and hearts and love away by kisses; as in Rome, the statues of\nChrist (by Angelo) have lost their feet by the same process of kissing,\nand got leaden ones instead; in other couples, again, you may see, by\nmere inspection, the number of their conflagrations and eruptions, as\nin Vesuvius you can discover his, of which there are now forty-three;\nbut in these two beings rose the Greek fire of a moderate and\neverlasting love, and gave warmth without casting forth sparks, and\nflamed straight up without crackling. The evening-red is flowing back\nmore magically from the windows of the gardener's cottage into my\ngrove; and I feel as if I must say to Destiny: \"Hast thou a sharp\nsorrow, then throw it rather into my breast, and strike not with it\nthree good souls, who are too happy not to bleed by it, and too\nsequestered in their little dim village not to shrink back at the\nthunderbolt which hurries a stricken spirit from its earthly\ndwelling.\"----\n\nThou good Fixlein! Here comes he hurrying over the parsonage-green.\nWhat languishing looks full of love already rest in the eye of thy\nThiennette!--What news wilt thou bring us to-night from the town!--How\nwill the ascending steeple-ball refresh thy soul to-morrow!--\n\n\n\n\n                          TWELFTH LETTER-BOX.\n\n                Steeple-Ball Ascension.--The Toy-Press.\n\n\nHow, on this sixteenth of May, the old steeple-ball was twisted off\nfrom the Hukelum steeple, and a new one put on in its stead, will I now\ndescribe to my best ability; but in that simple historical style of the\nAncients, which, for great events, is perhaps the most suitable.\n\nAt a very early hour, a coach arrived, containing Messrs. Court-Guilder\nZeddel and Locksmith Waechser, and the new Peter's-cupola of the\nsteeple. Towards eight o'clock the community, consisting of subscribers\nto the Globe, was visibly collecting. A little later came the Lord\nDragoon Rittmeister von Aufhammer, as Patron of the church and steeple,\nattended by Mr. Church-Inspector Streichert. Hereupon my Reverend\nCousin Fixlein and I repaired, with the other persons whom I have\nalready named, into the Church, and there celebrated, before\ninnumerable hearers, a week-day prayer-service. Directly afterwards,\nmy Reverend Friend made his appearance above in the pulpit, and\nendeavored to deliver a speech which might correspond to the solemn\ntransaction;--and immediately thereafter, he read aloud the names of\nthe patrons and charitable souls, by whose donations the Ball had been\nput together; and showed to the congregation the leaden box in which\nthey were specially recorded; observing that the book from which he had\nrecited them was to be reposited in the Parish Register-office. Next he\nheld it necessary to thank them and God, that he, above his deserts,\nhad been chosen as the instrument and undertaker of such a work. The\nwhole he concluded with a short prayer for Mr. Stechmann the Slater\n(who was already hanging on the outside on the steeple, and loosening\nthe old shaft); and entreated that he might not break his neck, or any\nof his members. A short hymn was then sung, which the most of those\nassembled without the church-doors sang along with us, looking up at\nthe same time to the steeple.\n\nAll of us now proceeded out likewise; and the discarded ball, as it\nwere the amputated cock's-comb of the church, was lowered down and\nuntied. Church-Inspector Streichert drew a leaden case from the\ncrumbling ball, which my Reverend Friend put into his pocket, purposing\nto read it at his convenience; I, however, said to some peasants: \"See,\nthus will your names also be preserved in the new Ball, and when, after\nlong years, it shall be taken down, the box lies within it, and the\nthen parson becomes acquainted with you all.\"--And now was the new\nsteeple-globe, with the leaden cup in which lay the names of the\nby-standers, at length full-laden, so to speak, and saturated, and\nfixed to the pulley-rope;--and so did this the whilom cupping-glass of\nthe community ascend aloft....\n\nBy Heaven! the unadorned style is here a thing beyond my power: for\nwhen the Ball moved, swung, mounted, there rose a drumming in the\ncentre of the steeple; and the Schoolmaster, who, till now, had looked\ndown through a sounding-hole directed towards the congregation, now\nstepped out with a trumpet at a side sounding-hole, which the mounting\nBall was not to cross.--But when the whole Church rung and pealed, the\nnearer the capital approached its crown,--and when the Slater clutched\nit and turned it round, and happily incorporated the spike of it, and\ndelivered down, between Heaven and Earth, and leaning on the Ball, a\nTopstone-speech to this and all of us,--and when my gossip's eyes, in\nhis rapture at being Parson on this great day, were running over, and\nthe tears trickling down his priestly garment;--I believe I was the\nonly man--as his mother was the only woman--whose souls a common grief\nlaid hold of to press them even to bleeding; for I and the mother had\nyesternight, as I shall tell more largely afterwards, discovered in the\nlittle chest of the drowned boy, from a memorial in his father's hand,\nthat, on the day after the morrow, on Cantata-Sunday and his baptismal\nSunday, he would be--two-and-thirty-years of age. \"Oh!\" thought I,\nwhile I looked at the blue heaven, the green graves, the glittering\nball, the weeping priest, \"so, at all times, stands poor man with\nbandaged eyes before thy sharp sword, incomprehensible Destiny! And\nwhen thou drawest it and brandishest it aloft, he listens with pleasure\nto the whizzing of the stroke before it falls!\"--\n\nLast night I was aware of it; but to the reader, whom I was preparing\nfor it afar off, I would tell nothing of the mournful news, that, in\nthe press of the dead brother, I had found an old Bible which the boys\nhad used at school, with a white blank leaf in it, on which the father\nhad written down the dates of his children's birth. And even this it\nwas that raised in thee, thou poor mother, the shade of sorrow which of\nlate we have been attributing to smaller causes; and thy heart was\nstill standing amid the rain, which seemed to us already past over and\nchanged into a rainbow!--Out of love to him, she had yearly told one\nfalsehood, and concealed his age. By extreme good luck, he had not been\npresent when the press was opened. I still purpose, after this fatal\nSunday, to surprise him with the party-colored relics of his childhood,\nand so of these old Christmas-presents to make him new ones. In the\nmean while, if I and his mother can but follow him incessantly,\nlike fishhook-floats, and foot clogs, through to-morrow and next\nday, that no murderous accident lift aside the curtain from his\nbirth-certificate,--all may yet be well. For now, in truth, to his\neyes, this birthday, in the metamorphotic mirror of his superstitious\nimagination, and behind the magnifying magic vapor of his present joys,\nwould burn forth like a red death-warrant.... But besides all this, the\nleaf of the Bible is now sitting higher than any of us, namely, in the\nnew steeple-ball, into which I this morning prudently introduced it.\nProperly speaking, there is indeed no danger.\n\n\n\n\n                         THIRTEENTH LETTER-BOX.\n\n                              Christening.\n\n\nTo-day is that stupid Cantata-Sunday; but nothing now remains of it\nsave an hour.--By Heaven! in right spirits were we all to-day. I\nbelieve I have drunk as faithfully as another.--In truth, one\nshould be moderate in all things, in writing, in drinking, in\nrejoicing; and as we lay straws into the honey for our bees, that\nthey may not drown in their sugar, so ought one at all times to lay a\nfew firm Principles and twigs from the tree of Knowledge into the\nSyrup of life, instead of those same bee-straws, that so one may cling\nthereto, and not drown like a rat. But now I do purpose in earnest\nto--write (and also live) with steadfastness; and therefore, that I may\nrecord the christening ceremony with greater coolness,--to besprinkle\nmy fire with the night-air, and to roam out for an hour into the\nblossom-and-wave-embroidered night, where a lukewarm breath of air,\nintoxicated with soft odors, is sinking down from the blossom-peaks to\nthe low-bent flowers, and roaming over the meadows, and at last\nlaunching on a wave, and with it sailing down the moonshiny brook. O,\nwithout, under the stars, under the tones of the nightingale, which\nseem to reverberate, not from the echo, but from the far-off\ndown-glancing worlds; beside that moon, which the gushing brook, in its\nflickering, watery band, is carrying away, and which creeps under the\nlittle shadows of the bank as under clouds,--O, amid such forms and\ntones, the heart of man grows serious; and as of old an evening bell\nwas rung to direct the wanderer through the deep forests to his nightly\nhome, so in our Night are such voices within us and about us, which\ncall to us in our strayings, and make us calmer, and teach us to\nmoderate our own joys, and to conceive those of others.\n\n\n                               *   *   *\n\n\nI return, peaceful and cool enough, to my narrative. All yesternight I\nleft not the worthy Parson half an hour from my sight, to guard him\nfrom poisoning the well of his life. Full of paternal joy, and with the\nskeleton of the sermon (he was committing it to memory) in his hand, he\nset before me all that he had; and pointed out to me the fruit-baskets\nof pleasures which Cantata-Sunday always plucked and filled for him. He\nrecounted to me, as I did not go away, his baptisms, his accidents of\noffice; told me of his relatives; and removed my uncertainty with\nregard to the public revenues--of his parish, to the number of his\ncommunicants and expected catechumens. At this point, however, I am\nafraid that many a reader will in vain endeavor to transport himself\ninto my situation, and still be unable to discover why I said to\nFixlein, \"Worthy gossip, better no man could wish himself.\" I lied not,\nfor so it is.... But look in the Note.[63]\n\nAt last rose the Sunday, the present; and on this holy day, simply\nbecause my little godson was for going over to Christianity, there was\na vast racket made; every time a conversion happens, especially of\nnations, there is an uproaring and a shooting; I refer to the two\nThirty Years' Wars, to the more recent one, and to the earlier, which\nCharlemagne so long carried on with the heathen Saxons; thus, in the\n_Palais Royal_, the Sun, at his transit over the meridian, fires off a\ncannon.[64] But this morning the little Unchristian, my godson, was\nprecisely the person least attended to; for, in thinking of the\nconversion, they had no time left to think of the convert. Therefore I\nstrolled about with him myself half the forenoon; and in our walk,\nhastily conferred on him a private baptism; having named him _Jean\nPaul_ before the priest did so. At midday, we sent the beef away as it\nhad come; the Sun of happiness having desiccated all our gastric\njuices. We now began to look about us for pomp; I for scientific\ndecorations of my hair, my godson for his christening-shirt, and his\nmother for her dress-cap. Yet before the child's-rattle of the\nchristening-bell had been jingled, I and the midwife, in front of the\nmother's bed, instituted Physiognomical Travels on the countenance of\nthe small Unchristian, and returned with the discovery, that some\nfeatures had been embossed by the pattern of the mother, and many firm\nportions resembled me; a double similarity, in which my readers can\ntake little interest. _Jean Paul_ looks very sensible for his years, or\nrather for his minutes, for it is the small one I am speaking of.----\n\nBut now I would ask, what German writer durst take it upon him to\nspread out and paint a large historic sheet, representing the whole of\nus as we went to church? Would he not require to draw the father, with\nswelling canonicals, moving forward slowly, devoutly, and full of\nemotion? Would he not have to sketch the godfather, minded this day to\nlend out his names, which he derived from two Apostles (John and Paul),\nas Julius Caesar lent out his names to two things still living even now\n(to a month and a throne)?--And must he not put the godson on his\nsheet, with whom even the Emperor Joseph (in his need of nurse-milk)\nmight become a foster-brother, in his old days, if he were still in\nthem?--\n\nIn my chamber, I have a hundred times determined to smile at\nsolemnities, in the midst of which I afterwards, while assisting at\nthem, involuntarily wore a petrified countenance, full of dignity and\nseriousness. For, as the Schoolmaster, just before the baptism,\nbegan to sound the organ--an honor never paid to any other child in\nHukelum,--and when I saw the wooden christening-angel, like an alighted\nGenius, with his painted timber arm spread out under the baptismal\newer, and I myself came to stand close by him, under his gilt wing, I\nprotest the blood went slow and solemn, warm and close, through my\npulsing head, and my lungs full of sighs; and to the silent darling\nlying in my arms, whose unripe eyes Nature yet held closed from the\nfull perspective of the Earth, I wished, with more sadness than I do to\nmyself, for his Future also as soft a sleep as to-day; and as good an\nangel as to-day, but a more living one, to guide him into a more living\nreligion, and, with invisible hand, conduct him unlost through the\nforest of Life, through its falling trees, and Wild Hunters,[65] and\nall its storms and perils.... Will the world not excuse me, if when, by\na side-glance, I saw on the paternal countenance prayers for the son,\nand tears of joy trickling down into the prayer; and when I noticed on\nthe countenance of the grandmother far darker and fast-hidden drops,\nwhich she could not restrain, while I, in answer to the ancient\nquestion, engaged to provide for the child if its parents died,--am I\nnot to be excused if I then cast my eyes deep down on my little godson,\nmerely to hide their running over?--For I remembered that his father\nmight perhaps this very day grow pale and cold before a suddenly\narising mask of Death; I thought how the poor little one had only\nchanged his bent posture in the womb with a freer one, to bend and\ncramp himself erelong more harshly in the strait arena of life; I\nthought of his inevitable follies, and errors, and sins; of these\nsoiled steps to the Grecian Temple of our Perfection; I thought that\none day his own fire of genius might reduce himself to ashes, as a man\nthat is electrified can kill himself with his own lightning.... All the\ntheological wishes, which, on the godson-billet printed over with them,\nI placed in his young bosom, were glowing written in mine.... But the\nwhite feathered-pink of my joy had then, as it always has, a bloody\npoint within it,--I again, as it always is, went to nest, like a\nwoodpecker, in a skull.... And as I am doing so even now, let the\ndescribing of the baptism be over for to-day, and proceed again\nto-morrow....\n\n\n\n\n                         FOURTEENTH LETTER-BOX.\n\n\nOh, so it is ever! So does Fate set fire to the theatre of our little\nplays, and our bright-painted curtain of Futurity! So does the\nSerpent of Eternity wind round us and our joys, and crush, like the\nroyal-snake, what it does not poison! Thou good Fixlein!--Ah! last\nnight, I little thought that thou, mild soul, while I was writing\nbeside thee, wert already journeying into the poisonous Earth-shadow of\nDeath.\n\nLast night, late as it was, he opened the lead box found in the old\nsteeple-ball; a catalogue of those who had subscribed to the last\nrepairing of the church was there; and he began to read it now; my\npresence and his occupations having prevented him before. O, how shall\nI tell that the record of his birth-year, which I had hidden in the new\nBall, was waiting for him in the old one; that in the register of\ncontributions he found his father's name, with the appendage, \"given\nfor his new-born son Egidius?\"--\n\nThis stroke sunk deep into his bosom, even to the rending of it\nasunder; in this warm hour, full of paternal joy, after such fair days,\nafter such fair employments, after dread of death so often survived,\nhere, in the bright, smooth sea, which is rocking and bearing him\nalong, starts snorting, from the bottomless abyss, the sea-monster\nDeath; and the monster's throat yawns wide, and the silent sea rushes\ninto it in whirlpools, and hurries him along with it.\n\nBut the patient man, quietly and slowly, and with a heart silent,\nthough deadly cold, laid the leaves together; looked softly and firmly\nover the churchyard, where, in the moonshine, the grave of his father\nwas to be distinguished; gazed timidly up to the sky, full of stars,\nwhich a white overarching laurel-tree screened from his sight;--and\nthough he longed to be in bed, to settle there and sleep it off, yet he\npaused at the window to pray for his wife and child, in case this night\nwere his last.\n\nAt this moment the steeple-clock struck twelve; but, from the breaking\nof a pin, the weights kept rolling down, and the clock-hammer struck\nwithout stopping,--and he heard with horror the chains and wheels\nrattling along; and he felt as if Death were hurling forth in a heap\nall the longer hours which he might yet have had to live,--and now, to\nhis eyes, the churchyard began to quiver and heave, the moonlight\nflickered on the church-windows, and in the church there were lights\nflitting to and fro, and in the charnel-house was a motion and a\ntumult.\n\nHis heart fainted within him, and he threw himself into bed, and closed\nhis eyes that he might not see;--but Imagination in the gloom now blew\naloft the dust of the dead, and whirled it into giant shapes, and\nchased these hollow, fever-born masks alternately into lightning and\nshadow. Then at last from transparent thoughts grew colored visions,\nand he dreamed this dream. He was standing at the window looking out\ninto the churchyard; and Death, in size as a scorpion, was creeping\nover it, and seeking for his bones. Death found some arm-bones and\nthigh-bones on the graves, and said, \"They are my bones\"; and he took a\nspine and the bone-legs, and stood with them, and the two arm-bones and\nclutched with them, and found on the grave of Fixlein's father a skull,\nand put it on. Then he lifted a scythe beside the little flower-garden,\nand cried: \"Fixlein, where art thou? My finger is an icicle and no\nfinger, and I will tap on thy heart with it.\" The Skeleton, thus piled\ntogether, now looked for him who was standing at the window, and\npowerless to stir from it; and carried in the one hand, instead of a\nsand-glass, the ever-striking steeple-clock, and held out the finger of\nice, like a dagger, far into the air....\n\nThen he saw his victim above at the window, and raised himself\nas high as the laurel-tree to stab straight into his bosom with the\nfinger,--and stalked towards him. But as he came nearer, his pale bones\ngrew redder, and vapors floated woolly round his haggard form. Flowers\nstarted up from the ground; and he stood transfigured and without the\nclamm of the grave, hovering above them, and the balm-breath from the\nflower-cups wafted him gently on;--and as he came nearer, the scythe\nand clock were gone, and in his bony breast he had a heart, and on his\nbony head red lips;--and nearer still, there gathered on him soft,\ntransparent, rosebalm-dipped flesh, like the splendor of an Angel\nflying hither from the starry blue;--and close at hand, he was an Angel\nwith shut snow-white eyelids....\n\nThe heart of my friend, quivering like a Harmonica-bell, now melted in\nbliss in his clear bosom;--and when the Angel opened its eyes, his were\npressed together by the weight of celestial rapture, and his dream fled\naway.----\n\nBut not his life; he opened his hot eyes, and--his good wife had hold\nof his feverish hand, and was standing in room of the Angel.\n\nThe fever abated towards morning; but the certainty of dying still\nthrobbed in every artery of the hapless man. He called for his fair\nlittle infant into his sick-bed, and pressed it silently, though it\nbegan to cry, too hard against his paternal, heavy-laden breast. Then\ntowards noon his soul became cool, and the sultry thunder-clouds within\nit drew back. And here he described to us the previous (as it were,\narsenical) fantasies of his usually quiet head. But it is even those\ntense nerves, which have not quivered at the touch of a poetic hand\nstriking them to melody of sorrow, that start and fly asunder more\neasily under the fierce hand of Fate, when with sweeping stroke it\nsmites into discord the firm-set strings.\n\nBut towards night his ideas again began rushing in a torch-dance, like\nfire-pillars round his soul; every artery became a burning-rod, and the\nheart drove flaming naphtha-brooks into the brain. All within his soul\ngrew bloody; the blood of his drowned brother united itself with the\nblood which had once flowed from Thiennette's arm, into a bloody\nrain;--he still thought he was in the garden in the night of\nbetrothment, he still kept calling for bandages to stanch blood, and\nwas for hiding his head in the ball of the steeple. Nothing afflicts\none more than to see a reasonable, moderate man, who has been so even\nin his passions, raving in the poetic madness of fever. And yet if\nnothing save this mouldering corruption can soothe the hot brain; and\nif, while the reek and thick vapor of a boiling nervous-spirit and the\nhissing water-spouts of the veins are encircling and eclipsing the\nstifled soul, a higher Finger presses through the cloud, and suddenly\nlifts the poor bewildered spirit from amid the smoke to a sun,--is it\nmore just to complain, than to reflect that Fate is like the oculist,\nwho, when about to open to a blind eye the world of light, first\nbandages and darkens the other eye that sees?\n\nBut the sorrow does affect me, which I read on Thiennette's pale lips,\nthough do not hear. It is not the distortion of an excruciating agony,\nnor the burning of a dried-up eye, nor the loud lamenting or violent\nmovement of a tortured frame, that I see in her; but what I am forced\nto see in her, and what too keenly cuts the sympathizing heart, is a\npale, still, unmoved, undistorted face, a pale, bloodless head, which\nSorrow is as it were holding up after the stroke, like a head just\nsevered by the axe of the headsman; for oh! on this form the wounds,\nfrom which the three-edged dagger had been drawn, are all fallen firmly\ntogether, and the blood is flowing from them in secret into the choking\nheart. O Thiennette, go away from the sick-bed, and hide that face\nwhich is saying to us: \"Now do I know that I shall not have any\nhappiness on Earth; now do I give over hoping,--would this life were\nbut soon done!\"\n\nYou will not comprehend my sympathy, if you know not what, some hours\nago, the too loud lamenting mother told me. Thiennette, who of old had\nalways trembled for his thirty-second year, had encountered this\nsuperstition with a nobler one; she had purposely stood farther back at\nthe marriage-altar, and in the bridal-night fallen sooner asleep than\nhe; thereby--as is the popular belief--so to order it that she might\nalso die sooner. Nay, she has determined, if he die, to lay with his\ncorpse a piece of her apparel, that so she may descend the sooner to\nkeep him company in his narrow house. Thou good, thou faithful wife,\nbut thou unhappy one!--\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER LAST.\n\n\nI have left Hukelum, and my gossip his bed; and the one is as sound as\nthe other. The cure was as foolish as the malady. It first occurred to\nme, that, as Boerhaave used to remedy convulsions by convulsions, one\nfancy might in my gossip's case be remedied by another; namely, by the\nfancy that he was yet no man of thirty-two, but only a man of six or\nnine. Deliriums are dreams not encircled by sleep; and all dreams\ntransport us back into youth, why not deliriums too? I accordingly\ndirected every one to leave the patient; only his mother, while the\nfiercest meteors were darting, hissing before his fevered soul, was to\nsit down by him alone, and speak to him as if he were a child of eight\nyears. The bed-mirror also I directed her to cover. She did so; she\nspoke to him as if he had the small-pox fever; and when he cried,\n\"Death is standing with two-and-thirty pointed teeth before me,\nto eat my heart,\" she said to him, \"Little dear, I will give thee thy\nroller-hat, and thy copy-book, and thy case, and thy hussar-cloak\nagain, and more too if thou wilt be good.\" A reasonable speech he would\nhave taken up and heeded much less than he did this foolish one.\n\nAt last she said,--for to women in the depth of sorrow dissimulation\nbecomes easy,--\"Well, I will try it this once, and give thee thy\nplaythings; but do the like again, thou rogue, and roll thyself about\nin the bed so, with the smallpox on thee!\" And with this, from her full\napron she shook out on the bed the whole stock of playthings and\ndressing-ware, which I had found in the press of the drowned brother.\nFirst of all his copy-book, where Egidius in his eighth year had put\ndown his name, which he necessarily recognized as his own handwriting;\nthen the black velvet _fall-hat_ or roller-cap; then the red and white\nleading-strings; his knife-case, with a little pamphlet of tin leaves;\nhis green hussar-cloak, with its stiff facings; and a whole _orbis\npictus_ or _fictus_ of Nuernberg puppets....\n\nThe sick man recognized in a moment these projecting peaks of a\nspring-world sunk in the stream of Time,--these half shadows, this dusk\nof down-gone days,--this conflagration-place and Golgotha of a heavenly\ntime, which none of us forgets, which we love forever, and look back to\neven from the grave.... And when he saw all this, he slowly turned\nround his head, as if he were awakening from a long, heavy dream; and\nhis whole heart flowed down in warm showers of tears, and he said,\nfixing his full eyes on the eyes of his mother: \"But are my father and\nbrother still living then?\"--\"They are dead lately,\" said the wounded\nmother; but her heart was overpowered, and she turned away her eyes,\nand bitter tears fell unseen from her down-bent head. And now at once\nthat evening, when he lay confined to bed by the death of his father,\nand was cured by his playthings, overflowed his soul with splendor and\nlights, and presence of the Past.\n\nAnd so Delirium dyed for itself rosy wings in the Aurora of life, and\nfanned the panting soul,--and shook down golden butterfly-dust from its\nplumage on the path, on the flowerage of the suffering man;--in the far\ndistance rose lovely tones, in the distance floated lovely clouds--O\nhis heart was like to fall in pieces, but only into fluttering\nflower-stamina, into soft sentient nerves; his eyes were like to melt\naway, but only into dew-drops for the cups of joy-blossoms, into\nblood-drops for loving hearts; his soul was floating, palpitating,\ndrinking, and swimming in the warm, relaxing rose-perfume of the\nbrightest delusion....\n\nThe rapture bridled his feverish heart; and his mad pulse grew calm.\nNext morning his mother, when she saw that all was prospering, would\nhave had the church-bells rung, to make him think that the second\nSunday was already here. But his wife (perhaps out of shame in my\npresence) was averse to the lying; and said it would be all the same if\nwe moved the month-hand of his clock (but otherwise than Hezekiah's\nDial) eight days forward; especially as he was wont rather to rise and\nlook at his clock for the day of the month, then to turn it up in the\nalmanac. I for my own part simply went up to the bedside, and asked\nhim: \"If he was cracked--what in the world he meant with his mad\ndeath-dreams, when he had lain so long, and passed clean over the\nCantata-Sunday, and yet, out of sheer terror, was withering to a lath?\"\n\nA glorious reinforcement joined me; the Flesher or Quartermaster. In\nhis anxiety, he rushed into the room, without saluting the women, and I\nforthwith addressed him aloud: \"My gossip here is giving me trouble\nenough, Mr. Regiments-Quartermaster; last night, he let them persuade\nhim he was little older than his own son; here is the child's fall-hat\nhe was for putting on.\" The Guardian deuced and devilled, and said:\n\"Ward, are you a parson or a fool?--Have not I told you twenty times,\nthere was a maggot in your head about this?\"--\n\nAt last he himself perceived that he was not rightly wise, and so grew\nbetter; besides the guardian's invectives, my oaths contributed a good\ndeal; for I swore I would hold him as no right gossip, and edit no word\nof his Biography, unless he rose directly and got better....\n\n--In short, he showed so much politeness to me that he rose and got\nbetter.--He was still sickly, it is true, on Saturday; and on Sunday\ncould not preach a sermon (something of the sort the Schoolmaster read,\ninstead); but yet he took Confessions on Saturday, and at the altar\nnext day he dispensed the Sacrament. Service ended, the feast of his\nrecovery was celebrated, my farewell-feast included; for I was to go in\nthe afternoon.\n\nThis last afternoon I will chalk out with all possible breadth, and\nthen, with the pentagraph of free garrulity, fill up the outline and\ndraw on the great scale.\n\nDuring the Thanksgiving-repast, there arrived considerable personal\ntribute from his catechumens, and fairings by way of bonfire for his\nrecovery; proving how much the people loved him, and how well he\ndeserved it; for one is oftener hated without reason by the many, than\nwithout reason loved by them. But Fixlein was friendly to every\nchild; was none of those clergy who never pardon their enemies except\nin--God's stead; and he praised at once the whole world, his wife, and\nhimself.\n\nI then attended at his afternoon's catechizing; and looked down (as he\ndid in the first Letter-Box) from the choir, under the wing of the\nwooden cherub. Behind this angel, I drew out my note-book, and\nshifted a little under the cover of the Black Board, with its white\nPsalm-ciphers,[66] and wrote down what I was there--thinking. I was\nwell aware, that when I to-day, on the twenty-fifth of May retired from\nthis _Salernic_[67] spinning-school, where one is taught to spin out\nthe thread of life, in fairer wise, and without wetting it by foreign\nmixtures,--I was well aware, I say, that I should carry off with me far\nmore elementary principles of the Science of Happiness than the whole\nChamberlain piquet ever muster all their days. I noted down my first\nimpression, in the following Rules of Life for myself and the press.\n\n\"Little joys refresh us constantly like house-bread, and never bring\ndisgust; and great ones, like sugar-bread, briefly, and then bring\nit.--Trifles we should let, not plague us only, but also gratify us; we\nshould seize not their poison-bags only, but their honey-bags also; and\nif flies often buzz about our room, we should, like Domitian, amuse\nourselves with flies, or, like a certain still living Elector,[68] feed\nthem.--For _civic_ life and its micrologies, for which the Parson has a\nnatural taste, we must acquire an artificial one; must learn to love\nwithout esteeming it; learn, far as it ranks beneath _human_ life, to\nenjoy it like another twig of this human life, as poetically as we do\nthe pictures of it in romances. The loftiest mortal loves and seeks the\n_same sort_ of things with the meanest; only from higher grounds and by\nhigher paths. Be every minute, Man, a full life to thee!--Despise\nanxiety and wishing, the Future and the Past!--If the _Second-pointer_\ncan be no road-pointer into an Eden for thy soul, the _Month-pointer_\nwill still less be so, for thou livest not from month to month, but\nfrom second to second! Enjoy thy Existence more than thy Manner of\nExistence, and let the dearest object of thy Consciousness be this\nConsciousness itself!--Make not the Present a means of thy Future;\nfor this Future is nothing but a coming Present; and the Present,\nwhich thou despisest, was once a Future which thou desiredst!--Stake\nin no lotteries,--keep at home,--give and accept no pompous\nentertainments,--travel not abroad every year!--Conceal not from\nthyself, by long plans, thy household goods, thy chamber, thy\nacquaintance!--Despise Life, that thou mayst enjoy it!--Inspect the\nneighborhood of thy life; every shelf, every nook of thy abode; and\nnestling in, quarter thyself in the farthest and most domestic winding\nof thy snail-house!--Look upon a capital but as a collection of\nvillages, a village as some blind-alley of a capital; fame as the talk\nof neighbors at the street-door; a library as a learned conversation,\njoy as a second, sorrow as a minute, life as a day; and three things as\nall in all: God, Creation, Virtue!\"----\n\nAnd if I would follow myself and these rules, it will behoove me not to\nmake so much of this Biography; but once for all, like a moderate man,\nto let it sound out.\n\nAfter the Catechizing, I stept down to my wide-gowned and black-gowned\ngossip. The congregation gone, we clambered up to all high places,\nperused the plates on the pews--I took a lesson on the altar on its\ninscription incrusted with the _sediment of Time_ (I speak not\nmetaphorically); I organed, my gossip managing the bellows; I mounted\nthe pulpit, and was happy enough there to alight on one other\nrose-shoot, which in the farewell minute, I could still plant in the\nrose-garden of my Fixlein. For I descried aloft, on the back of a\nwooden Apostle, the name _Lavater_, which the Zurich Physiognomist had\nbeen pleased to leave on this sacred Torso in the course of his\nwayfaring. Fixlein did not know the hand, but I did, for I had seen it\nfrequently in Flachsenfingen, not only on the tapestry of a Court Lady\nthere, but also in his _Hand-Library_;[69] and met with it besides in\nmany country churches, forming, as it were, the Directory and\nAddress-Calendar of this wandering name, for Lavater likes to inscribe\nin pulpits, as a shepherd does in trees, the name of his beloved. I\ncould now advise my gossip prudently to cut away the name, with the\nchip of wood containing it, from the back of the Apostle, and to\npreserve it carefully among his _curiosa_.\n\nOn returning to the parsonage, I made for my hat and stick; but the\ndesign, as it were the projection and contour of a supper in the\nacacia-grove, had already been sketched by Thiennette. I declared that\nI would stay till evening, in case the young mother went out with us to\nthe proposed meal.... and truly the Biographer at length got his way,\nall doctors' regulations notwithstanding.\n\nI then constrained the Parson to put on his Kraeutermuetze,[70] or\nHerb-cap, which he had stitched together out of simples for the\nstrengthening of his memory: \"Would to Heaven,\" said I, \"that Princes\ninstead of their Princely Hats, Doctors and Cardinals instead\nof theirs, and Saints instead of martyr-crowns, would clap such\nmemory-bonnets on their heads!\"--Thereupon, till the roasting and\ncooking within doors were over, we marched out alone over the parsonage\nmeadows, and talked of learned matters, we packed ourselves into the\nruined Robber-Castle, on which my gossip, as already mentioned,\nhas a literary work in hand. I deeply approved, the rather as this\nKidnapper-tower had once belonged to an Aufhammer, his intention of\ndedicating the description to the Rittmeister; that nobleman, I think,\nwill sooner give his name to the Book than to the Shock. For the rest,\nI exhorted my fellow-craftsman to pluck up literary heart, and said to\nhim: \"A fearless pen, good gossip! Let Subrector Hans von Fuechslein be,\nif he like, the Dragon of the Apocalypse, lying in wait for the\ndelivery of the fugitive Woman, to swallow the offspring; I am there\ntoo, and have my friend the Editor of the _Litteraturzeitung_ at my\nside, who will gladly permit me to give an _anticritique_ on paying the\ninsertion-dues!\"--I especially excited him to new fillings and\nreturn-freights of his Letter-Boxes. I have not taken oath that into\nthis biographical chest-of-drawers I will not in the course of time\nintroduce another Box. \"Neither to my godson, worthy gossip, will it do\nany harm that he is presented, poor child, even now to the reading\npublic, when he does not count more months than, as Horace will have\nit, a literary child should count years, namely, _nine_.\"\n\nIn walking homewards, I praised his wife. \"If marriage,\" said I to him,\n\"is the madder which in maids, as in cotton, makes the colors visible,\nthen I contend, that Thiennette, when a maid, could scarcely be so good\nas she is now when a wife. By Heaven! in such a marriage, I should\nwrite Books of quite another sort, divine ones; in a marriage, I mean,\nwhere beside the writing-table (as beside the great voting-table at the\nRegensburg Diets, there are little tables of confectionery); where in\nlike manner, I say, a little jar of marmalade were standing by me,\nnamely, a sweetened, dainty, lovely face, and out of measure fond of\nthe Letter-Box-writer, gossip! Your marriage will resemble the\nacacia-grove we are now going to, the leaves of which grow thicker with\nthe heat of summer, while other shrubs are yielding only shrunk and\nporous shade.\"\n\nAs we entered through the upper garden-door into this same bower, the\nsupper and the good mistress were already there. Nothing is more pure\nand tender than the respect with which a wife treats the benefactor or\ncomrade of her husband; and happily the Biographer himself was this\ncomrade, and the object of this respect. Our talk was cheerful, but my\nspirit was oppressed. The fetters, which bind the mere reader to my\nheroes, were in my case of triple force; as I was at once their guest\nand their portrait-painter. I told the Parson that he would live to a\ngreater age than I, for that his temperate temperament was balanced, as\nif by a doctor, so equally between the nervousness of refinement and\nthe hot thick-bloodedness of the rustic. Fixlein said that if he lived\nbut as long as he had done, namely, two-and-thirty years, it would\namount, exclusive of the leap-year-days, to 280,320 seconds, which in\nitself was something considerable; and that he often reckoned up with\nsatisfaction the many thousand persons of his own age that would have a\nlife equally long.\n\nAt last I tried to get in motion; for the red lights of the falling sun\nwere mounting up over the grove, and dipping us still deeper in the\nshadows of night; the young mother had grown chill in the evening dew.\nIn confused mood, I invited the Parson to visit me soon in the city,\nwhere I would show him not only all the chambers of the Palace, but the\nPrince himself. Gladder there was nothing this day on our old world\nthan the face to which I said so; and than the other one which was\nthe mild reflection of the former.--For the Biographer it would\nhave been too hard, if now in that minute, when his fancy, like\nmirror-telescopes, was representing every object in a _tremulous_ form,\nhe had been obliged to cut and run; if, I will say, it had not occurred\nto him that to the young mother it could do little harm (but much good)\nwere she to take a short walk, and assist in escorting the Author and\narchitect of the present Letter-Box out of the garden to his road.\n\nIn short, I took this couple one in each hand, instead of under each\narm, and moved with them through the garden to the Flachsenfingen\nhighway. I often abruptly turned round my head between them, as if I\nhad heard some one coming after us; but in reality I only meant once\nmore, though mournfully, to look back into the happy hamlet, whose\nhouses were all dwellings of contented still Sabbath-joy, and which is\nhappy enough, though over its wide-parted pavement-stones there passes\nevery week but one barber, every holiday but one dresser of hair, and\nevery year but one hawker of parasols. Then truly I had again to turn\nround my head, and look at the happy pair beside me. My otherwise\naffectionate gossip could not rightly suit himself to these tokens of\nsorrow; but in thy heart, thou good, so oft afflicted sex, every\nmourning-bell soon finds its unison; and Thiennette, ennobled with the\nthin trembling _resonance_ of a reverberating soul, gave me back all my\ntones with the beauties of an echo.---- At last we reached the\nboundary, over which Thiennette could not be allowed to walk; and now\nmust I part from my gossip, with whom I had talked so gayly every\nmorning (each of us from his bed), and from the still circuit of modest\nhope where he dwelt, and return once more to the rioting, fermenting\nCourt-sphere, where men in bull-beggar tone demand from Fate a root of\nLife-Licorice, thick as the arm, like the botanical one on the Wolga,\nnot so much that they may chew the sweet bean themselves, as fell\nothers to earth with it.\n\nAs I thought to myself that I would say, Farewell! to them, all the\ncoming plagues, all the corpses, and all the marred wishes of this\ngood pair, arose before my heart; and I remembered that little, save\nthe falling asleep of joy-flowers, would mark the current of their\nLife-day, as it does of mine and of every one's.--And yet is it fairer,\nif they measure their years not by the _Water-clock_ of falling tears,\nbut by the _Flower-clock_[71] of asleep-going flowers, whose bells in\nour short-lived garden are sinking together before us from hour to\nhour.--\n\nI would even now--for I still recollect how I hung with streaming eyes\nover these two loved ones, as over their corpses--address myself, and\nsay: Far too soft, _Jean Paul_, whose chalk still sketches the models\nof Nature on a ground of Melancholy; harden thy heart like thy frame,\nand waste not thyself and others by such thoughts. Yet why should I do\nit, why should I not confess directly what, in the softest emotion, I\nsaid to these two beings? \"May all go right with you, ye mild beings,\"\nI said, for I no longer thought of courtesies, \"may the arm of\nProvidence bear gently your lacerated hearts, and the good Father,\nabove all these suns which are now looking down on us, keep you ever\nunited, and exalt you still undivided to his bosom and his lips!\" \"Be\nyou, too, right happy and glad!\" said Thiennette. \"And to you,\nThiennette,\" continued I, \"Ah! to your pale cheeks, to your oppressed\nheart, to your long cold maltreated youth, I can never, never wish\nenough. No! But all that can soothe a wounded soul, that can please a\npure one, that can still the hidden sigh--O, all that you deserve--may\nthis be given you; and when you see me again, then say to me, 'I am now\nmuch happier!'\"\n\nWe were all of us too deeply moved. We at last tore ourselves asunder\nfrom repeated embraces; my friend retired with the soul whom he\nloves,--I remained alone behind him with the Night.\n\nAnd I walked without aim through woods, through valleys, and over\nbrooks, and through sleeping villages, to enjoy the great Night like a\nDay. I walked, and still looked like the magnet to the region of\nmidnight, to strengthen my heart at the gleaming twilight, at\nthis upstretching Aurora of a morning beneath our feet. White\nnight-butterflies flitted, white blossoms fluttered, white stars fell,\nand the white snow-powder hung silvery in the high Shadow of the Earth,\nwhich reaches beyond the Moon, and which is our Night. Then began the\nAEolian Harp of the Creation to tremble and to sound, blown on from\nabove, and my immortal soul was a string in this Harp.--The heart\nof a brother everlasting Man swelled under the everlasting Heaven,\nas the seas swell under the Sun and under the Moon.--The distant\nvillage-clocks struck midnight, mingling, as it were, with the\never-pealing tone of ancient Eternity.--The limbs of my buried ones\ntouched cold on my soul, and drove away its blots, as dead hands heal\neruptions of the skin.--I walked silently through little hamlets, and\nclose by their outer churchyards, where crumbled upcast coffin-boards\nwere glimmering, while the once bright eyes that had lain in them were\nmouldered into gray ashes.--Cold thought! clutch not like a cold\nspectre at my heart; I look up to the starry sky, and an everlasting\nchain stretches thither, and over and below; and all is Life, and\nWarmth, and Light, and all is godlike or God....\n\nTowards morning I descried thy late lights, little city of my dwelling,\nwhich I belong to on this side the grave; I return to the Earth; and in\nthy steeples, behind the by-advanced great Midnight, it struck half\npast two; about this hour, in 1794, Mars went down in the west, and the\nMoon rose in the east; and my soul desired, in grief for the noble\nwarlike blood which is still streaming on the blossoms of Spring: \"Ah,\nretire, bloody War, like red Mars; and thou, still Peace, come forth\nlike the mild divided Moon!\"--\n\n\n\n\n\n                       ARMY-CHAPLAIN SCHMELZLE'S\n                           JOURNEY TO FLAeTZ;\n\n                                  WITH\n\n                     A RUNNING COMMENTARY OF NOTES.\n\n                     TRANSLATED BY THOMAS CARLYLE.\n\n\n\n\n                                PREFACE\n\n\nThis, I conceive, may be managed in two words. The _first_ word must\nrelate to the Circular Letter of Army-Chaplain Schmelzle, wherein he\ndescribes to his friends his Journey to the metropolitan city of Flaetz;\nafter having, in an Introduction, premised some proofs and assurances\nof his valor. Properly speaking, the _Journey_ itself has been written\npurely with a view that his courageousness, impugned by rumor, may be\nfully evinced and demonstrated by the plain facts which he therein\nrecords. Whether, in the mean time, there shall not be found certain\nquick-scented readers, who may infer, directly contrariwise, that his\nbreast is not everywhere bomb-proof, especially in the left side,--on\nthis point I keep my judgment suspended.\n\nFor the rest, I beg the judges of literature, as well as their\nsatellites, the critics of literature, to regard this _Journey_, for\nwhose literary contents I, as Editor, am answerable, solely in the\nlight of a Portrait (in the French sense), a little Sketch of\nCharacter. It is a voluntary or involuntary comedy-piece, at which I\nhave laughed so often, that I purpose in time coming to paint some\nsimilar Pictures of Character myself. And, for the present, when could\nsuch a little comic toy be more fitly imparted and set forth to the\nworld than in these very days, when the sound both of heavy money and\nof light laughter has died away from among us,--when, like the Turks,\nwe count and pay merely with sealed _purses_, and the coin within them\nhas vanished?\n\nDespicable would it seem to me, if any clownish squire of the\ngoose-quill should publicly and censoriously demand of me in what way\nthis self-cabinet-piece of Schmelzle's has come into my hands. I know\nit well, and do not disclose it. This comedy-piece, for which I, at all\nevents, as my Bookseller will testify, draw the profit myself, I got\nhold of so unblamably, that I await, with unspeakable composure, what\nthe Army-Chaplain shall please to say against the publication of it, in\ncase he say anything at all. My conscience bears me witness, that I\nacquired this article at least by more honorable methods than are those\nof the learned persons who steal with their ears, who, in the character\nof spiritual auditory-thieves, and class-room cut-purses and pirates,\nare in the habit of disloading their plundered Lectures, and vending\nthem up and down the country as productions of their own. Hitherto, in\nmy whole life, I have stolen little, except now and then in youth\nsome--glances.\n\nThe _second_ word must explain or apologize for the singular form of\nthis little Work, standing as it does on a substratum of Notes. I\nmyself am not contented with it. Let the world open, and look, and\ndetermine, in like manner. But the truth is, this line of demarcation,\nstretching through the whole book, originated in the following\naccident: certain thoughts (or digressions) of my own, with which it\nwas not permitted me to disturb those of the Army-Chaplain, and which\ncould only be allowed to fight behind the lines, in the shape of Notes,\nI, with a view to conveniency and order, had written down in a separate\npaper; at the same time, as will be observed, regularly providing every\nNote with its Number, and thus referring it to the proper page of the\nmain Manuscript. But, in the copying of the latter, I had forgotten to\ninsert the corresponding numbers in the Text itself. Therefore, let no\nman, any more than I do, cast a stone at my worthy Printer, inasmuch as\nhe (perhaps in the thought that it was my way, that I had some purpose\nin it) took these Notes, just as they stood, pellmell, without\narrangement of Numbers, and clapped them under the Text; at the same\ntime, by a praiseworthy, artful computation, taking care, at least,\nthat at the bottom of every page in the Text there should some portion\nof this glittering Note-precipitate make its appearance. Well, the\nthing at any rate is done, nay, perpetuated, namely, printed. After\nall, I might almost partly rejoice at it. For, in good truth, had I\nmeditated for years (as I have done for the last twenty) how to provide\nfor my digression-comets new orbits, if not focal suns, for my episodes\nnew epopees,--I could scarce possibly have hit upon a better or more\nspacious Limbo for such Vanities than Chance and Printer here\naccidentally offer me ready-made. I have only to regret that the thing\nhas been printed before I could turn it to account. Heavens! what\nremotest allusions (had I known it before printing) might not have been\nprivily introduced in every Text-page and Note-number; and what\napparent incongruity in the real congruity between this upper and under\nside of the cards! How vehemently and devilishly might one not have cut\naloft, and to the right and left, from these impregnable casemates and\ncovered-ways; and what _laesio ultra dimidium_ (injury beyond the half\nof the Text) might not, with these satirical injuries, have been\neffected and completed!\n\nBut Fate meant not so kindly with me; of this golden harvest-field of\nsatire I was not to be informed till three days before the Preface.\n\nPerhaps, however, the writing world, by the little blue flame of this\naccident, may be guided to a weightier acquisition, to a larger\nsubterranean treasure, than I, alas! have dug up. For, to the writer,\nthere is now a way pointed out of producing in one marbled volume a\ngroup of altogether different works; of writing in one leaf, for both\nsexes at the same time, without confounding them, nay, for the five\nfaculties all at once, without disturbing their limitations; since\nnow, instead of boiling up a vile, fermenting shove-together,\nfit for nobody, he has nothing to do but draw his note-lines or\npartition-lines; and so on his five-story leaf give board and lodging\nto the most discordant heads. Perhaps one might then read many a book\nfor the fourth time, simply because every time one had read but a\nfourth part of it.\n\nOn the whole, this Work has at least the property of being a short one;\nso that the reader, I hope, may almost run through it, and read it at\nthe bookseller's counter, without, as in the case of thicker volumes,\nfirst needing to buy it. And why, indeed, in this world of Matter\nshould anything whatever be great, except only what belongs not to it,\nthe world of Spirit?\n\n                                      Jean Paul Fr. Richter.\n\n_Bayreuth, in the Bay and Peace Month_, 1707.\n\n\n\n\n                              SCHMELZLE'S\n                           JOURNEY TO FLAeTZ.\n\n   _Circular Letter of the proposed Catechetical Professor_ Attila\n      Schmelzle _to his Friends; containing some Account of a Holidays'\n      Journey to Flaetz, with an Introduction, touching his Flight, and\n      his Courage as former Army-Chaplain_.\n\n\nNothing can be more ludicrous, my esteemed Friends, than to hear people\nstigmatizing a man as cowardly and hare-hearted, who perhaps is\nstruggling all the while with precisely the opposite faults, those of a\nlion; though indeed the African lion himself, since the time of\nSparrmann's Travels, passes among us for poltroon. Yet this case is\nmine, worthy Friends; and I purpose to say a few words thereupon,\nbefore describing my journey.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n108. Good princes easily obtain good subjects; not so easily good\nsubjects good princes; thus Adam, in the state of innocence, ruled over\nanimals all tame and gentle, till simply through his means they fell\nand grew savage.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nYou in truth are all aware that, directly in the teeth of this calumny,\nit is courage, it is desperadoes (provided they be not braggarts\nand tumultuous persons), whom I chiefly venerate; for example, my\nbrother-in-law, the Dragoon, who never in his life bastinadoed one man,\nbut always a whole social circle at the same time. How truculent was my\nfancy, even in childhood, when I, as the parson was toning away to the\nsilent congregation, used to take it into my head: \"How now, if thou\nshouldst start up from thy pew, and shout aloud, I am here too, Mr.\nParson!\" and to paint out this thought in such glowing colors, that,\nfor very dread, I have often been obliged to leave the church! Anything\nlike Rugenda's battle-pieces; horrid murder-tumults, sea-fights or\nStormings of Toulon, exploding fleets; and, in my childhood, Battles of\nPrague on the harpsichord; nay, in short, every map of any remarkable\nscene of war; these are perhaps too much my favorite objects; and I\nread--and purchase nothing sooner; and doubtless they might lead me\ninto many errors, were it not that my circumstances restrain me. Now,\nif it be objected that true courage is something higher than mere\nthinking and willing, then you, my worthy friends, will be the first to\nrecognize mine, when it shall break forth into not barren and empty,\nbut active and effective words, while I strengthen my future\nCatechetical Pupils, as well as can be done in a course of College\nLectures, and steel them into Christian heroes.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n5. For a good Physician saves, if not always from the disease, at least\nfrom a bad Physician.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nIt is well known that, out of care for the preservation of my life, I\nnever walk within at least ten fields of any shore full of bathers or\nswimmers; merely because I foresee to a certainty, that, in case one of\nthem were drowning, I should that moment (for the heart overbalances\nthe head) plunge after the fool to save him, into some bottomless depth\nor other, where we should both perish. And if dreaming is the reflex of\nwaking, let me ask you, true Hearts, if you have forgotten my relating\nto you dreams of mine, which no Caesar, no Alexander or Luther, need\nhave felt ashamed of? Have I not, to mention a few instances, taken\nRome by storm; and done battle with the Pope and the whole elephantine\nbody of the Cardinal College, at one and the same time? Did I\nnot once on horseback, while simply looking at a review of military,\ndash headlong into a _bataillon quarre_; and then capture, in\nAix-la-Chapelle, the Peruke of Charlemagne, for which the town pays\nyearly ten reichsthalers of barber-money; and carrying it off to\nHalberstadt von Gleim, there in like manner seize the Great Frederick's\nHat; put both Peruke and Hat on my head, and yet return home, after I\nhad stormed their batteries and turned the cannon against the\ncannoneers themselves? Did I not once submit to be made a Jew of, and\nthen be regaled with hams; though they were ape-hams on the Orinoco\n(see Humboldt)? And a thousand such things; for I have thrown the\nConsistorial President of Flaetz out of the Palace window; those\nalarm-fulminators, sold by Heinrich Backofen in Gotha, at six groschen\nthe dozen, and each going off like a cannon, I have listened to so\ncalmly that the fulminators did not even awaken me; and more of the\nlike sort.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n100. In books lie the Phoenix-ashes of a past Millennium and Paradise;\nbut War blows, and much ashes are scattered away.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nBut enough! It is now time briefly to touch that further slander of my\nchaplainship, which unhappily has likewise gained some circulation in\nFlaetz, but which, as Caesar did Alexander, I shall now by my touch\ndissipate into dust. Be what truth in it there can, it is still little\nor nothing. Your great Minister and General in Flaetz (perhaps the very\ngreatest in the world, for there are not many Schabackers) may indeed,\nlike any other great man, be turned against me; but not with the\nArtillery of Truth; for this Artillery I here set before you, my good\nHearts, and do you but fire it off for my advantage! The matter is\nthis. Certain foolish rumors are afloat in the Flaetz country, that I,\non occasion of some important battles, took leg-bail (such is their\nplebeian phrase), and that afterwards, on the Chaplain's being called\nfor to preach a Thanksgiving sermon for the victory, no chaplain\nwhatever was to be found. The ridiculousness of this story will best\nappear, when I tell you that I never was in any action; but have always\nbeen accustomed, several hours prior to such an event, to withdraw so\nmany miles to the rear, that our men, so soon as they were beaten,\nwould be sure to find me. A good retreat is reckoned the masterpiece in\nthe art of war; and at no time can a retreat be executed with such\norder, force, and security as just before the battle, when you are not\nyet beaten.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n102. Dear Political or Religious Inquisitor! Art thou aware that Turin\ntapers never rightly begin shining till thou breakest them, and then\nthey take fire?\n\n------------------------\n\n\nIt is true, I might perhaps, as expectant Professor of Catechetics, sit\nstill and smile at such nugatory speculations on my courage; for if by\nSocratic questioning I can hammer my future Catechist Pupils into the\nhabit of asking questions in their turn, I shall thereby have tempered\n_them_ into heroes, seeing they have nothing to fight with but\nchildren--(Catechists at all events, though dreading fire, have no\nreason to dread light, since in our days, as in London illuminations,\nit is only the _unlighted_ windows that are battered in; whereas, in\nother ages, it was with nations and light as it is with dogs and water;\nif you give them none for a long time, they at last get a horror at\nit);--and on the whole, for Catechists, any park looks kindlier, and\nsmiles more sweetly, than a sulphurous park of artillery; and the\nWarlike Foot, which the age is placed on, is to them the true Devil's\ncloven-foot of human nature.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n86. Very true! In youth we love and enjoy the most ill-assorted\nfriends, perhaps more than, in old age, the best assorted.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nBut for my part I think not so; almost as if the party spirit of my\nChristian name, Attila, had passed into me more strongly than was\nproper, I feel myself impelled still further to prove my\ncourageousness; which, dearest Friends! I shall here in a few lines\nagain do. This proof I could manage by mere inferences and learned\ncitations. For example, if Galen remarks that animals with large\nhind-quarters are timid, I have nothing to do but turn round, and show\nthe enemy my back and what is under it, in order to convince him that I\nam not deficient in valor, but in flesh. Again, if by well-known\nexperiences it has been found that flesh-eating produces courage, I can\nevince that in this particular I yield to no officer of the service;\nthough it is the habit of these gentlemen not only to run up long\nscores of roast-meat with their landlords, but also to leave them\nunpaid, that so at every hour they may have an open document in the\nhands of the enemy himself (the landlord), testifying that they have\neaten their own share (with some of other people's too), and so put\ncommon butcher-meat on a War-footing, living not like others _by_\nbravery, but _for_ bravery. As little have I ever, in my character of\nchaplain, shrunk from comparison with any officer in the regiment, who\nmay be a true lion, and so snatch every sort of plunder, but yet, like\nthis King of the Beasts, is afraid of _fire_; or who,--like King James\nof England,[72] that scampered off at sight of drawn swords, yet so\nmuch the more gallantly, before all Europe, went out against the\nstorming Luther with book and pen,--does, from a similar idiosyncrasy,\nattack all warlike armaments, both by word and writing. And here I\nrecollect, with satisfaction, a brave sub-lieutenant, whose confessor I\nwas (he still owes me the confession-money), and who, in respect of\nstout-heartedness, had in him perhaps something of that Indian dog\nwhich Alexander had presented to him as a sort of Dog-Alexander. By way\nof trying this crack dog, the Macedonian made various heroic or\nheraldic beasts be let loose against him; first a stag; but the dog lay\nstill; then a sow; he lay still; then a bear; he lay still. Alexander\nwas on the point of condemning him; when a lion was let forth; the dog\nrose, and tore the lion in pieces. So likewise the sub-lieutenant. A\nchallenger, a foreign enemy, a Frenchman, are to him only stag, and\nsow, and bear, and he lies still in his place; but let his oldest\nenemy, his creditor, come and knock at his gate, and demand of him\nactual smart-money for long bygone pleasures, thus presuming to rob him\nboth of past and present; the sub-lieutenant rises, and throws his\ncreditor down-stairs. I, alas! am still standing by the sow; and thus,\nnaturally enough, misunderstood.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n128. In Love there are Summer Holidays; but in Marriage also there are\nWinter Holidays, I hope.\n\n------------------------\n\n\n_Quo_, says Livy, xii. 5, and with great justice, _quo timoris minus\nest, eo minus ferme periculi est_, The less fear you have, the less\ndanger you are likely to be in. With equal justice I invert the maxim,\nand say, The less the danger, the smaller the fear; nay, there may be\nsituations in which one has absolutely no knowledge of fear; and among\nthese mine is to be reckoned. The more hateful, therefore, must that\ncalumny about hare-heartedness appear to me.\n\nTo my Holidays' Journey I shall prefix a few facts, which prove how\neasily foresight--that is to say, when a person would not resemble the\nstupid marmot, that will even attack a man out on horseback--may pass\nfor cowardice. For the rest, I wish only that I could with equal ease\nwipe away a quite different reproach, that of being a foolhardy\ndesperado; though I trust, in the sequel, I shall be able to advance\nsome facts which invalidate it.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n143. Women have weekly at least one active and passive day of glory,\nthe holy day, the Sunday. The higher ranks alone have more Sundays than\nwork-days; as, in great towns, you can celebrate your Sunday on Friday\nwith the Turks, on Saturday with the Jews, and on Sunday with yourself.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nWhat boots the heroic arm, without a hero's eye? The former readily\ngrows stronger and more nervous; but the latter is not so soon ground\nsharper, like glasses. Nevertheless, the merits of foresight obtain\nfrom the mass of men less admiration (nay, I should say, more ridicule)\nthan those of courage. Whoso, for instance, shall see me walking under\nquite cloudless skies with a wax-cloth umbrella over me, to him I shall\nprobably appear ridiculous, so long as he is not aware that I carry\nthis umbrella as a thunder-screen, to keep off any bolt out of the blue\nheaven (whereof there are several examples in the history of the Middle\nAges) from striking me to death. My thunder-screen, in fact, is exactly\nthat of Reimarus. On a long walking-stick I carry the wax-cloth roof;\nfrom the peak of which depends a string of gold-lace as a conductor;\nand this, by means of a key fastened to it, which it trails along the\nground, will lead off every possible bolt, and easily distribute it\nover the whole superficies of the Earth. With this _Paratonnerre\nPortatif_ in my hand, I can walk about for weeks under the clear sky,\nwithout the smallest danger. This Diving-bell, moreover, protects me\nagainst something else; against shot. For who, in the latter end of\nHarvest, will give me black on white that no lurking ninny of a\nsportsman somewhere, when I am out enjoying Nature, shall so fire off\nhis piece, at an angle of 45 deg., that, in falling down again, the shot\nneeds only light directly on my crown, and so come to the same as if I\nhad been shot through the brain from a side?\n\nIt is bad enough, at any rate, that we have nothing to guard us from\nthe Moon; which at present is bombarding us with stones like a very\nTurk; for this paltry little Earth's train-bearer and errand-maid\nthinks, in these rebellious times, that she too must begin, forsooth,\nto sling somewhat against her Mother! In good truth, as matters stand,\nany young Catechist of feeling may go out o' nights, with whole limbs,\ninto the moonshine, a meditating; and erelong (in the midst of his\nmeditation the villanous Satellite hits him) come home a pounded jelly.\nBy Heaven! new proofs of courage are required of us on every hand! No\nsooner have we, with great effort, got thunder-rods manufactured, and\ncomet-tails explained away, than the enemy opens new batteries in the\nMoon, or somewhere else in the Blue!\n\n\n------------------------\n\n21. Schiller and Klopstock are Poetic Mirrors held up to the Sun-god;\nthe Mirrors reflect the Sun with such dazzling brightness, that you\ncannot find the Picture of the World imaged forth in them.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nSuffice one other story to manifest how ludicrous the most serious\nforesight, with all imaginable inward courage, often externally appears\nin the eyes of the many. Equestrians are well acquainted with the\ndangers of a horse that runs away. My evil star would have it that\nI should once in Vienna get upon a hack-horse; a pretty enough\nhoney-colored nag, but old and hard-mouthed as Satan; so that the\nbeast, in the next street, went off with me; and this in truth--only at\na _walk_. No pulling, no tugging, took effect; I at last, on the back\nof this Self-riding-horse, made signals of distress, and cried: \"Stop\nhim, good people! for God's sake stop him! my horse is off!\" But these\nsimple persons seeing the beast move along as slowly as a Reichshofrath\nlawsuit, or the Daily Postwagen, could not in the least understand the\nmatter, till I cried as if possessed: \"Stop him then, ye blockheads and\njoltheads! don't you see that I cannot hold the nag?\" But now, to these\nnoodles the sight of a hard-mouthed horse going off with its rider step\nby step seemed ridiculous rather than otherwise; half Vienna gathered\nitself like a comet-tail behind my beast and me. Prince Kaunitz, the\nbest horseman of the century (the last), pulled up to follow me. I\nmyself sat and swam like a perpendicular piece of drift-ice on my\nhoney-colored nag, which stalked on, on, step by step; a many-cornered,\nred-coated letter-carrier was delivering his letters, to the right and\nleft, in the various stories, and he still crossed over before me\nagain, with satirical features, because the nag went along too slowly.\nThe Schwanzschleuderer, or Train-dasher (the person, as you know, who\ndrives along the streets with a huge barrel of water, and besplashes\nthem with a leathern pipe of three ells long from an iron trough), came\nacross the haunches of my horse, and, in the course of his duty, wetted\nboth these and myself in a very cooling manner, though, for my part, I\nhad too much cold sweat on me already to need any fresh refrigeration.\nOn my infernal Trojan Horse (only I myself was Troy, not beridden, but\nriding to destruction), I arrived at Malzlein (a suburb of Vienna), or\nperhaps, so confused were my senses, it might be quite another range of\nstreets. At last, late in the dusk, I had to turn into the Prater; and\nhere, long after the Evening Gun, to my horror, and quite against the\npolice-rules, keep riding to and fro on my honey-colored nag; and\npossibly I might even have passed the night on him, had not my\nbrother-in-law, the Dragoon, observed my plight, and so found me still\nsitting firm as a rock on my runaway steed. He made no ceremonies;\ncaught the brute; and put the pleasant question, why I had not vaulted,\nand come off by ground-and-lofty tumbling; though he knew full well\nthat for this a wooden horse, which stands still, is requisite.\nHowever, he took me down; and so, after all this riding, horse and man\ngot home with whole skins and unbroken bones.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n84. Women are like precious carved works of ivory: nothing is whiter\nand smoother, and nothing sooner grows yellow.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nBut now at last to my Journey!\n\n\n\n\n                           JOURNEY TO FLAeTZ.\n\n\n\n------------------------\n\n72. The Half-learned is adored by the Quarter-learned; the latter by\nthe Sixteenth-part-learned; and so on: but not the Whole-learned by the\nHalf-learned.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nYou are aware, my friends, that this Journey to Flaetz was necessarily\nto take place in Vacation time; not only because the Cattle-market, and\nconsequently the Minister and General von Schabacker, was there then;\nbut more especially because the latter (as I had it positively from a\nprivate hand) did annually, on the 23d of July, the market-eve, about\nfive o'clock, become so full of gaudium and graciousness, that in many\ncases he did not so much snarl on people as listen to them, and grant\ntheir prayers. The cause of this gaudium I had rather not trust to\npaper. In short, my Petition, praying that he would be pleased to\nindemnify and reward me, as an unjustly deposed army-chaplain, by a\nCatechetical Professorship, could plainly be presented to him at no\nbetter season than exactly about five o'clock in the evening of the\nfirst dog-day. In less than a week I had finished writing my Petition.\nAs I spared neither summaries nor copies of it, I had soon got so far\nas to see the relatively best lying completed before me; when, to my\nterror, I observed that in this paper I had introduced above thirty\n_dashes_, or breaks, in the middle of my sentences! Now-a-days, alas!\nthese stings shoot forth involuntarily from learned pens, as tails of\nwasps. I debated long within myself whether a private scholar could\njustly be entitled to approach a minister with dashes,--greatly as this\nlevel interlineation of thoughts, these horizontal note-marks of\npoetical _music_-pieces, and these rope-ladders or Achilles'-tendons of\nphilosophical _see_-pieces, are at present fashionable and\nindispensable; but, at last, I was obliged (as erasures may offend\npeople of quality) to write my best proof-petition over again; and then\nto afflict myself for another quarter of an hour over the name Attila\nSchmelzle, seeing it is always my principle that this and the address\nof the letter, the two cardinal points of the whole, can never be\nwritten legibly enough.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n85. _Bien ecouter c'est presque repondre_, says Marivaux justly of\nsocial circles; but I extend it to round Councillor-tables and\nCabinet-tables, where reports are made, and the Prince listens.\n\n------------------------\n\n\n\n\n          _First Stage; from Neusattel to Vierstaedten_.\n\n\nThe 22d of July, or Wednesday, about five in the afternoon, was now, by\nthe way-bill of the regular Post-coach, irrevocably fixed for my\ndeparture. I had still half a day to order my house; from which, for\ntwo nights and two days and a half, my breast, its breastwork and\npalisado, was now, along with my Self, to be withdrawn. Besides this,\nmy good wife Bergelchen, as I call my Teutoberga, was immediately to\ntravel after me, on Friday the 24th, in order to see and to make\npurchases at the yearly Fair; nay, she was ready to have gone along\nwith me, the faithful spouse. I therefore assembled my little knot of\ndomestics, and promulgated to them the Household Law and Valedictory\nRescript, which, after my departure, in the first place _before_ the\noutset of my wife, and in the second place _after_ this outset, they\nhad rigorously to obey; explaining to them especially whatever, in case\nof conflagrations, housebreakings, thunder-storms, or transits of\ntroops, it would behoove them to do. To my wife I delivered an\ninventory of the best goods in our little Registership; which goods\nshe, in case the house took fire, had, in the first place, to secure. I\nordered her in stormy nights (the peculiar thief-weather) to put our\nAEolian harp in the window, that so any villanous prowler might imagine\nI was fantasying on my instrument, and therefore awake; for like\nreasons, also, to take the house-dog within doors by day, that he might\nsleep then, and so be livelier at night. I further counselled\nher to have an eye on the focus of every knot in the panes of the\nstable-window, nay, on every glass of water she might set down in the\nhouse; as I had already often recounted to her examples of such\naccidental burning-glasses having set whole buildings in flames. I then\nappointed her the hour when she was to set out on Friday morning to\nfollow me; and recapitulated more emphatically the household precepts\nwhich, prior to her departure, she must afresh inculcate on her\ndomestics. My dear, heart-sound, blooming Berga answered her faithful\nlord, as it seemed very seriously: \"Go thy ways, little old one; it\nshall all be done as smooth as velvet. Wert thou but away! There is no\nend of thee!\" Her brother, my brother-in-law, the Dragoon, for whom,\nout of complaisance, I had paid the coach-fare, in order to have in the\nvehicle along with me a stout swordsman and hector, as spiritual\nrelative and bully-rock, so to speak; the Dragoon, I say, on hearing\nthese my regulations, puckered up (which I easily forgave the wild\nsoldier and bachelor) his sun-burnt face considerably into ridicule,\nand said: \"Were I in thy place, sister, I should do what I liked, and\nthen afterwards take a peep into these regulation-papers of his.\"\n\n\n------------------------\n\n17. The Bed of Honor, since so frequently whole regiments lie on it,\nand receive their last unction, and last honor but one, really ought\nfrom time to time be new-filled, beaten, and sunned.\n\n------------------------\n\n\n\"Oh!\" answered I, \"misfortune may conceal itself like a scorpion in any\ncorner; I might say, we are like children, who, looking at their gayly\npainted toy-box, soon pull off the lid, and, pop! out springs a mouse\nwho has young ones.\"\n\n\"Mouse, mouse!\" said he, stepping up and down. \"But, good brother, it\nis five o'clock; and you will find, when you return, that all looks\nexactly as it does to-day; the dog like the dog, and my sister like a\npretty woman; _allons donc_!\" It was purely his blame that I, fearing\nhis misconceptions, had not previously made a sort of testament.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n120. Many a one becomes a free-spoken Diogenes, not when he dwells in\nthe Cask, but when the Cask dwells in him.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nI now packed in two different sorts of medicines, heating as well as\ncooling, against two different possibilities; also my old splints for\narm or leg breakages, in case the coach overset; and (out of foresight)\ntwo times the money I was likely to need. Only here I could have\nwished, so uncertain is the stowage of such things, that I had been an\nApe with cheek-pouches, or some sort of Opossum with a natural bag,\nthat so I might have reposited these necessaries of existence in\npockets which were sensitive. Shaving is a task I always go through\nbefore setting out on journeys; having a rational mistrust against\nstranger bloodthirsty barbers; but, on this occasion, I retained my\nbeard; since, however close shaved, it would have grown again by the\nroad to such a length that I could have fronted no Minister and General\nwith it.\n\nWith a vehement emotion, I threw myself on the pith-heart of my Berga,\nand with a still more vehement one, tore myself away; in her, however,\nthis our first marriage-separation seemed to produce less lamentation\nthan triumph, less consternation than rejoicing; simply because she\nturned her eye not half so much on the parting, as on the meeting, and\nthe journey after me, and the wonders of the Fair. Yet she threw and\nhung herself on my somewhat long and thin neck and body, almost\npainfully, being, indeed, a too fleshy and weighty load, and said to\nme: \"Whisk thee off quick, my charming Attel (Attila), and trouble thy\nhead with no cares by the way, thou singular man! A whiff or two of ill\nluck we can stand, by God's help, so long as my father is no beggar.\nAnd for thee, Franz,\" continued she, turning with some heat to her\nbrother, \"I leave my Attel on thy soul; thou well knowest, thou wild\nfly, what I wilt do, if thou play the fool, and leave him anywhere in\nthe lurch.\" Her meaning here was good, and I could not take it ill; to\nyou, also, my Friends, her wealth and her open-heartedness are nothing\nnew.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n8. Culture makes whole lands, for instance Germany, Gaul, and others,\nphysically warmer, but spiritually colder.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nMelted into sensibility, I said: \"Now, Berga, if there be a reunion\nappointed for us, surely it is either in Heaven or in Flaetz; and I hope\nin God, the latter.\" With these words, we whirled stoutly away. I\nlooked round through the back-window of the coach at my good little\nvillage of Neusattel, and it seemed to me, in my melting mood, as if\nits steeples were rising aloft like an epitaphium over my life,\nor over my body, perhaps to return a lifeless corpse. \"How will it all\nbe,\" thought I, \"when thou at last, after two or three days, comest\nback?\" And now I noticed my Bergelchen looking after us from the\ngarret-window; I leaned far out from the coach-door, and her falcon eye\ninstantly distinguished my head; kiss on kiss she threw with both\nhands after the carriage, as it rolled down into the valley. \"Thou\ntrue-hearted wife,\" thought I, \"how is thy lowly birth, by thy\nspiritual new-birth, made forgetable, nay, remarkable!\"\n\n\n------------------------\n\n1. The more Weakness the more Lying. Force goes straight; any\ncannon-ball with holes or cavities in it goes crooked.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nI must confess, the assemblage and conversational picnic of the\nstage-coach was much less to my taste; the whole of them suspicious,\nunknown rabble, whom (as markets usually do) the Flaetz cattle-market\nwas alluring by its scent. I dislike becoming acquainted with\nstrangers; not so my brother-in-law, the Dragoon; who now, as he always\ndoes, had in a few minutes elbowed himself into close quarters with the\nwhole ragamuffin posse of them. Beside me sat a person, who, in all\nhuman probability, was a Harlot; on her breast a Dwarf intending to\nexhibit himself at the Fair; on the other side was a Rat-catcher gazing\nat me; and a Blind Passenger,[73] in a red mantle, had joined us down\nin the valley. No one of them, except my brother-in-law, pleased me.\nThat rascals among these people would not study me and my properties\nand accidents, to entangle me in their snares, no man could be my\nsurety. In strange places, I even, out of prudence, avoid looking long\nup at any jail-window; because some losel, sitting behind the bars, may\nin a moment call down out of mere malice: \"How goes it, comrade\nSchmelzle?\" or, further, because any lurking catchpole may fancy I am\nplanning a rescue for some confederate above. From another sort of\nprudence, little different from this, I also make a point of never\nturning round when any booby calls, Thief! after me.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n88. Epictetus advises us to travel, because our old acquaintances, by\nthe influence of shame, impede our transition to higher virtues; as a\nbashful man will rather lay aside his provincial accent in some foreign\nquarter, and then return wholly purified to his own countrymen. In our\ndays, people of rank and virtue follow this advice, but inversely; and\ntravel because their old acquaintances, by the influence of shame,\nwould too much deter them from new sins.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nAs to the Dwarf himself, I had no objection to his travelling with me\nwhithersoever he pleased; but he thought to raise a particular\ndelectation in our minds, by promising that his Pollux and Brother in\nTrade, an extraordinary Giant who was also making for the Fair to\nexhibit himself, would by midnight, with his elephantine pace,\ninfallibly overtake the coach, and plant himself among us, or behind on\nthe outside. Both these noodies, it appeared, are in the habit of going\nin company to fairs, as reciprocal exaggerators of opposite magnitudes;\nthe Dwarf is the convex magnifying-glass of the Giant, the Giant the\nconcave diminishing-glass of the Dwarf. Nobody expressed much joy at\nthe prospective arrival of this Anti-dwarf, except my brother-in-law,\nwho (if I may venture on a play of words) seems made, like a clock,\nsolely for the purpose of _striking_, and once actually said to me,\nthat \"if in the Upper world he could not get a soul to curry and towzle\nby a time, he would rather go to the Under, where most probably there\nwould be plenty of cuffing and to spare.\" The Rat-catcher--besides the\ncircumstance that no man can prepossess us much in his favor, who\nlives solely by poisoning, like this Destroying Angel of rats, this\nmouse-Atropos; and also, which is still worse, that such a fellow bids\nfair to become an increaser of the vermin kingdom the moment he may\ncease to be a lessener of it--besides all this, I say, the present\nRat-catcher had many baneful features about him. First, his stabbing\nlook, piercing you like a stiletto; then the lean, sharp, bony visage,\nconjoined with his enumeration of his considerable stock of poisons;\nthen (for I hated him more and more) his sly stillness, his sly smile,\nas if in some corner he noticed a mouse, as he would notice a man! To\nme, I declare, though usually I take not the slightest exception\nagainst people's looks, it seemed at last as if his throat were a\nDog-grotto, a _Grotta del cane_, his cheekbones cliffs and breakers,\nhis hot breath the wind of a calcining furnace, and his black, hairy\nbreast, a kiln for parching and roasting.\n\nNor was I far wrong, I believe; for soon after this, he began quite\ncoolly to inform the company, in which were a dwarf and a female, that,\nin his time, he had, not without enjoyment, run ten men through the\nbody; had with great convenience hewed off a dozen men's arms; slowly\nsplit four heads, torn out two hearts, and more of the like sort; while\nnone of them, otherwise persons of spirit, had in the least resisted.\n\"But why?\" added he with a poisonous smile, and taking the hat from his\nodious baldpate; \"I am invulnerable. Let any one of the company that\nchooses lay as much fire on my bare crown as he likes, I shall not mind\nit.\"\n\nMy brother-in-law, the Dragoon, directly kindled his tinder-box, and\nput a heap of the burning matter on the Rat-catcher's pole; but the\nfellow stood it, as if it had been a mere picture of fire, and the two\nlooked expectingly at one another; and the former smiled very\nfoolishly, saying: \"It was simply pleasant to him, like a good\nwarming-plaster; for this was always the wintry region of his body.\"\n\nHere the Dragoon groped a little on the naked scull, and cried with\namazement, that \"it was as cold as a knee-pan.\"\n\n\n------------------------\n\n32. Our Age (by some called the Paper Age, as if it were made from the\nrags of some better dressed one) is improving in so far as it now\ntears, its rags rather into Bandages than into Papers; although,\nor because, the Rag-hacker (the Devil as they call it) will not\naltogether be at rest. Meanwhile, if Learned Heads transform themselves\ninto Books, Crowned Heads transform and coin themselves into\nGovernment-paper. In Norway, according to the _Universal Indicator_,\nthe people have even paper-houses; and in many good German States, the\nExchequer Collegium (to say nothing of the Justice Collegium) keeps\nits own paper-mills, to furnish wrappage enough for the meal of its\nwind-mills. I could wish, however, that our Collegiums would take\npattern from that Glass Manufactory at Madrid, in which (according to\nBaumgaertner) there were indeed nineteen clerks stationed, but also\neleven workmen.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nBut now the fellow, to our horror, after some preparations, actually\nlifted off the quarter-skull and held it out to us, saying: \"He had\nsawed it off a murderer, his own having accidentally been broken\"; and\nwithal explained, that the stabbing and arm-cutting he had talked of\nwas to be understood as a jest, seeing he had merely done it in the\ncharacter of Famulus at an Anatomical Theatre. However, the jester\nseemed to rise little in favor with any of us; and for my part, as he\nput his brain-lid and sham-skull on again, I thought to myself: \"This\ndung-bed-bell has changed its place, indeed, but not the hemlock it was\nmade to cover.\"\n\nFurther, I could not but reckon it a suspicious circumstance, that he\nas well as all the company (the Blind Passenger too) were making for\nthis very Flaetz, to which I myself was bound. Much good I could not\nexpect of this; and, in truth, turning home again would have been as\npleasant to me as going on, had I not rather felt a pleasure in defying\nthe future.\n\nI come now to the red-mantled Blind Passenger; most probably an\n_Emigre_ or _Refugie_; for he speaks German not worse than he does\nFrench; and his name, I think, was _Jean Pierre_ or _Jean Paul_, or\nsome such thing, if indeed he had any name. His red cloak,\nnotwithstanding this his identity of color with the Hangman, would in\nitself have remained heartily indifferent to me; had it not been for\nthis singular circumstance, that he had already five times, contrary to\nall expectation, come upon me in five different towns (in great Berlin,\nin little Hof, in Coburg, Meiningen, and Bayreuth), and, each of these\ntimes, had looked at me significantly enough, and then gone his ways.\nWhether this _Jean Pierre_ is dogging me with hostile intent or not, I\ncannot say; but to our fancy, at any rate, no object can be gratifying\nthat thus, with corps of observation, or out of loop-holes, holds and\naims at us with muskets, which for year after year it shall move to\nthis side and that, without our knowing on whom it is to fire. Still\nmore offensive did Redcloak become to me, when he began to talk about\nhis soft mildness of soul; a thing which seemed either to betoken\npumping you or undermining you.\n\nI replied: \"Sir, I am just come, with my brother-in-law here, from the\nfield of battle (the last affair was at Pimpelstadt), and so perhaps am\ntoo much of a humor for fire, pluck, and war-fury; and to many a one,\nwho happens to have a roaring waterspout of a heart, it may be well if\nhis clerical character (which is mine) rather enjoins on him mildness\nthan wildness. However, all mildness has its iron limit. If any\nthoughtless dog chance to anger me, in the first heat of rage I kick my\nfoot through him; and after me, my good brother here will perhaps drive\nmatters twice as far, for he is the man to do it. Perhaps it may be\nsingular; but I confess, I regret to this day, that once when a boy I\nreceived three blows from another, without tightly returning them; and\nI often feel as if I must still pay them to his descendants. In sooth,\nif I but chance to see a child running off like a dastard from the weak\nattack of a child like himself, I cannot for my life understand his\nrunning, and can scarcely keep from interfering to save him by a\ndecisive knock.\"\n\nThe Passenger meanwhile was smiling, not in the best fashion. He gave\nhimself out for a Legations-Rath, and seemed fox enough for such a\npost; but a mad fox will, in the long run, bite me as rabidly as a mad\nwolf will. For the rest, I calmly went on with my eulogy on courage;\nonly that, instead of ludicrous gasconading, which directly betrays the\ncoward, I purposely expressed myself in words at once cool, clear, and\nfirm.\n\n\"I am altogether for Montaigne's advice,\" said I: \"'Fear nothing but\nfear.'\"\n\n\"I again,\" replied the Legations-man, with useless wire-drawing, \"I\nshould fear again that I did not sufficiently fear fear, but continued\ntoo dastardly.\"\n\n\"To this fear also,\" replied I, coldly, \"I set limits. A man, for\ninstance, may not in the least believe in or be afraid of ghosts; and\nyet by night may bathe himself in cold sweat, and this purely out of\nterror at the dreadful fright he should be in (especially with what\nwhiffs of epilepsies, falling-sicknesses, and so forth, he might be\nvisited), in case simply his own too vivid fancy should create any wild\nfever-image, and hang it up in the air before him.\"\n\n\"One should not, therefore,\" added my brother-in-law the Dragoon,\ncontrary to his custom, moralizing a little,--\"one should not bamboozle\nthe poor sheep, man, with any ghost-tricks; the henheart may die on the\nspot.\"\n\n\n------------------------\n\n2. In his Prince, a soldier reverences and obeys at once his Prince and\nhis Generalissimo; a Citizen, only his Prince.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nA loud storm of thunder overtaking the stage-coach altered the\ndiscourse. You, my Friends, knowing me as a man not quite destitute of\nsome tincture of Natural Philosophy, will easily guess my precautions\nagainst thunder. I place myself on a chair in the middle of the room\n(often, when suspicious clouds are out, I stay whole nights on it), and\nby careful removal of all conductors, rings, buckles, and so forth, I\nhere sit thunder-proof, and listen with a cool spirit to this elemental\nmusic of the cloud-kettledrum. These precautions have never harmed me,\nfor I am still alive at this date; and to the present hour I\ncongratulate myself on once hurrying out of church, though I had\nconfessed but the day previous; and running, without more ceremony,\nand before I had received the sacrament, into the charnel-house,\nbecause a heavy thunder-cloud (which did, in fact, strike the\nchurchyard linden-tree) was hovering over it. So soon as the cloud had\ndisloaded itself, I returned from the charnel-house into the church,\nand was happy enough to come in after the Hangman (usually the last),\nand so still participate in the Feast of Love.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n45. Our present writers shrug their shoulders most at those on whose\nshoulders they stand; and exalt those most who crawl up along them.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nSuch, for my own part, is my manner of proceeding; but in the full\nstage-coach I met with men to whom Natural Philosophy was no philosophy\nat all. For when the clouds gathered dreadfully together over our\ncoach-canopy, and sparkling, began to play through the air, like so\nmany fireflies, and I at last could not but request that the sweating\ncoach-conclave would at least bring out their watches, rings, money,\nand such like, and put them all into one of the carriage-pockets, that\nnone of us might have a conductor on his body; not only would no one of\nthem do it, but my own brother-in-law the Dragoon even sprang out, with\nnaked drawn sword, to the coach-box, and swore that he would conduct\nthe thunder all away himself. Nor do I know whether this desperate\nmortal was not acting prudently; for our position within was frightful,\nand any one of us might every moment be a dead man. At last, to crown\nall, I got into a half altercation with two of the rude members of our\nleathern household, the Poisoner and the Harlot; seeing, by their\nquestions, they almost gave me to understand, that, in our\nconversational picnic, especially with the Blind Passenger, I had not\nalways come off with the best share. Such an imputation wounds your\nhonor to the quick; and in my breast there was a thunder louder than\nthat above us. However, I was obliged to carry on the needful exchange\nof sharp words as quietly and slowly as possible; and I quarrelled\nsoftly, and in a low tone, lest in the end a whole coachful of people,\nset in arms against each other, might get into heat and perspiration;\nand so, by vapor steaming through the coach-roof, conduct the too near\nthunderbolt down into the midst of us. At last I laid before the\ncompany the whole theory of Electricity in clear words, but low and\nslow (striving to avoid all emission of vapor); and especially\nendeavored to frighten them away from fear. For, indeed, through fear,\nthe stroke--nay, two strokes, the electric or the apoplectic--might hit\nany one of us; since in Erxleben and Reimarus it is sufficiently proved\nthat violent fear, by the transpiration it causes, may attract the\nlightning. I accordingly, in some fear of my own and other people's\nfear, represented to the passengers that now, in a coach so hot and\ncrowded, with a drawn sword on the coach-box piercing the very\nlightning, with the thunder-cloud hanging over us, and even with so\nmany transpirations from incipient fear; in short, with such visible\ndanger on every hand, they must absolutely fear nothing, if they would\nnot, all and sundry, be smitten to death in a few minutes.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n103. The Great perhaps take as good charge of their posterity as the\nAnts; the eggs once laid, the male and female Ants fly about their\nbusiness, and confide them to the trusty _working-Ants_.\n\n------------------------\n\n\n\"O Heaven!\" cried I, \"Courage! only courage! No fear, not even fear of\nfear! Would you have Providence to shoot you here sitting, like so many\nhares hunted into a pinfold? Fear, if you like, when you are out of the\ncoach; fear to your heart's content in other places, where there is\nless to be afraid of; only not here, not here!\"\n\nI shall not determine--since among millions scarcely one man dies by\nthunder-clouds, but millions perhaps by snow-clouds, and rain-clouds,\nand thin mist--whether my Coach-sermon could have made any claim to a\nprize for man-saving; however, at last, all uninjured, and driving\ntowards a rainbow, we entered the town of Vierstaedten, where dwelt a\nPostmaster, in the only street which the place had.\n\n\n\n\n           _Second Stage; from Vierstaedten to Niederschoena_.\n\n\nThe Postmaster was a churl and a striker; a class of mortals whom I\ninexpressibly detest, as my fancy always whispers to me, in their\npresence, that by accident or dislike I might happen to put on a\nscornful or impertinent look, and hound these mastiffs on my own\nthroat; and so, from the very first, I must incessantly watch them.\nHappily, in this case (supposing I even had made a wrong face), I could\nhave shielded myself with the Dragoon; for whose giant force such\nmatters are a tidbit. This brother-in-law of mine, for example, cannot\npass any tavern where he hears a sound of battle, without entering,\nand, as he crosses the threshold, shouting, \"Peace, dogs!\"--and\ntherewith, under show of a peace deputation, he directly snatches\nup the first chair-leg in his hand, as if it were an American\npeace-calumet, and cuts to the right and left among the belligerent\npowers, or he gnashes the hard heads of the parties together (he\nhimself takes no side), catching each by the hind-lock. In such cases\nthe rogue is in Heaven!\n\n\n------------------------\n\n10. And does Life offer us, in regard to our ideal hopes and purposes,\nanything but a prosaic, unrhymed, unmetrical Translation?\n\n78. Our German frame of Government, cased in its harness, had much\ndifficulty in moving, for the same reason why Beetles cannot fly,\nwhen their _wings_ have _wing-shells_, of very sufficient strength,\nand--grown together.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nI, for my part, rather avoid discrepant circles than seek them; as I\nlikewise avoid all dead or killed people. The prudent man easily\nforesees what is to be got by them; either vexatious and injurious\nwitnessing, or often even (when circumstances conspire) painful\ninvestigation, and suspicions of your being an accomplice.\n\nIn Vierstaedten nothing of importance presented itself, except--to my\nhorror--a dog without tail, which came running along the town or\nstreet. In the first fire of passion at this sight, I pointed it out to\nthe passengers, and then put the question, whether they could reckon a\nsystem of Medical Police well arranged, which, like this of\nVierstaedten, allowed dogs openly to scour about, when their tails were\nwanting. \"What am I to do,\" said I, \"when this member is cut away, and\nany such beast comes running towards me, and I cannot, either by the\ntail being cocked up or being drawn in, since the whole is snipt off,\ncome to any conclusion whether the vermin is mad or not? In this way,\nthe most prudent man may be bit, and become rabid, and so make\nshipwreck purely for want of a tail compass.\"\n\n\n------------------------\n\n8. Constitutions of Government are like highways; on a new and quite\nuntrodden one, where every carriage helps in the process of bruising\nand smoothing, you are as much jolted and pitched, as an old worn-out\none, full of holes. What is to be done then? Travel on.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nThe Blind Passenger (he now got himself inscribed as a Seeing one, God\nknows for what objects) had heard my observation; which he now spun out\nin my presence almost into ridicule, and at last awakened in me the\nsuspicion, that, by an overdone flattery in imitating my style of\nspeech, he meant to banter me. \"The Dog-tail,\" said he, \"is, in truth,\nan alarm-beacon, and finger-post for us, that we come not even into the\noutmost precincts of madness; cut away from Comets their tails, from\nBashaws theirs, from Crabs theirs (outstretched it denotes that they\nare burst); and in the most dangerous predicaments of life, we are left\nwithout clew, without indicator, without hand _in margine_; and we\nperish not so much as knowing how.\"\n\nFor the rest, this stage passed over without quarreling or peril. About\nten o'clock, the whole party, including even the Postilion, myself\nexcepted, fell asleep. I indeed pretended to be sleeping, that I might\nobserve whether some one, for his own good reasons, might not also be\npretending it. But all continued snoring; the moon threw its\nbrightening beams on nothing but downpressed eyelids.\n\nI had now a glorious opportunity of following Lavater's counsel, to\napply the physiognomical ellwand specially to sleepers, since sleep,\nlike death, expresses the genuine form in coarser lines. Other sleepers\nnot in stage-coaches I think it less advisable to mete with this\nellwand; having always an apprehension lest some fellow, but pretending\nto be asleep, may, the instant I am near enough, start up as in a\ndream, and deceitfully plant such a knock on the physiognomical\nmensurator's own facial structure, as to exclude it forever from\nappearing in any Physiognomical Fragments (itself being reduced to\none), either in the stippled or line style. Nay, might not the most\nhonest sleeper in the world, just while you are in hand with his\nphysiognomical dissection, lay about him, spurred on by honor in some\ncudgelling-scene he may be dreaming; and in a few instants of\nclapperclawing, and kicking, and trampling, lull you into a much more\nlasting sleep than that out of which he was awakened?\n\n\n------------------------\n\n8. In Criminal Courts, murdered children are often represented as\nstill-born; in Anticritiques, still-born as murdered.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nIn my _Adumbrating Magic-lantern_, as I have named the Work, the\nwhole physiognomical contents of this same sleeping stage-coach will be\ngiven to the world. There I shall explain to you at large how the\nPoisoner, with the murder-cupola, appeared to me devil-like; the Dwarf\nold-child-like; the Harlot languidly shameless; my Brother-in-law\npeacefully satisfied, with revenge or food; and the Legations-Rath,\n_Jean Pierre_, Heaven only knows why, like a half angel,--though,\nperhaps, it might be because only the fair body, not the other half,\nthe soul, which had passed away in sleep, was affecting me.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n101. Not only were the Rhodians, from their Colossus, called\nColossians; but also innumerable Germans are, from their Luther, called\nLutherans.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nI had almost forgotten to mention, that, in a little village, while my\nBrother-in-law and the Postilion were sitting at their liquor, I\nhappily fronted a small terror, Destiny having twice been on my side.\nNot far from a Hunting Box, beside a pretty clump of trees, I noticed a\nwhite tablet, with a black inscription on it. This gave me hopes that\nperhaps some little monumental piece, some pillar of honor, some battle\nmemento, might here be awaiting me. Over an untrodden flowery tangle I\nreach the black on white; and to my horror and amazement I decipher in\nthe moonshine, _Beware of Spring-guns!_ Thus was I standing perhaps\nhalf a nail's breadth from the trigger, with which, if I but stirred my\nheel, I should shoot myself off, like a forgotten ramrod, into the\nother world, beyond the verge of Time! The first thing I did was to\nslutch down my toe-nails, to bite, and, as it were, eat myself into the\nground with them; since I might, at least, continue in warm life so\nlong as I pegged my body firmly in beside the Atropos-scissors and\nhangman's block, which lay beside me. Then I endeavored to recollect by\nwhat steps the Fiend had led me hither unshot, but in my agony I had\nperspired the whole of it, and could remember nothing. In the Devil's\nvillage, close at hand, there was no dog to be seen and called to, who\nmight have plucked me from the water; and my Brother-in-law and the\nPostilion were both carousing with full can. However, I summoned my\ncourage and determination; wrote down on a leaf of my pocket-book my\nlast will, the accidental manner of my death, and my dying remembrance\nof Berga; and then, with full sails, flew helter-skelter through the\nmidst of it the shortest way; expecting at every step to awaken the\nmurderous engine, and thus to clap over my still long candle of life\nthe bonsoir, or extinguisher, with my own hand. However, I got off\nwithout shot. In the tavern, indeed, there was more than one fool to\nlaugh at me; because, forsooth, what none but a fool could know, this\nNotice had stood there for the last ten years without any gun, as guns\noften do without any notice. But so it is, my Friends, with our\ngame-police, which warns against all things, only not against warnings.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n88. Hitherto I have always regarded the Polemical writings of our\npresent philosophic and aesthetic Idealist Logic-buffers,--in which,\ncertainly, a few contumelies, and misconceptions, and misconclusions do\nmake their appearance,--rather on the fair side; observing in it merely\nan imitation of classical Antiquity, in particular of the ancient\nAthletes, who (according to Schoettgen) besmeared their bodies with\n_mud_, that they might not be laid hold of; and filled their hands with\n_sand_, that they might lay hold of their antagonists.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nFor the rest, throughout the whole stage, I had a constant source of\naltercation with the coachman, because he grudged stopping perhaps\nonce in the quarter of an hour, when I chose to come out for a\nnatural purpose. Unhappily, in truth, one has little reason to expect\nwater-doctors among the postilion class, since Physicians themselves\nhave so seldom learned from Haller's large _Physiology_ that a\npostponement of the above operation will precipitate devilish\nstone-ware, and at last precipitate the proprietor himself; this\nstone-manufactory being generally concluded, not by the Lithotomist,\nbut by Death. Had postilions read that Tycho Brahe died like a\nbombshell by bursting, they would rather pull up for a moment; with\nsuch unlooked-for knowledge, they would see it to be reasonable that a\nman, though expecting some time to carry his death-stone _on_ him,\nshould not incline, for the time being, to carry it _in_ him. Nay, have\nI not often, at Weimar, in the longest concluding scenes of Schiller,\nrun out with tears in my eyes; purely that, while his Minerva was\nmelting me on the whole, I might not by the Gorgon's head on her breast\nbe partially turned to stone? And did I not return to the weeping\nplay-house, and fall into the general emotion so much the more briskly,\nas now I had nothing to give vent to but my heart?\n\n\n------------------------\n\n103. Or are all Mosques, Episcopal-churches, Pagodas, Chapels-of-Ease,\nTabernacles, and Pantheons, anything else than the Ethnic Forecourt of\nthe Invisible Temple and its Holy of Holies?\n\n------------------------\n\n\nDeep in the dark we arrived at Niederschoena.\n\n\n\n\n               _Third Stage; from Niederschoena to Flaetz_.\n\n\nWhile I am standing at the Posthouse musing, with my eye fixed on my\nportmanteau, comes a beast of a watchman, and bellows and brays in his\nnight-tube so close by my ear that I start back in trepidation, I whom\neven a too hasty accosting will vex. Is there no medical police, then,\nagainst such efflated hour-fulminators and alarm-cannon, by which\nnotwithstanding no gunpowder cannon are saved? In my opinion nobody\nshould be invested with the watchman-horn but some reasonable man, who\nhad already blown himself into an asthma, and who would consequently be\nin case to sing out his hour-verse so low that you could not hear it.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n40. The common man is copious only in narration, not in reasoning; the\ncultivated man is brief only in the former, not in the latter; because\nthe common man's reasons are a sort of sensations, which, as well as\nthings visible, he merely _looks at_; by the cultivated man, again,\nboth reasons and things visible are rather _thought_ than looked at.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nWhat I had long expected, and the Dwarf predicted, now took place;\ndeeply stooping, through the high Posthouse door, issued the Giant,\nand raised in the open air a most unreasonably high figure, heightened\nby the ell-long bonnet and feather on his huge jobbernowl. My\nBrother-in-law, beside him, looked but like his son of fourteen years;\nthe Dwarf like his lap-dog waiting for him on its two hind legs. \"Good\nfriend,\" said my bantering Brother-in-law, leading him towards me and\nthe stagecoach, \"just step softly in, we shall all be happy to make\nroom for you. Fold yourself neatly together, lay your head on your\nknee, and it will do.\" The unseasonable banterer would willingly have\nseen the almost stupid Giant (of whom he had soon observed that his\nbrain was no active substance, but in the inverse ratio of his trunk)\nsqueezed in among us in the post-chest, and lying kneaded together like\na sand-bag before him. \"Won't do! Won't do!\" said the Giant, looking\nin. \"The gentleman perhaps does not know,\" said the Dwarf, \"how big the\nGiant is; and so he thinks that because _I_ go in-- But that is another\nstory; _I_ will creep into any hole, do but tell me where.\"\n\nIn short, there was no resource for the Postmaster and the Giant, but\nthat the latter should plant himself behind, in the character of\nluggage, and there lie bending down like a weeping willow over the\nwhole vehicle. To me such a back-wall and rear-guard could not be\nparticularly gratifying; and I may refer it (I hope) to any one of you,\nye Friends, if with such ware at your back you would not, as clearly\nand earnestly as I, have considered what manifold murderous projects a\nknave of a Giant behind you, a _pursuer_ in all senses, might not\nmaliciously attempt; say, that he broke in and assailed you by the\nback-window, or with Titanian strength laid hold of the coach-roof and\ndemolished the whole party in a lump. However, this Elephant (who\nindeed seemed to owe the similarity more to his overpowering mass than\nto his quick light of inward faculty), crossing his arms over the top\nof the vehicle, soon began to sleep and snore above us; an Elephant, of\nwhom, as I more and more joyfully observed, my Brother-in-law, the\nDragoon, could easily be the tamer and bridle-holder, nay, had already\nbeen so.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n9. In any national calamity the ancient Egyptians took revenge on the\ngod Typhon, whom they blamed for it, by hurling his favorites, the\nAsses, down over rocks. In similar wise have countries of a different\nreligion now and then taken their revenge.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nAs more than one person now felt inclined to sleep, but I, on the\ncontrary, as was proper, to wake, I freely offered my seat of honor,\nthe front place in the coach (meaning thereby to abolish many little\nflaws of envy in my fellow-passengers), to such persons as wished to\ntake a nap thereon. The Legation's man accepted the offer with\neagerness, and soon fell asleep there sitting, under the Titan.[74] To\nme this sort of coach-sleeping of a diplomatic _charge d'affaires_\nremained a thing incomprehensible. A man, that in the middle of a\nstranger and often barbarously-minded company permits himself to\nslumber, may easily, supposing him to talk in his sleep and coach,\n(think of the Saxon minister[75] before the Seven Years' War!) blab out\na thousand secrets, and crimes, some of which, perhaps, he has not\ncommitted. Should not every minister, ambassador, or other man of honor\nand rank, really shudder at the thought of insanity or violent fevers;\nseeing no mortal can be his surety that he shall not in such cases\npublish the greatest scandals, of which, it may be, the half are lies?\n\n\n------------------------\n\n70. Let Poetry veil itself in Philosophy, but only as the latter does\nin the former. Philosophy in poetized Prose resembles those tavern\ndrinking-glasses, encircled with party-colored wreaths of figures,\nwhich disturb your enjoyment both of the drink, and (often awkwardly\neclipsing and covering each other) of the carving also.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nAt last, after the long July night, we passengers, together with\nAurora, arrived in the precincts of Flaetz. I looked with a sharp\nyet moistened eye at the steeples. I believe, every man who has\nanything decisive to seek in a town, and to whom it is either to be a\njudgment-seat of his hopes, or their anchoring-station, either a\nbattle-field or a sugar-field, first and longest directs his eye on the\nsteeples of the town, as upon the indexes and balance-tongues of his\nfuture destiny; these artificial peaks, which, like natural ones, are\nthe thrones of our Future. As I happened to express myself on this\npoint perhaps too poetically to _Jean Pierre_, he answered with\nsufficient want of taste: \"The steeples of such towns are indeed the\nSwiss Alpine peaks, on which we milk and manufacture the Swiss cheese\nof our Future.\" Did the Legations-Peter mean with this style to make me\nridiculous, or only himself? Determine!\n\n\"Here is the place, the town,\" said I in secret, \"where to-day much and\nfor many years is to be determined, where thou this evening, about five\no'clock, art to present thy petition and thyself. May it prosper! May\nit be successful! Let Flaetz, this arena of thy little efforts among the\nrest, become a building-space for fair castles and air-castles to two\nhearts, thy own and thy Berga's!\"\n\nAt the Tiger Inn I alighted.\n\n\n\n\n                         _First Day in Flaetz_.\n\n\nNo mortal in my situation at this Tiger-hotel would have triumphed much\nin his more immediate prospects. I, as the only man known to me,\nespecially in the way of love (of the runaway Dragoon anon!), looked\nout from the windows of the overflowing Inn, and down on the rushing\nsea of marketers, and very soon began to reflect, that, except Heaven\nand the rascals and murderers, none knew how many of the latter two\nclasses were floating among the tide; purposing, perhaps, to lay hold\nof the most innocent strangers, and in part cut their purses, in part\ntheir throats. My situation had a special circumstance against it. My\nbrother-in-law, who still comes plump out with everything, had\nmentioned that I was to put up at the Tiger. O Heaven! when will such\npeople learn to be secret, and to cover even the meanest pettinesses of\nlife under mantles and veils, were it only that a silly mouse may as\noften give birth to a mountain as a mountain to a mouse! The whole\nrabble of the stagecoach stopped at the Tiger; the Harlot, the\nRat-catcher, _Jean Pierre_, the Giant, who had dismounted at the Gate\nof the town, and carrying the huge block-head of the Dwarf on his\nshoulders as his own (cloaking over the deception by his cloak), had\nthus, like a ninny, exhibited himself gratis by half a dwarf more\ngigantic than he could be seen for money.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n158. Governments should not too often change the penny-trumps and\nchild's drums of the Poets for the regimental trumpet and fire-drum;\non the other hand, good subjects should regard many a princely\ndrum-tendency simply as a disease, in which the patient, by air\ninsinuating under the skin, has got dreadfully swoln.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nAnd now for each of the Passengers, the question was how he could make\nthe Tiger, the heraldic emblem of the Inn, his prototype; and so what\nlamb he might suck the blood of, and tear in pieces, and devour. My\nbrother-in-law too left me, having gone in quest of some horse-dealer;\nbut he retained the chamber next mine for his sister; this, it\nappeared, was to denote attention on his part. I remained solitary,\nleft to my own intrepidity and force of purpose.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n89. In great towns, a stranger, for the first day or two after his\narrival, lives purely at his own expense, in an inn; afterwards, in the\nhouses of his friends, without expense; on the other hand, if you\narrive at the Earth, as for instance I have done, you are courteously\nmaintained, precisely for the first few years, free of charges; but in\nthe next and longer series--for you often stay sixty--you are actually\nobliged (I have the documents in my hands) to pay for every drop and\nmorsel, as if you were in the great Earth Inn, which indeed you are.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nYet among so many villains, encompassing if not even beleaguring me, I\nthought warmly of one far distant, faithful soul, of my Berga in\nNeusattel; a true heart of pith, which perhaps with many a weak\nmarriage-partner might have given protection rather than sought it.\n\n\"Appear, then, quickly to-morrow at noon, Berga,\" said my heart; \"and\nif possible before noon, that I may lengthen thy market paradise so\nmany hours as thou arrivest earlier!\"\n\n\n------------------------\n\n107. Germany is a long lofty mountain--under the sea.\n\n144. The Reviewer does not in reality employ his pen for writing; but\nhe burns it, to awaken weak people from their swoons with the smell; he\ntickles with it the throat of the plagiary, to make him render back;\nand he picks with it his own teeth. He is the only individual in the\nwhole learned lexicon that can never exhaust himself, never write\nhimself out, let him sit before the ink-glass for centuries, or tens of\ncenturies. For while the Scholar, the Philosopher, and the Poet produce\ntheir new book solely from new materials and growth, the Reviewer\nmerely lays his old gauge of taste and knowledge on a thousand new\nworks; and his light, in the ever-passing, ever-differently-cut\nglass-world, which he _elucidates_, is still refracted into new colors.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nA clergyman, amid the tempests of the world, readily makes for a free\nharbor, for the church; the church-wall is his casement-wall and\nfortification; and behind are to be found more peaceful and more\naccordant souls than on the market-place; in short, I went into the\nHigh Church. However, in the course of the psalm, I was somewhat\ndisturbed by a Heiduc, who came up to a well-dressed young gentleman\nsitting opposite me, and tore the double opera-glass from his nose, it\nbeing against rule in Flaetz, as it is in Dresden, to look at the Court\nwith glasses which diminish and approximate. I myself had on a pair of\nspectacles, but they were magnifiers. It was impossible for me to\nresolve on taking them off; and here again, I am afraid, I shall pass\nfor a foolhardy person and a desperado; so much only I reckoned fit, to\nlook invariably into my psalm-book; not once lifting my eyes while the\nCourt was rustling and entering, thereby to denote that my glasses were\nground convex. For the rest, the sermon was good, if not always finely\nconceived for a Court-church; it admonished the hearers against\ninnumerable vices, to whose counterparts, the virtues, another preacher\nmight so readily have exhorted us. During the whole service, I made it\nmy business to exhibit true, deep reverence, not only towards God, but\nalso towards my illustrious Prince. For the latter reverence I had my\nprivate reason. I wished to stamp this sentiment strongly and openly as\nwith raised letters on my countenance, and so give the lie to any\nmalicious imp about Court, by whom my contravention of the _Panegyric\non Nero_, and my free German satire on this real tyrant himself, which\nI had inserted in the _Plaetz Weekly Journal_, might have been perverted\ninto a secret characteristic portrait of my own Sovereign. We live in\nsuch times at present, that scarcely can we compose a pasquinade on the\nDevil in Hell, but some human Devil on Earth will apply it to an angel.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n71. The Youth is singular from caprice, and takes pleasure in it; the\nMan is so from constraint, unintentionally, and feels pain in it.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nWhen the Court at last issued from church, and were getting into their\ncarriages, I kept at such a distance that my face could not possibly be\nnoticed, in case I had happened to assume no reverent look, but an\nindifferent or even proud one. God knows, who has kneaded into me those\nmad, desperate fancies and crotchets, which perhaps would sit better on\na Hero Schabacker, than on an Army-chaplain under him. I cannot here\nforbear recording to you, my Friends, one of the maddest among them,\nthough at first it may throw too glaring a light on me. It was at my\nordination to be Army-chaplain, while about to participate in the\nSacrament, on the first day of Easter. Now, here while I was standing,\nmoved into softness, before the balustrade of the altar, in the middle\nof the whole male congregation,--nay, I perhaps more deeply moved than\nany among them, since, as a person going to war, I might consider\nmyself a half-dead man, that was now partaking in the last Feast of\nSouls, as it were like a person to be hanged on the morrow,--here,\nthen, amid the pathetic effects of the organ and singing, there rose\nsomething--were it the first Easter-day which awoke in me what\nprimitive Christians call their Easter-laughter, or merely the contrast\nbetween the most devilish predicaments and the most holy,--in short,\nthere rose something in me (for which reason I have ever since taken\nthe part of every simple person who might ascribe such things to the\nDevil), and this something started the question: \"Now, could there be\naught more diabolical than if thou, just in receiving the Holy Supper,\nwert madly and blasphemously to begin laughing?\" Instantly I took to\nwrestling with this hell-dog of a thought; neglected the most precious\nfeelings, merely to keep the dog in my eye, and scare him away; yet was\nforced to draw back from him, exhausted and unsuccessful, and arrived\nat the step of the altar with the mournful certainty that in a little\nwhile I should, without more ado, begin laughing, let me weep and moan\ninwardly as I liked. Accordingly, while I and a very worthy old\nBurgermeister were bowing down together before the long parson, and the\nlatter (perhaps kneeling on the low cushion, I fancied him too long)\nput the wafer in my clenched mouth, I felt all the muscles of laughter\nalready beginning sardonically to contract; and these had not long\nacted on the guiltless integument, till an actual smile appeared there;\nand as we bowed the second time, I was grinning like an ape. My\ncompanion the Burgermeister justly expostulated with me, in a low\nvoice, as we walked round behind the altar: \"In Heaven's name, are you\nan ordained Preacher of the Gospel, or a Merry-Andrew? Is it Satan that\nis laughing out of you?\"\n\n\n------------------------\n\n198. The Populace and Cattle grow giddy on the edge of no abyss; with\nthe Man it is otherwise.\n\n11. The Golden Calf of Self-love soon waxes to be a burning Phalaris's\nBull, which reduces its father and adorer to ashes.\n\n103. The male Beau-crop, which surrounds the female Roses and Lilies,\nmust (if I rightly comprehend its flatteries) most probably presuppose\nin the fair the manners of the Spaniards and Italians, who offer any\nvaluable, by way of present, to the man who praises it excessively.\n\n------------------------\n\n\n\"Ah, Heaven! who else?\" said I; and this being over, I finished my\ndevotions in a more becoming fashion.\n\nFrom the church (I now return to the Flaetz one) I proceeded to the\nTiger Inn, and dined at the _table-d'hote_, being at no time shy of\nencountering men. Previous to the second course, a waiter handed me an\nempty plate, on which, to my astonishment, I noticed a French verse\nscratched in with a fork, containing nothing less than a lampoon on the\nCommandant of Flaetz. Without ceremony, I held out the plate to the\ncompany; saying, I had just, as they saw, got this lampooning cover\npresented to me, and must request them to bear witness that I had\nnothing to do with the matter. An officer directly changed plates with\nme. During the fifth course, I could not but admire the chemico-medical\nignorance of the company; for a hare, out of which a gentleman\nextracted and exhibited several grains of shot, that is to say,\ntherefore, of lead alloyed with arsenic, and then cleaned by hot\nvinegar, did, nevertheless, by the spectators (I expected) continue to\nbe pleasantly eaten.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n199. But not many existing Governments, I believe, do behead under\npretext of trepanning; or sew (in a more choice allegory) the people's\nlips together, under pretence of sewing the harelips in them.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nIn the course of our table-talk, one topic seized me keenly by my weak\nside, I mean by my honor. The law custom of the city happened to be\nmentioned, as it affects natural children; and I learned that here a\nloose girl may convert any man she pleases to select into the father of\nher brat, simply by her oath. \"Horrible!\" said I, and my hair stood on\nend. \"In this way may the worthiest head of a family, with a wife and\nchildren, or a clergyman lodging in the Tiger, be stript of honor and\ninnocence, by any wicked chambermaid whom he may have seen, or who may\nhave seen him, in the course of her employment!\"\n\nAn elderly officer observed: \"But will the girl swear herself to the\nDevil so readily?\"\n\nWhat logic! \"Or suppose,\" continued I, without answer, \"a man happened\nto be travelling with that Vienna Locksmith, who afterwards became a\nmother, and was brought to bed of a baby son; or with any disguised\nChevalier d'Eon, who often passes the night in his company, whereby the\nLocksmith or the Chevalier can swear to their private interviews; no\ndelicate man of honor will in the end risk travelling with another;\nseeing he knows not how soon the latter may pull off his boots, and\npull on his women's-pumps, and swear his companion into Fatherhood, and\nhimself to the Devil!\"\n\n\n------------------------\n\n67. Hospitable Entertainer, wouldst thou search into thy Guest?\nAccompany him to another Entertainer, and listen to him. Just so,\nwouldst thou become better acquainted with Mistress in an hour, than by\nliving with her for a month? Accompany her among her female friends and\nfemale enemies (if that is no pleonasm), and look at her!\n\n------------------------\n\n\nSome of the company, however, misunderstood my oratorical fire so much,\nthat they, sheep-wise, gave some insinuations as if I myself were not\nstrict in this point, but lax. By Heaven! I no longer knew what I was\neating or speaking. Happily, on the opposite side of the table, some\nlying story of a French defeat was started. Now, as I had read on the\nstreet corners that French and German Proclamation, calling before the\nCourt Martial any one who had heard war rumors (disadvantageous,\nnamely), without giving notice of them,--I, as a man not willing ever\nto forget himself, had nothing more prudent to do in this case, than to\nwithdraw with empty ears, telling none but the landlord why.\n\nIt was no improper time; for I had previously determined to have my\nbeard shaven about half past four, that so, towards five, I might\npresent myself with a chin just polished by the razor smoothing-iron,\nand sleek as wove-paper, without the smallest root-stump of a hair left\non it. By way of preparation, like Pitt before Parliamentary debates, I\npoured a devilish deal of Pontac into my stomach, with true disgust,\nand contrary to all sanitary rules; not so much for fronting the light\nstranger Barber, as the Minister and General von Schabacker, with whom\nI had it in view to exchange perhaps more than one fiery statement.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n80. In the Summer of life, men keep digging and filling ice-pits, as\nwell as circumstances will admit; that so, in their Winter, they may\nhave something in store to give them coolness.\n\n28. It is impossible for me, amid the tendril-forest of allusions (even\nthis again is a tendril-twig), to state and declare on the spot whether\nall the Courts or Heights, the (Bougouer) _Snowline_ of Europe, have\never been mentioned in my writings or not; but I could wish for\ninformation on the subject, that, if not, I may try to do it still.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nThe common Hotel Barber was ushered in to me; but at first view you\nnoticed in his polygonal, zigzag visage, more of a man that would\nfinally go mad, than of one growing wiser. Now, madmen are a class of\npersons whom I hate incredibly; and nothing can take me to see any\nmadhouse, simply because the first maniac among them may clutch me in\nhis giant fists if he like; and bet cause, owing to infection, I cannot\nbe sure that I shall ever get out again with the sense which I brought\nin. In a general way, I sit (when once I am lathered) in such a posture\non my chair as to keep both my hands (the eyes I fix intently on the\nbartering countenance) lying clenched along my sides, and pointed\ndirectly at the midriff of the barber; that so, on the smallest\nambiguity of movement, I may dash in upon him, and overset him in a\ntwinkling.\n\nI scarce know rightly how it happened; but here, while I am anxiously\nstudying the foolish, twisted visage of the shaver, and he just then\nchanced to lay his long whetted weapon a little too abruptly against my\nbare throat, I gave him such a sudden bounce on the abdominal viscera,\nthat the silly varlet had wellnigh suicidally slit his own windpipe.\nFor me, truly, nothing remained but to indemnify the man; and then,\ncontrary to my usual principles, to tie round a broad stuffed cravat,\nby way of cloak to what remained unshorn.\n\nAnd now at last I sallied forth to the General, drinking out the\nremnant of the Pontac, as I crossed the threshold.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n36. And so I should like, in all cases, to be the First, especially in\nBegging. The first prisoner-of-war, the first cripple, the first man\nruined by burning (like him who brings the first fire-engine), gains\nthe head-subscription and the heart; the next comer finds nothing but\nDuty to address; and at last, in this melodious _mancando_ of sympathy,\nmatters sink so far, that the last (if the last but one may at least\nhave retired laden with a rich \"God help you!\") obtains from the\nbenignant hand nothing more than its fist. And as in Begging the first,\nso in Giving I should like to be the last; one obliterates the other,\nespecially the last the first. So, however, is the world ordered.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nI hope there were plans lying ready within me for answering rightly,\nnay for asking. The Petition I carried in my pocket, and in my right\nhand. In the left, I had a duplicate of it. My fire of spirit easily\nhelped over the living fence of ministerial obstructions; and soon I\nunexpectedly found myself in the ante-chamber, among his most\ndistinguished lackeys; persons, so far as I could see, not inclined to\nchange flour for bran with any one. Selecting the most respectable\nindividual of the number, I delivered him my paper request, accompanied\nwith the verbal one that he would hand it in. He took it, but\nungraciously. I waited in vain till far in the sixth hour, at which\nseason alone the gay General can safely be applied to. At last I pitch\nupon another lackey, and repeat my request; he runs about seeking his\nrunaway brother, or my Petition, to no purpose; neither of them\ncould be found. How happy was it that in the midst of my Pontac,\nbefore shaving, I had written out the duplicate of this paper; and\ntherefore--simply on the principle that you should always keep a second\nwooden leg packed into your knapsack when you have the first on your\nbody--and out of fear, that, if the original petition chanced to drop\nfrom me in the way between the Tiger and Schabacker's, my whole journey\nand hope would melt into water,--and therefore, I say, having stuck the\nrepeating work of that original paper into my pocket, I had, in any\ncase, something to hand in, and that something truly a Ditto. I handed\nit in.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n136. If you mount too high above your time, your ears (on the side of\nFame) are little better off than if you sink too deep below it; in\ntruth, Charles up in his Balloon, and Halley down in his Diving-bell,\nfelt equally the same strange pain in their ears.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nUnhappily six o'clock was already past. The lackey, however, did not\nkeep me long waiting; but returned with--I may say, the text of this\nwhole Circular--the almost rude answer (which you, my Friends, out of\nregard for me and Schabacker, will not divulge), that: \"In case I\nwere the Attila Schmelzle of Schabacker's Regiment, might lift my\npigeon-liver flag again, and fly to the Devil, as I did at\nPimpelstadt.\" Another man would have dropt dead on the spot; I,\nhowever, walked quite stoutly off, answering the fellow: \"With great\npleasure indeed, I fly to the Devil; and so Devil a fly I care.\" On the\nroad home, I examined myself, whether it had not been the Pontac that\nspoke out of me (though the very examination contradicted this, for\nPontac never examines); but I found that nothing but I, my heart, my\ncourage perhaps, had spoken; and why, after all, any whimpering? Does\nnot the patrimony of my good wife endow me better than ten Catechetical\nProfessorships? And has she not furnished all the corners of my book of\nLife with so many golden clasps, that I can open it forever without\nwearing it? Let henhearts cackle and pip; I flapped my pinions, and\nsaid: \"Dash boldly through it, come what may!\" I felt myself excited\nand exalted; I fancied Republics, in which I, as a hero, might be at\nhome; I longed to be in that noble Grecian time, when one hero readily\nput up with bastinadoes from another, and said, \"Strike, but hear!\" and\nout of this ignoble one, where men will scarcely put up with hard\nwords, to say nothing of more. I painted out to my mind how I\nshould feel, if, in happier circumstances, I were uprooting hollow\nThrones, and before whole nations mounting on mighty deeds as on the\nTemple-steps of Immortality; and, in gigantic ages, finding quite other\nmen to outman and outstrip, than the mite-populace about me, or, at the\nbest, here and there a Vulcanello. I thought and thought, and grew\nwilder and wilder, and intoxicated myself (no Pontac intoxication\ntherefore, which, you know, increases more by continuance than\ncessation of drinking), and gesticulated openly, as I put the\nquestion to myself: \"Wilt thou be a mere state-lapdog? A dog's-dog,\na _pium desiderium_ of an _impium desiderium_, an Ex-Ex, a\nNothing's-Nothing?--Fire and Fury!\" With this, however, I dashed down\nmy hat into the mud of the market. On lifting and cleaning this old\nservant, I could not but perceive how worn and faded it was; and I\ntherefore determined instantly to purchase a new one, and carry the\nsame home in my hand.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n25. In youth, like a blind man just couched (and what is birth but a\ncouching of the sight?), you take the Distant for the Near, the starry\nheaven for tangible room-furniture, pictures for objects; and, to the\nyoung man, the whole world is sitting on his very nose, till repeating\nbandaging and unbandaging have at last taught him, like the blind\npatient, to estimate _Distance_ and _Appearance_.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nI accomplished this. I bought one of the finest cut. Strangely enough,\nby this hat, as if it had been a Graduation-hat, was my head tried and\nexamined in the Ziegengasse or Goat-gate of Flaetz. For as General\nSchabacker came driving along that street in his carriage, and I (it\nneed not be said) was determined to avenge myself, not by vulgar\nclownishness, but by courtesy, I had here got one of the most ticklish\nproblems imaginable to solve on the spur of the instant. You observe,\nif I swung only the fine hat which I carried in my hand, and kept the\nfaded one on my head,--I might have the appearance of a perfect clown,\nwho does not doff at all; if, on the other hand, I pulled the old hat\nfrom my head, and therewith did my reverence, then two hats, both in\nplay at once (let me swing the other at the same time or not), brought\nmy salute within the verge of ridicule. Now do you, my Friends, before\nreading further, bethink you how a man was to extricate himself from\nsuch a plight, without losing his presence of mind! I think, perhaps,\nby this means; by merely losing his hat. In one word, then, I simply\ndropped the new hat from my hand into the mud, to put myself in a\ncondition for taking off the old hat by itself, and swaying it in\nneedful courtesy, without any shade of ridicule.\n\nArrived at the Tiger,--to avoid misconstructions, I first had the\nglossy, fine, and superfine hat cleaned, and some time afterwards the\nmud-hat or rubbis-hat.\n\nAnd now, weighing my momentous Past in the adjusting balance within me,\nI walked in fiery mood to and fro. The Pontac must--I know that there\nis no unadulterated liquor here below--have been more than usually\nadulterated; so keenly did it chase my fancy out of one fire into the\nother. I now looked forth into a wide, glittering life, in which I\nlived without post, merely on money; and which I beheld, as it were,\nsowed with the Delphic caves, and Zenonic walks, and Muse-hills of all\nthe Sciences, which I might now cultivate at my ease. In particular,\nI should have it in my power to apply more diligently to writing\nPrize-essays for Academies; of which (that is to say, of the\nPrize-essays) no author need ever be ashamed, since, in all cases,\nthere is a whole crowning Academy to stand and blush for the crownee.\nAnd even if the Prize-marksman does not hit the crown, he still\ncontinues more unknown and more anonymous (his Device not being\nunsealed) than any other author, who indeed can publish some nameless\nLong-ear of a book, but not hinder it from being, by a Literary\nAss-burial (_sepultura asinina_), publicly interred, in a short time,\nbefore half the world.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n126. In the long run, out of mere fear and necessity, we shall become\nthe warmest cosmopolites I know of; so rapidly do ships shoot to and\nfro, and, like shuttles, weave Islands and Quarters of the World\ntogether. For let but the political weather-glass fall to-day in South\nAmerica, to-morrow we in Europe have storm and thunder.\n\n19. It is easier, they say, to climb a hill when you ascend back\nforemost. This, perhaps, might admit of application to political\neminences; if you still turned towards them that part of the body on\nwhich you sit, and kept your face directed down to the people; all the\nwhile, however, removing and mounting.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nOnly one thing grieved me by anticipation; the sorrow of my Berga, for\nwhom, dear tired wayfarer, I on the morrow must overcloud her arrival,\nand her shortened market-spectacle, by my negatory intelligence. She\nwould so gladly (and who can take it ill of a rich farmer's Daughter?)\nhave made herself somebody in Neusattel, and overshone many a female\ndignitary! Every mortal longs for his parade-place, and some earlier\nliving honor than the last honors. Especially so good a lowly-born\nhousewife as my Berga, conscious perhaps rather of her metallic than of\nher spiritual treasure, would still wish at banquets to be mistress of\nsome seat or other, and so in place to overtop this or that plucked\ngoose of the neighborhood.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n26. Few German writers are not original, if we may ascribe originality\n(as is at least the conversational practice of all people) to a man who\nmerely dishes out his own thoughts without foreign admixture. For as,\nbetween their Memory, where their reading or foreign matter dwells, and\ntheir Imagination or Productive Power, where their writing or own\npeculiar matter originates, a sufficient space intervenes, and the\nboundary-stones are fixed in so conscientiously and firmly that nothing\nforeign may pass over into their own, or inversely, so that they may\nreally read a hundred works without losing their own primitive flavor,\nor even altering it,--their individuality may, I believe, be considered\nas secured; and their spiritual nourishment, their pancakes, loaves,\nfritters, caviare, and meat-balls, are not assimilated to their system,\nbut given back pure and unaltered. Often in my own mind, I figure such\nwriters as living but thousand-fold more artificial Ducklings from\nVaucasson's Artificial Duck of Wood. For in fact they are not less\ncunningly put together than this timber Duck, which will gobble meat\nand apparently void it again, under show of having digested it, and\nderived from it blood and juices; though the secret of the business is,\nthe artist has merely introduced an ingenious compound ejective matter\nbehind, with which concoction and nourishment have nothing to do, but\nwhich the Duck illusorily gives forth and publishes to the world.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nIt is in this point of view that husbands are so indispensable. I\ntherefore resolved to purchase for myself, and consequently for her,\none of the best of those titles which our Courts in Germany (as in a\nLeipzig saleroom) stand offering to buyers, in all sizes and sorts,\nfrom Noble and Half-noble down to Rath or Councillor; and once\ninvested therewith, to reflect from my own Quarter-nobility such an\nEighth-part-nobility on this true soul, that many a Neusattelitess (I\nhope) shall half burst with envy, and say and cry: \"Pooh, the stupid\nfarmer thing! See how it wabbles and bridles! It has forgot how matters\nstood when it had no money-bag and no Hofrath!\" For to the Hofrathship\nI shall before this have attained.\n\nBut in the cold solitude of my room, and the fire of my remembrances, I\nlonged unspeakably for my Bergelchen; I and my heart were wearied with\nthe foreign busy day; no one here said a kind word to me, which he did\nnot hope to put in the bill. Friends! I languished for my friend, whose\nheart would pour out its blood as a balsam for a second heart; I cursed\nmy over-prudent regulations, and wished, that, to have the good Berga\nat my side, I had given up the stupid houseware to all thieves and\nfires whatsoever. As I walked to and fro, it seemed to me easier and\neasier to become all things, an Exchequer-Rath, an Excise-Rath, any\nRath in the world, and whatever she required when she came.\n\n\"See thou take thy pleasure in the town!\" had Bergelchen kept saying\nthe whole week through. But how, without her, can I take any? Our tears\nof sorrow friends dry up, and accompany with their own; but our tears\nof joy we find most readily repeated in the eyes of our wives. Pardon\nme, good Friends, these libations of my sensibility; I am but showing\nyou my heart and my Berga. If I need an Absolution-merchant, the\nPontac-merchant is the man.\n\n\n\n\n                         _First Night in Flaetz_.\n\n\nYet the wine did not take from me the good sense to look under the bed,\nbefore going into it, and examine whether any one was lurking there;\nfor example, the Dwarf, or the Rat-catcher, or the Legations-Rath; also\nto shove the key under the latch (which I reckon the best bolting\narrangement of all), and then, by way of further assurance, to bore my\nnight-screws into the door, and pile all the chairs in a heap behind\nit; and, lastly, to keep on my breeches and shoes, wishing absolutely\nto have no care upon my mind.\n\nBut I had still other precautions to take in regard to sleep-walking.\nTo me it has always been incomprehensible how so many men can go to\nbed, and lie down at their ease there, without reflecting that perhaps,\nin the first sleep, they may get up again as Somnambulists, and crawl\nover the tops of roofs and the like; awakening in some spot where they\nmay fall in a moment and break their necks. While at home, there is\nlittle risk in my sleep; because, my right toe being fastened every\nnight with three ells of tape (I call it in jest our marriage tie) to\nmy wife's left hand, I feel a certainty that, in case I should start up\nfrom this bed-arrest, I must with the tether infallibly awaken her, and\nso by my Berga, as by my living bridle, be again led back to bed. But\nhere in the Inn, I had nothing for it but to knot myself once or twice\nto the bed-foot, that I might not wander; though in this way, an\nirruption of villains would have brought double peril with it.--Alas!\nso dangerous is sleep at all times, that every man, who is not lying on\nhis back a corpse, must be on his guard lest with the general system\nsome limb or other also fall asleep; in which case the sleeping limb\n(there are not wanting examples of it in Medical History) may next\nmorning be lying ripe for amputation. For this reason, I have myself\nfrequently awakened, that no part of me fall asleep.\n\nHaving properly tied myself to the bed-posts, and at length got under\nthe coverlid, I now began to be dubious about my Pontac Fire-bath, and\napprehensive of the valorous and tumultuous dreams too likely to ensue;\nwhich, alas, did actually prove to be nothing better than heroic and\nmonarchic feats, castle-stormings, rock-throwings, and the like. This\npoint also I am sorry to see so little attended to in medicine. Medical\ngentlemen, as well as their customers, all stretch themselves quietly\nin their beds, without one among them considering whether a furious\nrage (supposing him also directly after to drink cold water in his\ndream), or a heart-devouring grief, all which he may undergo in vision,\ndoes harm to life or not.\n\nShortly before midnight, I awoke from a heavy dream, to encounter a\nghost-trick much too ghostly for my fancy. My brother-in-law, who\nmanufactured it, deserves for such vapid cookery to be named before you\nwithout reserve, as the maltmaster of this washy brewage. Had suspicion\nbeen more compatible with intrepidity, I might perhaps, by his moral\nmaxim about this matter, on the road, as well as by his taking up the\nside-room, at the middle door of which stood my couch, have easily\ndivined the whole. But now, on awakening, I felt myself blown upon by a\ncold ghost-breath, which I could nowise deduce from the distant bolted\nwindow; a point I had rightly decided, for the Dragoon was producing\nthe phenomenon through the key-hole by a pair of bellows. Every sort\nof coldness in the night-season reminds you of clay-coldness and\nspectre-coldness. I summoned my resolution, however, and abode the\nissue; but now the very coverlid began to get in motion; I pulled it\ntowards me; it would not stay; sharply I sit upright in my bed, and\ncry, \"What is that?\" No answer; everywhere silence in the Inn; the\nwhole room full of moonshine. And now my drawing-plaster, my coverlid,\nactually rose up, and let in the air; at which I felt like a wounded\nman whose cataplasm you suddenly pull off. In this crisis, I made a\nbold leap from this Devil's-torus, and leaping, snapped asunder my\nsomnambulist tether. \"Where is the silly human fool,\" cried I, \"that\ndares to ape the unseen sublime him?\" But on, above, under the bed,\nthere was nothing to be heard or seen, I looked out of the window;\neverywhere spectral moonlight and street-stillness; nothing moving\nexcept (probably from the wind), on the distant Gallows-hill, a person\nlately hanged.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n15. After the manner of the fine polished English folding-knives, there\nare now also folding-war-swords, or, in other words--Treaties of Peace.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nAny man would have taken it for self-deception as well as I; therefore\nI again wrapped myself in my passive _lit de justice_ and air-bed, and\nwaited with calmness to see whether my fright would subside or not.\n\nIn a few minutes the coverlid, the infernal Faust's-mantle, again began\nflying and towing; also, by way of change, the invisible bed-maker\nagain lifted me up. Accursed hour!--I should beg to know whether, in\nthe whole of cultivated Europe, there is one cultivated or uncultivated\nman, who, in a case of this kind, would not have lighted on\nghost-devilry? I lighted on it, under my piece of (self) movable\nproperty, my coverlid; and thought Berga had died suddenly, and was\nnow, in spirit, laying hold of my bed. However, I could not speak to\nher, nor as little to the Devil, who might well be supposed to have a\nhand in the game; but I turned myself solely to Heaven, and prayed\naloud: \"To thee I commit myself; thou alone heretofore hast cared for\nthy weak servant; and I swear that I will turn a new leaf,\"--a promise\nwhich shall be kept nevertheless, though the whole was but stupid\ntreachery and trick.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n13. _Omnibus una_ salus _Sanctis, sed_ gloria _dispar_; that is to say\n(as Divines once taught), according to Saint Paul, we have all the same\nBeatitude in Heaven, but different degrees of Honor. Here, on Earth, we\nfind a shadow of this in the writing world; for the Beatitude of\nauthors once beatified by Criticism, whether they be genial, good,\nmediocre, or poor, is the same throughout; they all obtain the same\npecuniary Felicity, the same slender profit. But, Heavens! in regard to\nthe degrees of Fame, again, how far (in spite of the same emolument and\nsale) will a Dunce, even in his lifetime, be put below a Genius! Is not\na shallow writer frequently forgotten in a single Fair? while a deep\nwriter, or even a writer of genius, will blossom through fifty Fairs,\nand so may celebrate his Twenty-five Years' Jubilee, before, late\nforgotten, he is lowered into the German Temple of Fame; a Temple\nimitating the peculiarity of the _Padri Lucchesi_ churches in Naples,\nwhich (according to Volkmann) permit _burials_ under their roofs, but\nno _tombstone_.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nMy prayer had no effect with the unchristian Dragoon, who now, once for\nall, had got me prisoner in the dragnet of a coverlid; and heeded\nlittle whether a guest's bed were, by his means, made a state-bed and\ndeath-bed or not. He span out my nerves, like gold-wire through\nsmaller and smaller holes, to utter inanition and evanition, for the\nbed-clothes at last literally marched off to the door of the room.\n\nNow was the moment to rise into the sublime, and to trouble myself no\nlonger about aught here below, but softly to devote myself to death.\n\"Snatch me away,\" cried I, and, without thinking, cut three crosses;\n\"quick, dispatch me, ye ghosts; I die more innocent than thousands of\ntyrants and blasphemers, to whom ye yet appear not, but to unpolluted\nme.\" Here I heard a sort of laugh, either on the street or in the\nside-room. At this warm human tone, I suddenly bloomed up again, as at\nthe coming of a new Spring, in every twig and leaf. Wholly despising\nthe winged coverlid, which was not now to be picked from the door, I\nlaid myself down uncovered, but warm and perspiring from other causes,\nand soon fell asleep. For the rest, I am not the least ashamed, in the\nface of all refined capital cities,--though they were standing here at\nmy hand,--that, by this Devil-belief and Devil-address, I have attained\nsome likeness to our great German Lion, to Luther.\n\n\n\n\n                         _Second Day in Flaetz_.\n\n\nEarly in the morning, I felt myself awakened by the well-known\ncoverlid; it had laid itself on me like a nightmare; I gaped up; quiet,\nin a corner of the room, sat a red, round, blooming, decorated girl,\nlike a full-blown tulip in the freshness of life, and gently rustling\nwith gay ribbons as with leaves.\n\n\"Who's there--how came you in?\" cried I, half-blind.\n\n\"I covered thee softly, and thought to let thee sleep,\" said\nBergelchen; \"I have walked all night to be here early; do but look!\"\n\nShe showed me her boots, the only remnant of her travelling-gear which,\nin the moulting process of the toilette, she had not stript at the gate\nof Flaetz.\n\n\"Is there,\" said I, alarmed at her coming six hours sooner, and the\nmore, as I had been alarmed all night and was still so, at her\nmysterious entrance; \"is there some fresh woe come over us, fire,\nmurder, robbery?\"\n\nShe answered: \"The old Rat thou hast chased so long, died yesterday;\nfurther there was nothing of importance.\"\n\n\"And all has been managed rightly, and according to my Letter of\nInstructions, at home?\" inquired I.\n\n\"Yes, truly,\" answered she; \"only I did not see the Letter; it is lost;\nthou hast packed it among thy clothes.\"\n\nWell, I could not but forgive the blooming, brave pedestrian all\nomissions. Her eye, then her heart was bringing fresh cool morning air\nand morning red into my sultry hours. And yet, for this kind soul,\nlooking into life with such love and hope, I must in a little while\novercloud the merited Heaven of to-day, with tidings of my failure in\nthe Catechetical Professorship! I dallied and postponed to the utmost.\nI asked how she had got in, as the whole _chevaux-de-frise_ barricado\nof chairs was still standing fast at the door. She laughed heartily,\ncourtesying in village fashion, and said, she had planned it with her\nbrother the day before yesterday, knowing my precautions in locking,\nthat he should admit her into my room, that so she might cunningly\nawaken me. And now bolted the Dragoon with loud laughter into the\napartment, and cried: \"Slept well, brother?\"\n\nIn this wise truly the whole ghost-story was now solved and expounded,\nas if by the pen of a Biester or a Hennings. I instantly saw through\nthe entire ghost-scheme which our Dragoon had executed. With some\nbitterness I told him my conjecture, and his sister my story. But\nhe lied and laughed; nay, attempted shamelessly enough to palm\nspectre-notions on me a second time, in open day. I answered coldly,\nthat in me he had found the wrong man, granting even that I had some\nsimilarity with Luther, with Hobbes, with Brutus, all of whom had seen\nand dreaded ghosts. He replied, tearing the facts away from their\noriginating causes: \"All he could say was, that last night he had heard\nsome poor sinner creaking and lamenting dolefully enough; and from this\nhe had inferred it must be an unhappy brother set upon by goblins.\"\n\n\n------------------------\n\n79. Weak and wrong heads are the hardest to change; and their inward\nman acquires a scanty covering; thus capons never moult.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nIn the end, his sister's eyes also were opened to the low character\nwhich he had tried to act with me; she sharply flew at him, pushed\nhim with both hands out of his and my door, and called after him:\n\"Wait, thou villain, I will mind it!\"\n\nThen hastily turning round, she fell on my neck, and (at the wrong\nplace) into laughter, and said: \"The wild fool! But I could not keep my\nlaugh another minute, and he was not to see it. Forgive the ninny, thou\na learned man, his ass-pranks; what can one expect?\"\n\nI inquired whether she, in her nocturnal travelling, had not met any\nspectral persons; though I knew that to her a wild beast, a river, a\nhalf abyss, are nothing. No, she had not; but the gay-dressed\ntown's-people, she said, had scared her in the morning. O, how I do\nlove these soft Harmonica-quiverings of female fright!\n\nAt last, however, I was forced to bite or cut the coloquinta-apple, and\ngive her the half of it; I mean the news of my rejected petition for\nthe Catechetical Professorship. Wishing to spare this joyful heart the\nrudeness of the whole truth, and to subtract something from a heavy\nburden, more fit for the shoulders of a man, I began: \"Bergelchen, the\nProfessorship affair is taking another, though still a good enough\ncourse; the General, whom may the Devil and his Grandmother teach\nsense, will not be taken except by storm; and storm he shall have, as\ncertainly as I have on my nightcap.\"\n\n\"Then thou art nothing yet?\" inquired she.\n\n\"For the moment, indeed, not!\" answered I.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n89. In times of misfortune, the Ancients supported themselves with\nPhilosophy or Christianity; the moderns again (for example, in the\nreign of Terror) take to Pleasure; as the wounded Buffalo, for bandage\nand salve, rolls himself in the mire.\n\n181. God be thanked that we live nowhere forever except in Hell or\nHeaven; on Earth otherwise we should grow to be the veriest rascals,\nand the World a House of Incurables, for want of the dog-doctor (the\nHangman), and the issue-cord (on the Gallows), and the sulphur and\nchalybeate medicines (on Battle-fields). So that we too find our\ngigantic moral force dependent on the _Debt of Nature_ which we have to\npay, exactly as your politicians (for example, the author of the _New\nLeviathan_) demonstrate that the English have their _National Debt_ to\nthank for their superiority.\n\n------------------------\n\n\n\"But before Saturday night?\" said she.\n\n\"Not quite,\" said I.\n\n\"Then am I sore stricken, and could leap out of the window,\" said she,\nand turned away her rosy face, to hide its wet eyes, and was silent\nvery long. Then, with painfully quivering voice, she began: \"Good\nChrist, stand by me at Neusattel on Sunday, when these high-prancing\nprideful dames look at me in church, and I grow scarlet for shame!\"\n\nHere in sympathetic woe I sprang out of bed to the dear soul, over\nwhose brightly blooming cheeks warm tears were rolling, and cried:\n\"Thou true heart, do not tear me in pieces so! May I die, if yet in\nthese dog-days I become not all and everything that thou wishest!\nSpeak, wilt thou be Mining-raethin, Build-raethin, Court-raethin,\nWar-raethin, Chamber-raethin, Commerce-raethin, Legations-raethin, or Devil\nand his Dam's raethin; I am here, and will buy it, and be it. To-morrow\nI send riding posts to Saxony and Hessia, to Prussia and Russia, to\nFriesland and Katzenellenbogen, and demand patents. Nay, I will carry\nmatters further than another, and be all things at once, Flachsenfingen\nCourt-rath, Scheerau Excise-rath, Haarhaar Building-rath, Pestitz[76]\nChamber-rath (for we have the cash); and thus, alone and singlehanded,\nrepresent with one _podex_ and _corpus_ a whole Rath-session of select\nRaths; and stand, a complete Legion of Honor, on one single pair of\nlegs; the like no man ever did.\n\n\"O, now thou art angel-good!\" said she, and gladder tears rolled down;\n\"thou shalt counsel me thyself which are the finest Raths, and these we\nwill be.\"\n\n\"No,\" continued I, in the fire of the moment, \"neither shall this serve\nus; to me it is not enough that to Mrs. Chaplain thou canst announce\nthyself as Building-raethin, to Mrs. Town-parson as Legations-raethin, to\nMrs. Burgermeister as Court-raethin, to Mrs. Road-and-toll-surveyor as\nCommerce-raethin, or how and where thou pleasest----\"\n\n\"Ah! my own too good Attelchen!\" said she.\n\n\"--But,\" continued I, \"I shall likewise become corresponding member of\nthe several Learned Societies in the several best capital cities (among\nwhich I have only to choose); and truly no common actual member, but a\nwhole honorary member; then thee, as another honorary member, growing\nout of my honorary-membership, I uplift and exalt.\"\n\nPardon me, my Friends, this warm cataplasm, or deception-balsam for a\nwounded breast, whose blood is so pure and precious, that one may\nbe permitted to endeavor, with all possible stanching-lints and\nspider-webs, to drive it back into the fair heart, its home.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n63. To apprehend danger from the Education of the People is like\nfearing lest the thunderbolt strike into the house because it has\n_windows_; whereas the lightning never comes through these, but through\ntheir _lead_ framing, or down by the smoke of the chimney.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nBut now came bright and brightest hours. I had conquered Time, I had\nconquered myself and Berga; seldom does a conqueror, as I did, bless\nboth the victorious and the vanquished party. Berga called back her\nformer Heaven, and pulled off her dusty boots, and on her flowery\nshoes. Precious morning beverage, intoxicating to a heart that loves! I\nfelt (if the low figure may be permitted) a double-beer of courage in\nme, now that I had one being more to protect. In general it is my\nnature--which the honorable Premier seems not to be fully aware of--to\ngrow bolder not among the bold, but fastest among poltroons, the bad\nexample acting on me by the rule of contraries. Little touches may in\nthis case shadow forth man and wife without casting them into the\nshade. When the trim waiter with his green silk apron brought up\ncracknels for breakfast, and I told him, \"Johann, for two!\" Berga said:\n\"He would oblige her very much,\" and called him Herr Johann.\n\nBergelchen, more familiar with rural burghs than capital cities, felt a\ngood deal amazed and alarmed at the coffee-trays, dressing-tables,\npaper-hangings, sconces, alabaster inkholders, with Egyptian emblems,\nas well as at the gilt bell-handle, lying ready for any one to pull out\nor to push in. Accordingly, she had not courage to walk through\nthe hall, with its lustres, purely because a whistling, whiffling\nCap-and-feather was gesturing up and down in it. Nay, her poor heart\nwas like to fail when she peeped out of the window at so many gay,\npromenading town's people (I was briskly that in a little while, at my\nside, she must break into whistling a Gascon air down over them); and\nthought the middle of this dazzling courtly throng. In a case like\nthis, reasons are of less avail than examples. I tried to elevate\nmy Bergelchen, by reciting some of my nocturnal dream-feats; for\nexample, how, riding on a whale's back, with a three-pronged fork, I\nhad pierced and eaten three eagles; and by more of the like sort; but I\nproduced no effect; perhaps, because to the timid female heart the\nbattle-field was presented rather than the conqueror, the abyss rather\nthan the overleaper of it.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n76. Your economical, preaching Poetry apparently supposes that a\nsurgical Stone-cutter is an Artistical one; and a Pulpit or a Sinai a\nHill of the Muses.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nAt this time a sheaf of newspapers was brought me, full of gallant,\ndecisive victories. And though these happen only on one side, and on\nthe other are just so many defeats, yet the former somehow assimilate\nmore with my blood than the latter, and inspire me (as Schiller's\n_Robbers_ used to do) with a strange inclination to lay hold of some\none, and thrash and curry him on the spot. Unluckily for the waiter,\nhe had chanced even now, like a military host, to stand a triple\nbell-order for march, before he would leave his ground and come up.\n\"Sir,\" began I, my head full of battle-fields, and my arm of\ninclination to baste him; and Berga feared the very worst, as I gave\nher the well-known anger and alarm signal, namely, shoved up my cap to\nmy hindhead,--\"Sir, is this your way of treating guests? Why don't you\ncome promptly? Don't come so again; and now be going, friend!\" Although\nhis retreat was my victory, I still kept briskly cannonading on the\nfield of action, and fired the louder (to let him hear it), the more\nsteps he descended in his flight. Bergelchen,--who felt quite\nhorror-struck at my fury, particularly in a quite strange house, and\nat a quality waiter with silk apron, mustered all her soft words\nagainst the wild ones of a man-of-war, and spoke of dangers that might\nfollow. \"Dangers,\" answered I, \"are just what I seek; but for a man\nthere are none; in all cases he will either conquer or evade them,\neither show them front or back.\"\n\n\n------------------------\n\n115. According to Smith, the universal measure of economical value is\nLabor. This fact, at least in regard to spiritual and poetical value,\nwe Germans had discovered before Smith; and to my knowledge, we have\nalways preferred the learned poet to the poet of genius, and the heavy\nbook full of labor to the light one full of sport.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nI could scarcely lay aside this indignant mood, so sweet was it to me,\nand so much did I feel refreshed by the fire of rage, and quickened in\nmy breast as by a benignant stimulant. It belongs certainly to the\nclass of Unrecognized Mercies (on which, in ancient times, special\nsermons were preached), that one is never more completely in his Heaven\nand _Monplaisir_ (a pleasure-palace), than while in the midst of right\nhearty storming and indignation. Heavens! what might not a man of\nweight accomplish in this new walk of charity! The gall bladder is for\nus the chief swimming-bladder and Montgolfier; and the filling of it\ncosts us nothing but a contumelious word or two from some bystander.\nAnd does not the whirlwind Luther, with whom I nowise compare myself,\nconfess, in his _Table-Talk_, that he never preached, sung, or prayed\nso well, as while in a rage? Truly, he was a man sufficient of himself\nto rouse many others into rage.\n\nThe whole morning till noon now passed in viewing sights, and\ntrafficking for wares; and indeed, for the greatest part, in the broad\nstreet of our Hotel. Berga needed but to press along with me into the\nmarket throng; needed but to look, and see that she was decorated more\naccording to the fashion than hundreds like her. But soon, in her care\nfor household gear, she forgot that of dress, and in the potter-market\nthe toilette-table faded from her thoughts.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n4. The Hypocrite does not imitate the old practice, of cutting fruit by\na knife poisoned only on the one side, and giving the poisoned side to\nthe victim, the cutter eating the sound side himself; on the contrary,\nhe so disinterestedly inverts this practice, that to others he shows\nand gives the sound moral half, or side, and retains for himself the\npoisoned one. Heavens! compared with such a man, how wicked does the\nDevil seem!\n\n------------------------\n\n\nI, for my share, full of true tedium, while gliding after her through\nher various marts, with their long cheapenings and chafferings, merely\nacted the Philosopher hid within me. I weighed this empty Life, and the\nheavy value which is put upon it, and the daily anxiety of man lest it,\nthis lightest down-feather of the Earth, fly off', and feather him, and\ntake him with it. These thoughts, perhaps, I owe to the street-fry of\nboys, who were turning their market-freedom to account, by throwing\nstones at one another all round me; for in the midst of this tumult I\nvividly figured myself to be a man who had never seen war; and who,\ntherefore, never having experienced that often of a thousand bullets\nnot one will hit, feels apprehensive of these few silly stones lest\nthey beat in his nose and eyes. O, it is the battle-field alone that\nsows, manures, and nourishes true courage, courage even for daily,\ndomestic, and smallest perils. For not till he comes from the\nbattle-field can a man both sing and cannonade; like the canary-bird,\nwhich, though so melodious, so timid, so small, so tender, so solitary,\nso soft-feathered, can yet be trained to fire off cannon, though cannon\nof smaller calibre.\n\nAfter dinner (in our room) we issued from the Purgatory of the\nmarket-tumult,--where Berga, at every booth, had something to order,\nand load her attendant maid with,--into Heaven, into the Dog Inn, as\nthe best Flaetz public and pleasure-house without the gates is named,\nwhere, in market time, hundreds turn in, and see thousands going by. On\nthe way thither, my little wife, my elbow-tendril, as it were, had\nextracted from me such a measure of courage, that, while going through\nthe Gate (where I, aware of the military order, that you must not pass\nnear the sentry, threw myself over to the other side), she quietly\nglided on, close by the very guns and fixed bayonets of the City Guard.\nOutside the wall, I could direct her, with my finger to the bechained,\nbegrated, gigantic Schabacker-Palace, mounting up even externally on\nstairs, where I last night had called and (it may be) stormed: \"I had\nrather take a peep at the Giant,\" said she, \"and the Dwarf; why else\nare we under one roof with them?\"\n\n\n------------------------\n\n67. Individual Minds, nay, Political Bodies, are like organic bodies;\nextract the interior air from them, the atmosphere crushes them\ntogether; pump off under the bell the exterior resisting air, the\ninterior inflates and bursts them. Therefore let every State keep up\nits internal and its external resistance both at once.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nIn the pleasure-house itself we found sufficient pleasure; encircled as\nwe were, with blooming faces and meadows. In my secret heart, I all\nalong kept looking down, with success, on Schabacker's refusal; and\ntill midnight made myself a happy day of it. I had deserved it, Berga\nstill more. Nevertheless, about one in the morning, I was destined to\nfind a windmill to tilt with; a windmill, which truly lays about it\nwith somewhat longer, stronger, and more numerous arms than a giant,\nfor which Don Quixote might readily enough have taken it. On the market\nplace, for reasons more easily fancied than specified in words, I let\nBerga go along some twenty paces before me; and I myself, for these\nforesaid reasons, retire without malice behind a covered booth, the\ntent most probably of some rude trader; and lingered there a moment\naccording to circumstances. Lo! steering hither with dart and spear,\ncomes the Booth-watcher, and coins and stamps me on the spot, into a\nfilcher and housebreaker of his Booth-street; though the simpleton sees\nnothing but that I am standing in the corner, and doing anything\nbut--taking. A sense of honor without callosity is never blunted for\nsuch attacks. But how in the dead of night was a man of this kind, who\nhad nothing in his head--at the utmost beer, instead of brains--to be\nenlightened on the truth of the matter?\n\nI shall not conceal my perilous resource; I seized the fox by the tail,\nas we say; in other words, I made as if I had been muddled, and knew\nnot rightly, in my liquor, what I was about. I therefore mimicked\neverything I was master of in this department; staggered hither and\nthither; splayed out my feet like a dancing-master; got into zigzag in\nspite of all efforts at the straight line; nay, I knocked my good head\n(perhaps one of the clearest and emptiest of the night) like a full\none, against real posts.\n\nHowever, the Booth-bailiff, who probably had been oftener drunk than I,\nand knew the symptoms better, or even felt them in himself at this\nmoment, looked upon the whole exhibition as mere craft, and shouted\ndreadfully: \"Stop, rascal; thou art no more drunk than I! I know thee\nof old. Stand, I say, till I speak to thee! Wouldst have thy long\nfinger in the market, too? Stand, dog, or I'll make thee!\"\n\n\n------------------------\n\n8. In great Saloons, the real stove is masked into a pretty ornamented\nsham stove; so, likewise, it is fit and pretty that a virgin _Love_\nshould always hide itself in an interesting virgin _Friendship_.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nYou see the whole _nodus_ of the matter. I whisked away zigzag among\nthe booths as fast as possible, from the claws of this rude Tosspot;\nyet he still hobbled after me. But my Teutoberga, who had heard\nsomewhat of it came running back; clutched the tipsy market-warder by\nthe collar, and said (shrieking, it is true, in village wise): \"Stupid\nsot, go sleep the drink out of thy head, or I'll teach thee! Dost know,\nthen, whom thou art speaking to? My husband, Army-chaplain Schmelzle\nunder General and Minister von Schabacker at Pimpelstadt, thou\nblockhead!--Fie! Take shame, fellow!\" The watchman mumbled, \"Meant no\nharm,\" and reeled about his business. \"O thou Lioness!\" said I, in the\ntransport of love, \"why hast thou never been in any deadly peril, that\nI might show thee the Lion in thy husband!\"\n\nThus lovingly we both reached home; and perhaps in the sequel of this\nFair day might still have enjoyed a glorious after-midnight, had not\nthe Devil led my eye to the ninth volume of Lichtenberg's Works, and\nthe 206th page, where this passage occurs: \"It is not impossible, that,\nat a future period, our Chemists may light on some means of suddenly\ndecomposing the Atmosphere by a sort of Ferment. In this way the world\nmay be destroyed.\" Ah! true indeed! Since the Earth-ball is lapped up\nin the larger Atmospheric ball, let but any chemical scoundrel, in the\nremotest scoundrel-island, say in New Holland, devise some decomposing\nsubstance for the Atmosphere, like what a spark of fire would be for a\npowder-wagon; in a few seconds, the monstrous devouring world-storm\ncatches me and you in Flaetz by the throat; my breathing, and the like,\nin this choke-air is over, and the whole game ended! The Earth becomes\na boundless gallows, where the very cattle are hanged; worm-powder, and\nbug-liquor, Bradly ant-ploughs, and rat-poison, and wolf-traps are, in\nthis universal world-trap and world-poison, no longer specially\nneedful; and the Devil takes the whole, in the Bartholomew-night, when\nthis cursed \"Ferment\" is invented.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n12. Nations--unlike rivers, which precipitate their impurities in level\nplaces and when at rest--drop their baseness just whilst in the most\nviolent motion; and become the dirtier the farther they flow along\nthrough lazy flats.\n\n------------------------\n\n\nFrom the true soul, however, I concealed these deadly Night Thoughts;\nseeing she would either painfully have sympathized in them, or else\nmirthfully laughed at them. I merely gave orders that next morning\n(Saturday) she was to be standing booted and ready, at the outset of\nthe returning coach; if so were she would have me speedily fulfil her\nwishes in regard to that stock of Rathships which lay so near her\nheart. She rejoiced in my purpose, gladly surrendering the market for\nsuch prospects. I too slept sound, my great toe tied to her finger the\nwhole night through.\n\nThe Dragoon next morning twitched me by the ear, and secretly whispered\ninto it that he had a pleasant fairing to give his sister; and so would\nride off somewhat early, on the nag he had yesterday purchased of the\nhorse-dealer. I thanked him beforehand.\n\n\n------------------------\n\n28. When Nature takes the huge old Earth-round, the Earth-loaf and\nkneads it up again, for the purpose of introducing, under this\npiecrust, new stuffing and Dwarfs--she then, for most part, as a mother\nwhen baking will do to her daughters, gives in jest a little fraction\nof the dough (two or three thousand square leagues of such dough are\nenough for a child) to some Poetical or Philosophical, or Legislative\npolisher, that so the little elf may have something to be shaping and\nmanufacturing beside its mother. And when the other young ones get a\ntaste of sisterkin's baking, they all clap hands, and cry, \"Aha,\nMother! canst bake like _Suky_ here?\"\n\n------------------------\n\n\nAt the appointed hour all gayly started from the Staple, I excepted;\nfor I still retained, even in the fairest daylight, that nocturnal\nDevil's-Ferment and Decomposition (of my cerebral globe as well as of\nthe Earth-globe) fermenting in my head; a proof that the night had not\naffected me, or exaggerated my fear. The Blind Passenger, whom I liked\nso ill, also mounted along with us, and looked at me as usual, but\nwithout effect; for on this occasion, when the destruction not of\nmyself only, but of worlds, was occupying my thoughts, the Passenger\nwas nothing to me but a joke and a show; as a man, while his leg is\na-sawing off, does not feel the throbbing of his heart; or amid the\nhumming of cannon, does not guard himself from that of wasps; so to me\nany Passenger, with all the firebrands he might throw into my near or\ndistant Future, could appear but ludicrous, at a time when I was\nreflecting that the \"Ferment\" might, even in my journey between Flaetz\nand Neusattel, be, by some American or European man of science, quite\nguiltlessly experimenting and decomposing, lighted upon by accident and\nlet loose. The question, nay prize-question now, however, were this:\n\"In how far, since Lichtenberg's threatening, it may not appear\nworld-murderous and self-murderous, if enlightened Potentates of\nchemical nations do not enjoin it on their chemical subjects,--who in\ntheir decompositions and separations may so easily separate the soul\nfrom their body and unite Heaven with Earth,--not in future to make any\nother chemical experiments than those already made, which hitherto have\nprofited the State rather than harmed it?\"\n\nUnfortunately, I continued sunk in this Doomsday of the Ferment with\nall my thoughts and meditations, without, in the whole course of our\nreturn from Flaetz to Neusattel, suffering or observing anything, except\nthat I actually arrived there, and at the same time saw the Blind\nPassenger once more go his ways.\n\nMy Bergelchen alone had I constantly looked at by the road, partly\nthat I might still see her, so long as life and eyes endured; partly\nthat, even at the smallest danger to her, be it a great, or even\nall-over-sweeping Deluge and World's-doom, I might die, if not _for_\nher, at least _by_ her, and so, united with that stanch, true heart,\ncast away a plagued and plaguing life, in which, at any rate, not half\nof my wishes for her have been fulfilled.\n\nSo then were my Journey over--crowned with some _Historiola_; and in\ntime coming, perhaps, still more rewarded through you, ye Friends about\nFlaetz, if in these pages you shall find any well-ground pruning-knives,\nwhereby you may more readily outroot the weedy tangle of Lies, which\nfor the present excludes me from the gallant Schabacker--Only this\ncursed Ferment still sits in my head. Farewell, then, so long as there\nare Atmospheres left us to breathe. I wish I had that Ferment out of my\nhead.                          Yours always,\n\n                                    Attila Schmelzle.\n\nP. S.--My brother-in-law has kept his promise well, and Berga is\ndancing. Particulars in my next!\n\n\n\n\n\n                         Analects From Richter.\n\n\n                             TRANSLATED BY\n\n                           THOMAS DE QUINCEY.\n\n\n\n\n                         ANALECTS FROM RICHTER.\n\n\n              THE HAPPY LIFE OF A PARISH PRIEST IN SWEDEN.\n\n\nSweden apart, the condition of a parish priest is in itself\nsufficiently happy: in Sweden, then, much more so. There he enjoys\nsummer and winter pure and unalloyed by any tedious interruptions: a\nSwedish spring, which is always a late one, is no repetition, in a\nlower key, of the harshness of winter, but anticipates, and is a\nprelibation of, perfect summer,--laden with blossoms,--radiant with the\nlily and the rose: insomuch, that a Swedish summer night represents\nimplicitly one half of Italy, and a winter night one half of the world\nbeside.\n\nI will begin with winter, and I will suppose it to be Christmas. The\npriest, whom we shall imagine to be a German, and summoned from the\nsouthern climate of Germany upon presentation to the church of a\nSwedish hamlet lying in a high polar latitude, rises in cheerfulness\nabout seven o'clock in the morning; and till half past nine he burns\nhis lamp. At nine o'clock, the stars are still shining, and the\nunclouded moon even yet longer. This prolongation of star-light into\nthe forenoon is to him delightful; for he is a German, and has a sense\nof something marvellous in a starry forenoon. Methinks, I behold the\npriest and his flock moving towards the church with lanterns: the\nlights dispersed amongst the crowd connect the congregation into the\nappearance of some domestic group or larger household, and carry the\npriest back to his childish years during the winter season and\nChristmas matins, when every hand bore its candle. Arrived at the\npulpit, he declares to his audience the plain truth, word for word, as\nit stands in the Gospel: in the presence of God, all intellectual\npretensions are called upon to be silent; the very reason ceases to be\nreasonable; nor is anything reasonable in the sight of God but a\nsincere and upright heart.\n\n                           *   *   *   *   *\n\nJust as he and his flock are issuing from the church the bright\nChristmas sun ascends above the horizon, and shoots his beams upon\ntheir faces. The old men, who are numerous in Sweden, are all tinged\nwith the colors of youth by the rosy morning-lustre; and the priest, as\nhe looks away from them to mother earth lying in the sleep of winter,\nand to the churchyard, where the flowers and the men are all in their\ngraves together, might secretly exclaim with the poet: \"Upon the dead\nmother, in peace and utter gloom, are reposing the dead children. After\na time, uprises the everlasting sun; and the mother starts up at the\nsummons of the heavenly dawn with a resurrection of her ancient\nbloom:--And her children?--Yes: but they must wait awhile.\"\n\nAt home he is awaited by a warm study, and a \"long-levelled rule\" of\nsunlight upon the book-clad wall.\n\nThe afternoon he spends delightfully; for, having before him such\nperfect flower-stand of pleasures, he scarcely knows where he\nshould settle. Supposing it to be Christmas-day, he preaches again:\nhe preaches on a subject which calls up images of the beauteous\neastern-land, or of eternity. By this time, twilight and gloom\nprevailed through the church: only a couple of wax-lights upon the\naltar throw wondrous and mighty shadows through the aisles: the angel\nthat hangs down from the roof above the baptismal font is awoke into a\nsolemn life by the shadows and the rays, and seems almost in the act of\nascension: through the windows, the stars or the moon are beginning to\npeer: aloft, in the pulpit, which is now hid in gloom, the priest is\ninflamed and possessed by the sacred burden of glad tidings which he is\nannouncing: he is lost and insensible to all besides; and from amidst\nthe darkness which surrounds him, he pours down his thunders, with\ntears and agitation, reasoning of future worlds, and of the heaven of\nheavens, and whatsoever else can most powerfully shake the heart and\nthe affections.\n\nDescending from his pulpit in these holy fervors, he now, perhaps,\ntakes a walk: it is about four o'clock: and he walks beneath a sky lit\nup by the shifting northern lights, that to his eye appear but an\nAurora striking upwards from the eternal morning of the south, or as a\nforest composed of saintly thickets, like the fiery bushes of Moses,\nthat are round the throne of God.\n\nThus, if it be the afternoon of Christmas-day: but if it be any other\nafternoon, visitors, perhaps, come and bring their well-bred, grown-up\ndaughters; like the fashionable world in London, he dines at sunset;\nthat is to say, like the _un_-fashionable world of London, he dines at\ntwo o'clock; and he drinks coffee by moonlight; and the parsonage-house\nbecomes an enchanted palace of pleasure gleaming with twilight,\nstarlight, and moonlight. Or, perhaps, he goes over to the\nschoolmaster, who is teaching his afternoon school: there by the\ncandlelight, he gathers round his knees all the scholars, as if--being\nthe children of his spiritual children--they must therefore be his own\ngrandchildren; and with delightful words he wins their attention, and\npours knowledge into their docile hearts.\n\nAll these pleasures failing, he may pace up and down in his library,\nalready, by three o'clock, gloomy with twilight, but fitfully enlivened\nby a glowing fire, and steadily by the bright moonlight; and he needs\ndo no more than taste at every turn of his walk a little orange\nmarmalade,--to call up images of beautiful Italy, and its gardens and\norange groves, before all his five senses, and as it were to the very\ntip of his tongue. Looking at the moon, he will not fail to recollect\nthat the very same silver disk hangs at the very same moment between\nthe branches of the laurels in Italy. It will delight him to consider\nthat the AEolian harp, and the lark, and indeed music of all kinds, and\nthe stars, and children, are just the same in hot climates and in cold.\nAnd when the post-boy, that rides in with news from Italy, winds his\nhorn through the hamlet, and with a few simple notes raises up on the\nfrozen window of his study a vision of flowery realms; and when he\nplays with treasured leaves of roses and of lilies from some departed\nsummer, or with plumes of a bird of paradise, the memorial of some\ndistant friend; when, further, his heart is moved by the magnificent\nsounds of Lady-day, Salad-season, Cherry-time, Trinity-Sundays, the\nrose of June, &c., how can he fail to forget that he is in Sweden by\nthe time that his lamp is brought in; and then, indeed, he will be\nsomewhat disconcerted to recognize his study in what had now shaped\nitself to his fancy as a room in some foreign land. However, if he\nwould pursue this airy creation, he need but light at his lamp a\nwax-candle-end, to gain a glimpse through the whole evening into\nthat world of fashion and splendor, from which he purchased the\nsaid wax-candle-end. For I should suppose, that at the court of\nStockholm, as elsewhere, there must be candle-ends to be bought of the\nstate-footmen.\n\nBut now, after the lapse of half a year, all at once there strikes upon\nhis heart something more beautiful than Italy, where the sun sets so\nmuch earlier in summertime than it does at our Swedish hamlet: and what\nis _that_? It is the longest day, with the rich freight that it carries\nin its bosom, and leading by the hand the early dawn blushing with rosy\nlight, and melodious with the carolling of larks at one o'clock in the\nmorning. Before two, that is, at sunrise, the elegant party that we\nmentioned last winter arrive in gay clothing at the parsonage; for they\nare bound on a little excursion of pleasure in company with the priest.\nAt two o'clock they are in motion; at which time all the flowers are\nglittering, and the forests are gleaming with the mighty light. The\nwarm sun threatens them with no storm nor thunder-showers; for both are\nrare in Sweden. The priest, in common with the rest of the company, is\nattired in the costume of Sweden; he wears his short jacket with a\nbroad scarf, his short cloak above that, his round hat with floating\nplumes, and shoes tied with bright ribbons: like the rest of the men,\nhe resembles a Spanish knight, or a Provencal, or other man of the\nsouth: more especially when he and his gay company are seen flying\nthrough the lofty foliage luxuriant with blossom, that within so short\na period of weeks has shot forth from the garden plots and the naked\nboughs.\n\nThat a longest day like this, bearing such a cornucopia of sunshine, of\ncloudless ether, of buds and bells, of blossoms and of leisure, should\npass away more rapidly than the shortest,--is not difficult to suppose.\nAs early as eight o'clock in the evening the party breaks up; the sun\nis now burning more gently over the half-closed sleepy flowers: about\nnine he has mitigated his rays, and is beheld bathing as it were naked\nin the blue depths of heaven: about ten, at which hour the company\nreassemble at the parsonage, the priest is deeply moved, for throughout\nthe hamlet, though the tepid sun, now sunk to the horizon, is still\nshedding a sullen glow upon the cottages and the window-panes,\neverything reposes in profoundest silence and sleep: the birds even are\nall slumbering in the golden summits of the woods: and at last, the\nsolitary sun himself sets, like a moon, amidst the universal quiet of\nnature. To our priest, walking in his romantic dress, it seems as\nthough rosy-colored realms were laid open, in which fairies and spirits\nrange; and he would scarcely feel an emotion of wonder, if, in this\nhour of golden vision, his brother, who ran away in childhood, should\nsuddenly present himself as one alighting from some blooming heaven of\nenchantment.\n\nThe priest will not allow his company to depart: he detains them in the\nparsonage garden,--where, says he, every one that chooses may slumber\naway in beautiful bowers the brief, warm hours until the reappearance\nof the sun. This proposal is generally adopted: and the garden is\noccupied: many a lovely pair are making believe to sleep, but, in fact,\nare holding each other by the hand. The happy priest walks up and\ndown through the parterres. Coolness comes, and a few stars. His\nnight-violets and gillyflowers open and breathe out their powerful\nodors. To the north, from the eternal morning of the pole, exhales as\nit were a golden dawn. The priest thinks of the village of his\nchildhood far away in Germany; he thinks of the life of man, his hopes,\nand his aspirations: and he is calm and at peace with himself. Then all\nat once starts up the morning sun in his freshness. Some there are in\nthe garden who would fain confound it with the evening sun, and close\ntheir eyes again: but the larks betray all, and awaken every sleeper\nfrom bower to bower.\n\nThen again begin pleasure and morning in their pomp of radiance; and\nalmost I could persuade myself to delineate the course of this day\nalso, though it differs from its predecessor hardly by so much as the\nleaf of a rose-bud.\n\n\n\n\n                        DREAM UPON THE UNIVERSE.\n\n\nI had been reading an excellent dissertation of Krueger's upon the old\nvulgar error which regards the space from one earth and sun to another\nas empty. Our sun together with all its planets fills only the\n31,419,460,000,000,000th part of the whole space between itself and the\nnext solar body. Gracious Heavens! thought I,--in what an unfathomable\nabyss of emptiness were this universe swallowed up and lost, if all\nwere void and utter vacuity except the few shining points of dust which\nwe call a planetary system! To conceive of our earthly ocean as the\nabode of death, and essentially incapable of life, and of its populous\nislands as being no greater than snail-shells, would be a far less\nerror in proportion to the compass of our planet than that which\nattributes emptiness to the great mundane spaces: and the error would\nbe far less if the marine animals were to ascribe life and fulness\nexclusively to the sea, and to regard the atmospheric ocean above them\nas empty and untenanted. According to Herschel, the most remote of the\ngalaxies which the telescope discovers lie at such a distance from us,\nthat their light, which reaches us at this day, must have set out on\nits journey two millions of years ago; and thus by optical laws it is\npossible that whole squadrons of the starry hosts may be now reaching\nus with their beams which have themselves perished ages ago. Upon this\nscale of computation for the dimensions of the world, what heights and\ndepths and breadths must there be in this universe--in comparison of\nwhich the positive universe would be itself a nihility, were it\ncrossed--pierced--and belted about by so illimitable a wilderness of\nnothing! But is it possible that any man can for a moment overlook\nthose vast forces which must pervade these imaginary deserts with\neternal surges of flux and reflux, to make the very paths to those\ndistant starry coasts voyageable to our eyes? Can you lock up in a sun\nor in its planets their reciprocal forces of attraction? Does not the\nlight stream through the immeasurable spaces between our earth and the\nnebula which is farthest removed from us? And in this stream of light\nthere is as ample an existence of the positive, and as much a home for\nthe abode of a spiritual world, as there is a dwelling-place for thy\nown spirit in the substance of the brain. To these and similar\nreflections succeeded the following dream:--\n\nMethought my body sank down in ruins, and my inner form stepped out\napparelled in light: and by my-side there stood another form which\nresembled my own, except that it did not shine like mine, but lightened\nunceasingly. \"Two thoughts,\" said the form, \"are the wings with which I\nmove; the thought of _Here_, and the thought of _There_. And behold! I\nam yonder\";--pointing to a distant world. \"Come, then, and wait on me\nwith thy thoughts and with thy flight, that I may show to thee the\nuniverse under a veil.\" And I flew along with the Form. In a moment our\nearth fell back, behind our consuming flight, into an abyss of\ndistance; a faint gleam only was reflected from the summits of the\nCordilleras; and a few moments more reduced the sun to a little star;\nand soon there remained nothing visible of our system except a comet\nwhich was travelling from our sun with angelic speed in the direction\nof Sirius. Our flight now carried us so rapidly through the flocks\nof solar bodies--flocks, past counting unless to their heavenly\nShepherd,--that scarcely could they expand themselves before us into\nthe magnitude of moons, before they sank behind us into pale nebular\ngleams; and their planetary earths could not reveal themselves for a\nmoment to the transcendent rapidity of our course. At length Sirius and\nall the brotherhood of our constellations and the galaxy of our heavens\nstood far below our feet as a little nebula amongst other yet more\ndistant nebulae. Thus we flew on through the starry wildernesses: one\nheaven after another unfurled its immeasurable banners before us, and\nthen rolled up behind us: galaxy behind galaxy towered up into solemn\naltitudes before which the spirit shuddered; and they stood in long\narray through which the Infinite Being might pass in progress.\nSometimes the Form that lightened would outfly my weary thoughts; and\nthen it would be seen far off before me like a coruscation amongst the\nstars--till suddenly I thought again to myself the thought of _There_,\nand then I was at its side. But, as we were thus swallowed up by one\nabyss of stars after another, and the heavens above our eyes were not\nemptier--neither were the heavens below them fuller; and as suns\nwithout intermission fell into the solar ocean like water-spouts of a\nstorm which fall into the ocean of waters;--then at length the human\nheart within me was overburdened and weary, and yearned after some\nnarrow cell or quiet oratory in this metropolitan cathedral of the\nuniverse. And I said to the Form at my side, \"O Spirit! has then this\nuniverse no end?\" And the Form answered and said, \"Lo! it has no\nbeginning.\"\n\nSuddenly, however, the heavens above us appeared to be emptied, and not\na star was seen to twinkle in the mighty abyss,--no gleam of light to\nbreak the unity of the infinite darkness. The starry hosts behind us\nhad all contracted into an obscure nebula: and at length _that_ also\nhad vanished. And I thought to myself, \"At last the universe has\nended\": and I trembled at the thought of the illimitable dungeon of\npure,--pure darkness which here began to imprison the creation: I\nshuddered at the dead sea of nothing, in whose unfathomable zone of\nblackness the jewel of the glittering universe seemed to be set and\nburied forever; and through the night in which we moved I saw the Form\nwhich still lightened as before, but left all around it unilluminated.\nThen the Form said to me in my anguish, \"O creature of little faith!\nLook up! the most ancient light is coming!\" I looked; and in a moment\ncame a twilight,--in the twinkling of an eye a galaxy,--and then with a\nchoral burst rushed in all the company of stars. For centuries gray\nwith age, for millennia hoary with antiquity, had the starry light been\non its road to us; and at length out of heights inaccessible to thought\nit had reached us. Now then, as through some renovated century, we flew\nthrough new cycles of heavens. At length again came a starless\ninterval; and far longer it endured, before the beams of a starry host\nagain had reached us.\n\nAs we thus advanced forever through an interchange of nights and solar\nheavens, and as the interval grew still longer and longer before the\nlast heaven we had quitted contracted to a point,--and as once we\nissued suddenly from the middle of thickest night into an Aurora\nBorealis,--the herald of an expiring world, and we found throughout\nthis cycle of solar systems that a day of judgment had indeed arrived;\nthe suns had sickened, and the planets were heaving--rocking, yawning\nin convulsions, the subterraneous waters of the great deeps were\nbreaking up, and lightnings that were ten diameters of a world in\nlength ran along--from east to west--from Zenith to Nadir; and here and\nthere, where a sun should have been, we saw instead through the misty\nvapor a gloomy--ashy--leaden corpse of a solar body, that sucked in\nflames from the perishing world--but gave out neither light nor heat;\nand as I saw, through a vista which had no end, mountain towering above\nmountain, and piled up with what seemed glittering snow from the\nconflict of solar and planetary bodies;--then my spirit bent under the\nload of the universe, and I said to the Form, \"Rest, rest: and lead me\nno farther: I am too solitary in the creation itself; and in its\ndeserts yet more so: the full world is great, but the empty world is\ngreater; and with the universe increase its Zaarahs.\"\n\nThen the Form touched me like the flowing of a breath, and spoke more\ngently than before: \"In the presence of God there is no emptiness:\nabove, below, between, and round about the stars, in the darkness and\nin the light, dwelleth the true and very Universe, the sum and fountain\nof all that is. But thy spirit can bear only earthly images of the\nunearthly; now then I cleanse thy sight with euphrasy; look forth, and\nbehold the images.\" Immediately my eyes were opened; and I looked, and\nI saw as it were an interminable sea of light,--sea immeasurable, sea\nunfathomable, sea without a shore. All spaces between all heavens were\nfilled with happiest light: and there was a thundering of floods: and\nthere were seas above the seas, and seas below the seas: and I saw all\nthe trackless regions that we had voyaged over: and my eye comprehended\nthe farthest and the nearest: and darkness had become light, and the\nlight darkness: for the deserts and wastes of the creation were now\nfilled with the sea of light, and in this sea the suns floated like\nash-gray blossoms, and the planets like black grains of seed. Then my\nheart comprehended that immortality dwelled in the spaces between the\nworlds, and death only amongst the worlds. Upon all the suns there\nwalked upright shadows in the form of men: but they were glorified when\nthey quitted these perishable worlds, and when they sank into the sea\nof light: and the murky planets, I perceived, were but cradles for the\ninfant spirits of the universe of light. In the Zaarahs of the creation\nI saw--I heard--I felt--the glittering--the echoing--the breathing of\nlife and creative power. The suns were but as spinning-wheels, the\nplanets no more than weavers' shuttles, in relation to the infinite web\nwhich composes the veil of Isis; which veil is hung over the whole\ncreation, and lengthens as any finite being attempts to raise it. And\nin sight of this immeasurability of life, no sadness could endure; but\nonly joy that knew no limit, and happy prayers.\n\nBut in the midst of this great vision of the Universe the Form that\nlightened eternally had become invisible, or had vanished to its home\nin the unseen world of spirits: I was left alone in the centre of a\nuniverse of life, and I yearned after some sympathizing being. Suddenly\nfrom the starry deeps there came floating through the ocean of light a\nplanetary body; and upon it there stood a woman whose face was as the\nface of a Madonna; and by her side there stood a child, whose\ncountenance varied not--neither was it magnified as he drew nearer.\nThis child was a king, for I saw that he had a crown upon his head: but\nthe crown was a crown of thorns. Then also I perceived that the\nplanetary body was our unhappy earth: and, as the earth drew near, this\nchild who had come forth from the starry deeps to comfort me threw upon\nme a look of gentlest pity and of unutterable love--so that in my heart\nI had a sudden rapture of joy such as passes all understanding; and I\nawoke in the tumult of my happiness.\n\nI awoke: but my happiness survived my dream: and I exclaimed, O how\nbeautiful is death, seeing that we die in a world of life and of\ncreation without end! and I blessed God for my life upon earth, but\nmuch more for the life in those unseen depths of the universe which are\nemptied of all but the Supreme Reality, and where no earthly life nor\nperishable hope can enter.\n\n\n\n\n               COMPLAINT OF THE BIRD IN A DARKENED CAGE.\n\n\n\"Ah!\" said the imprisoned bird, \"how unhappy were I in my eternal\nnight, but for those melodious tones which sometimes make their way to\nme like beams of light from afar, and cheer my gloomy day. But I will\nmyself repeat these heavenly melodies like an echo, until I have\nstamped them in my heart; and then I shall be able to bring comfort to\nmyself in my darkness!\" Thus spoke the little warbler, and soon had\nlearned the sweet airs that were sung to it with voice and instrument.\nThat done, the curtain was raised; for the darkness had been purposely\ncontrived to assist in its instruction. O man! how often dost thou\ncomplain of overshadowing grief and of darkness resting upon thy days!\nAnd yet what cause for complaint, unless indeed thou hast failed to\nlearn wisdom from suffering? For is not the whole sum of human life a\nveiling and an obscuring of the immortal spirit of man? Then first,\nwhen the fleshly curtain falls away, may it soar upwards into a region\nof happier melodies!\n\n\n\n\n                    ON THE DEATH OF YOUNG CHILDREN.\n\n\nEphemera die all at sunset, and no insect of this class has ever\nsported in the beams of the morning sun. Happier are ye, little human\nephemera! Ye played only in the ascending beams, and in the early dawn,\nand in the eastern light; ye drank only of the prelibations of life;\nhovered for a little space over a world of freshness and of blossoms;\nand fell asleep in innocence before yet the morning dew was exhaled!\n\n\n\n\n                        THE PROPHETIC DEW-DROPS.\n\n\nA delicate child, pale and prematurely wise, was complaining on a hot\nmorning that the poor dewdrops had been too hastily snatched away and\nnot allowed to glitter on the flowers like other happier dewdrops that\nlive the whole night through and sparkle in the moonlight, and through\nthe morning onwards to noonday: \"The sun,\" said the child, \"has chased\nthem away with his heat--or swallowed them in his wrath.\" Soon after\ncame rain and a rainbow; whereupon his father pointed upwards: \"See,\"\nsaid he, \"there stand thy dew-drops gloriously re-set--a glittering\njewelry--in the heavens; and the clownish foot tramples on them no\nmore. By this, my child, thou art taught that what withers upon earth\nblooms again in heaven.\" Thus the father spoke, and knew not that he\nspoke prefiguring words: for soon after the delicate child, with the\nmorning brightness of his early wisdom, was exhaled, like a dewdrop,\ninto heaven.\n\n\n\n\n                               ON DEATH.\n\n\nWe should all think of death as a less hideous object, if it simply\nuntenanted our bodies of a spirit, without corrupting them; secondly,\nif the grief which we experience at the spectacle of our friends'\ngraves were not by some confusion of the mind blended with the image of\nour own; thirdly, if we had not in this life seated ourselves in a warm\ndomestic nest, which we are unwilling to quit for the cold blue regions\nof the unfathomable heavens; finally,--if death were denied to us. Once\nin dreams I saw a human being of heavenly intellectual faculties, and\nhis aspirations were heavenly; but he was chained (methought) eternally\nto the earth. The immortal old man had five great wounds in his\nhappiness--five worms that gnawed forever at his heart: he was unhappy\nin springtime, because _that_ is a season of hope--and rich with\nphantoms of far happier days than any which this aceldama of earth\ncan realize. He was unhappy at the sound of music, which dilates the\nheart of man into its whole capacity for the infinite, and he cried\naloud,--\"Away, away! Thou speakest of things which throughout my\nendless life I have found not, and shall not find!\" He was unhappy at\nthe remembrance of earthly affections and dissevered hearts: for love\nis a plant which may bud in this life, but it must flourish in another.\nHe was unhappy under the glorious spectacle of the starry host, and\nejaculated forever in his heart,--\"So then I am parted from you to all\neternity by an impassable abyss: the great universe of suns is above,\nbelow, and round about me: but I am chained to a little ball of dust\nand ashes.\" He was unhappy before the great ideas of Virtue--of\nTruth--and of God; because he knew how feeble are the approximations to\nthem which a son of earth can make. But this was a dream: God be\nthanked, that in reality there is no such craving and asking eye\ndirected upwards to heaven--to which death will not one day bring an\nanswer!\n\n\n\n\n                  IMAGINATION UNTAMED BY THE COARSER\n                           REALITIES OF LIFE.\n\n\nHappy is every actor in the guilty drama of life, to whom the higher\nillusion within supplies or conceals the external illusion; to whom, in\nthe tumult of his part and its intellectual interest, the bungling\nlandscapes of the stage have the bloom and reality of nature, and whom\nthe loud parting and shocking of the scenes disturb not in his dream!\n\n\n\n\n                     SATIRICAL NOTICE OF REVIEWERS.\n\n\nIn Swabia, in Saxony, in Pomerania, are towns in which are stationed a\nstrange sort of officers,--valuers of author's flesh, something like\nour old market-lookers in this town. They are commonly called tasters\n(or _Praegustatores_) because they eat a mouthful of every book\nbeforehand, and tell the people whether its flavor be good. We authors,\nin spite, call them _reviewers_: but I believe an action of defamation\nwould lie against us for such bad words. The tasters write no books\nthemselves; consequently they have the more time to look over and tax\nthose of other people. Or, if they do sometimes write books, they are\nbad ones: which again is very advantageous to them: for who can\nunderstand the theory of badness in other people's books so well as\nthose who have learned it by practice in their own? They are reputed\nthe guardians of literature and the literati for the same reason that\nSt. Nepomuk is the patron saint of bridges and of all who pass over\nthem,--namely, because he himself once lost his life from a bridge.\n\n\n\n\n                            FEMALE TONGUES.\n\n\nHippel, the author of the book \"Upon Marriage,\" says, \"A woman, that\ndoes not talk, must be a stupid woman.\" But Hippel is an author whose\nopinions it is more safe to admire than to adopt. The most intelligent\nwomen are often silent amongst women; and again the most stupid and the\nmost silent are often neither one nor the other except amongst men. In\ngeneral the current remark upon men is valid also with respect to\nwomen,--that those for the most part are the greatest thinkers who are\nthe least talkers; as frogs cease to croak when _light_ is brought to\nthe water edge. However, in fact, the disproportionate talking of\nwomen arises out of the sedentariness of their labors: sedentary\nartisans,--as tailors, shoemakers, weavers,--have this habit as well as\nhypochondriacal tendencies in common with women. Apes do not talk, as\nsavages say, that they may not be set to work: but women often talk\ndouble their share--even _because_ they work.\n\n\n\n\n                              FORGIVENESS.\n\n\nNothing is more moving to man than the spectacle of reconciliation: our\nweaknesses are thus indemnified, and are not too costly--being the\nprice we pay for the hour of forgiveness: and the archangel, who has\nnever felt anger, has reason to envy the man who subdues it. When thou\nforgivest,--the man, who has pierced thy heart, stands to thee in the\nrelation of the sea-worm that perforates the shell of the muscle, which\nstraightway closes the wound with a pearl.\n\n                               *   *   *\n\nThe graves of the best of men, of the noblest martyrs, are like the\ngraves of the Herrnhuters (the Moravian brethren)--level, and\nundistinguishable from the universal earth: and, if the earth could\ngive up her secrets, our whole globe would appear a Westminster Abbey\nlaid flat. Ah! what a multitude of tears, what myriads of bloody drops\nhave been shed in secrecy about the three corner-trees of earth,--the\ntree of life, the tree of knowledge, and the tree of freedom,--shed,\nbut never reckoned! It is only great periods of calamity that reveal to\nus our great men, as comets are revealed by total eclipses of the sun.\nNot merely upon the field of battle, but also upon the consecrated soil\nof virtue--and upon the classic ground of truth, thousands of\n_nameless_ heroes must fall and struggle to build up the footstool\nfrom which history surveys the _one_ hero, whose name is embalmed,\nbleeding--conquering--and resplendent. The grandest of heroic deeds are\nthose which are performed within four walls and in domestic privacy.\nAnd, because history records only the self-sacrifices of the male sex,\nand because she dips her pen only in blood,--therefore is it that in\nthe eyes of the unseen spirit of the world our annals appear doubtless\nfar more beautiful and noble than in our own.\n\n\n\n\n                 THE GRANDEUR OF MAN IN HIS LITTLENESS.\n\n\nMan upon this earth would be vanity and hollowness, dust and ashes,\nvapor and a bubble,--were it not that he felt himself to be so. That it\nis possible for him to harbor such a feeling,--_this_, by implying a\ncomparison of himself with something higher in himself, _this_ is it\nwhich makes him the immortal creature that he is.\n\n\n\n\n                                 NIGHT.\n\n\nThe earth is every day overspread with the veil of night for the same\nreason as the cages of birds are darkened,--namely, that we may the\nmore readily apprehend the higher harmonies of thought in the hush and\nquiet of darkness. Thoughts, which day turns into smoke and mist, stand\nabout us in the night as lights and flames: even as the column which\nfluctuates above the crater of Vesuvius, in the daytime appears a\npillar of cloud, but by night a pillar of fire.\n\n\n\n\n                               THE STARS.\n\n\nLook up, and behold the eternal fields of light that lie round about\nthe throne of God. Had no star ever appeared in the heavens, to man\nthere would have been no heavens; and he would have laid himself down\nto his last sleep, in a spirit of anguish, as upon a gloomy earth\nvaulted over by a material arch--solid and impervious.\n\n\n\n\n                               MARTYRDOM.\n\n\nTo die for the truth--is not to die for one's country, but to die for\nthe world. Truth, like the _Venus del Medici_, will pass down in thirty\nfragments to posterity: but posterity will collect and recompose them\ninto a goddess. Then also thy temple, O eternal Truth! that now stands\nhalf below the earth--made hollow by the sepulchres of its witnesses,\nwill raise itself in the total majesty of its proportions; and will\nstand in monumental granite; and every pillar on which it rests will be\nfixed in the grave of a martyr.\n\n\n\n\n                        THE QUARRELS OF FRIENDS.\n\n\nWhy is it that the most fervent love becomes more fervent by brief\ninterruption and reconciliation? and why must a storm agitate our\naffections before they can raise the highest rainbow of peace? Ah! for\nthis reason it is--because all passions feel their object to be as\neternal as themselves, and no love can admit the feeling that the\nbeloved object should die. And under this feeling of imperishableness\nit is that we hard fields of ice shock together so harshly, whilst all\nthe while under the sunbeams of a little space of seventy years we are\nrapidly dissolving.\n\n\n\n\n                               DREAMING.\n\n\nBut for dreams, that lay Mosaic worlds tessellated with flowers and\njewels before the blind sleeper, and surround the recumbent living with\nthe figures of the dead in the upright attitude of life, the time would\nbe too long before we are allowed to rejoin our brothers, parents,\nfriends: every year we should become more and more painfully sensible\nof the desolation made around us by death, if sleep--the ante-chamber\nof the grave--were not hung by dreams with the busts of those who live\nin the other world.\n\n\n\n\n                  TWO DIVISIONS OF PHILOSOPHIC MINDS.\n\n\nThere are two very different classes of philosophical heads--which,\nsince Kant has introduced into philosophy the idea of positive and\nnegative quantities, I shall willingly classify by means of that\ndistinction. The positive intellect is, like the poet, in conjunction\nwith the outer world, the father of an inner world; and, like the poet\nalso, holds up a transforming mirror in which the entangled and\ndistorted members as they are seen in our actual experience enter into\nnew combinations which compose a fair and luminous world: the\nhypothesis of Idealism (i. e. the Fichtean system) the Monads and the\nPre-established Harmony of Leibnitz--and Spinozism are all births of a\ngenial moment, and not the wooden carving of logical toil. Such men\ntherefore as Leibnitz, Plato, Herder, &c., I call positive intellects;\nbecause they seek and yield the positive; and because their inner\nworld, having raised itself higher out of the water than in others,\nthereby overlooks a larger prospect of island and continents. A\nnegative head, on the other hand, discovers by its acuteness--not any\npositive truths, but the negative (i. e. the errors) of other people.\nSuch an intellect, as for example Bayle, one of the greatest of that\nclass,--appraises the funds of others, rather than brings any fresh\nfunds of his own. In lieu of the obscure ideas which he finds he gives\nus clear ones: but in this there is no positive accession to our\nknowledge; for all that the clear idea contains in development exists\nalready by implication in the obscure idea. Negative intellects of\nevery age are unanimous in their abhorrence of everything positive.\nImpulse, feeling, instinct--everything, in short, which is\nincomprehensible, they can endure just once--that is, at the summit of\ntheir chain of arguments as a sort of hook on which they may hang\nthem,--but never afterwards.\n\n\n\n\n                   DIGNITY OF MAN IN SELF-SACRIFICE.\n\n\nThat for which man offers up his blood or his property must be more\nvaluable than they. A good man does not fight with half the courage\nfor his own life that he shows in the protection of another's. The\nmother, who will hazard nothing for herself, will hazard all in defence\nof her child:--in short, only for the nobility within us--only for\nvirtue, will man open his veins and offer up his spirit: but this\nnobility--this virtue--presents different phases: with the Christian\nmartyr, it is faith; with the savage, it is honor; with the republican,\nit is liberty.\n\n\n\n\n                                 FANCY.\n\n\nFancy can lay only the past and the future under her copying-paper: and\nevery actual presence of the object sets limits to her power: just as\nwater distilled from roses, according to the old naturalists, lost its\npower exactly at the periodical blooming of the rose.\n\n                               *   *   *\n\nThe older, the more tranquil, and pious a man is, so much the more holy\ndoes he esteem all that is _innate_, that is, _feeling_ and _power_;\nwhereas in the estimate of the multitude whatsoever is _self-acquired_,\nthe ability of practice and science in general has an undue\npre-eminence; for the latter is universally appreciated, and therefore\neven by those who have it not, but the former not at all. In the\ntwilight and the moonshine the fixed stars, which are suns, retire and\nveil themselves in obscurity; whilst the planets, which are simply\nearths, preserve their borrowed light unobscured. The elder races of\nmen, amongst whom man _was_ more, though he had not yet _become_ so\nmuch, had a childlike feeling of sympathy with all the gifts of the\nInfinite--for example, with strength--beauty--and good fortune; and\neven the _involuntary_ had a sanctity in their eyes, and was to them a\nprophecy and a revelation: hence the value they ascribed, and the\nart of interpretation they applied, to the speeches of children--of\nmadmen--of drunkards--and of dreamers.\n\n                               *   *   *\n\nAs the blind man knows not light, and through that ignorance also of\nnecessity knows not darkness,--so likewise, but for disinterestedness\nwe should know nothing of selfishness, but for slavery nothing of\nfreedom: there are perhaps in this world many things which remain\nobscure to us for want of alternating with their opposites.\n\n                               *   *   *\n\nDerham remarks in his Physico-theology that the deaf hear best in the\nmidst of noise, as, for instance, during the ringing of bells, &c. This\nmust be the reason, I suppose, that the thundering of drums, cannons,\n&c., accompany the entrance into cities of princes and ministers, who\nare generally rather deaf, in order that they may the better hear the\npetitions and complaints of the people.\n\n\n\n\n\n                         MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.\n\n\n\n\n                             REMINISCENCES\n            OF THE BEST HOURS OF LIFE FOR THE HOUR OF DEATH.\n\n\n\"Give me,\" said Herder to his son, as he lay in the parched weariness\nof his last illness,--\"give me a great thought, that I may quicken\nmyself with it.\"\n\nIt marks a strange perversity in human nature, that we are wont to\noffer nothing but images of terror--no stars of cheering light--to\nthose who lie imprisoned in the darkness of a sick-bed, when the\nglitter of the dew of life is waxing gray and dim before them. It is\nindeed hard that lamentations and emotions are frequently vented upon\nthe dying, which would be withheld from the living in all their vigor;\nas if the sick patient was to console those in health. There stands no\nspirit in the closeness of a sick-chamber to awaken a cheering smile on\nthat nerveless, colorless countenance; but only confessors, lawyers,\nand doctors, who order everything, and relatives who lament at\neverything. There stands no lofty spirit, elevated above the\ncircumstance of sorrow, to conduct the prostrate soul of the sufferer,\nthirsty for the refreshment of joy, back to the old springtide waters\nof pious recollection; and so to mingle these with the last ecstasies\nof life, as to give the dying man a foreboding of his transition to\nanother state. On the contrary, the death-bed is narrowed into a coffin\nwithout a lid. The value of life is enhanced to the departing one by\nlies which promise cure, or words which proffer consolation; the bier\nis represented as a scaffold, the harsh discord of life is trumpeted\ninto the ears which survive long after the eyes are dead, instead of\nletting life ebb away like an echo in sounds ever deeper, though\nfainter. Nevertheless, man has this of good in him, that he recalls the\nslightest joy which he has shared with a dying person, far rather than\na thousand greater pleasures given to a person in health; perhaps\nbecause, in the latter case, we hope to repeat and redouble our\nattentions,--so little do mortals reflect that every pleasure they give\nor they receive may be the last.\n\nOur exit from life would therefore be greatly more painful than our\nentrance into it, were it not that our good mother Nature had\npreviously mitigated its sufferings, by gently bearing her children\nfrom one world into another when they are already heavy with sleep. For\nin the hour before the last she allows a breastplate of indifference\ntoward the survivors to freeze about the heart of the lamented one; and\nin the hour immediately preceding dissolution (as we learn from those\nwho have recovered from apparent death, and from the demeanor of many\ndying persons), the brain is, as it were, inundated and watered by\nfaint eddies of bliss, comparable to nothing upon earth better than to\nthe ineffable sensations felt by a patient under magnetic treatment.\n\nWe can by no means know how high these sensations of dying may reach,\nas we have accounts of them from none but those in whom the process has\nbeen interrupted; nor can we ascertain whether it is not these\necstatical transports which exhaust life more than the convulsions of\npain, and which loosen the tie of this terrestrial state in some\nunknown heaven.\n\nThe history of the dying is a serious and prodigious history, but on\nearth its leaves will never be unrolled.\n\n\nIn the little village of Heim, Gottreich Hartmann resided with his old\nfather, who was a curate; and although the old man had wellnigh\noutlived all those whom he had loved, he was made happy by his son.\nGottreich discharged his duties for him in the parish, not so much in\naid of his parent's unflinching vigor, as to satisfy his own energy,\nand to give his father the exquisite gratification of being edified by\nhis child and companion.\n\nIn Gottreich there thrilled a spirit of true poetry; he was not, like\nthe greater number of poetical young men, a bulbous plant, which, when\nit has sent forth its own flower, fattens its unseemly fruit\nunderground; but he was a tree which crowned its variegated blossoms\nwith sweet and beautiful fruits; and these buds were as yet coiled up\nfrom the warmth of the earliest springtide of a poet's life.\n\nHis father had had in his youth a poet's ardor of like intensity, but\nit was not favored by the times; for in the last century many a spirit\nwhich might have soared was engaged to the pulpit or the law-court,\nbecause the old-fashioned middle classes were convinced that their\noffspring would find richer pasture on the meadow and in the valley\nthan on the peaks of the mountain of the Muses.\n\nNevertheless, the repressed spirit of a poet, when it cannot exhale\nitself in creation, recoils but the more closely into the depths of his\nheart. His unuttered feelings speak in his motions as with a voice, and\nhis actions express his imagery, and in this manner the poet may live\nas long as the man; just as the short-lived butterfly may last out the\nlong, hard winter in its chrysalis state, if it has not burst its\nprison in the preceding summer.\n\nSuch had been the life of the elder Hartmann; and yet more beautiful\nwas it, because the virginal soul of the poet lives in the offices of\nreligion, as in a nun's cell; and the twin sisters Piety and Poetry are\nwont to dwell together and stand by one another.\n\nHow beautiful and how pure is the position of God's ministers! All that\nis good dwells around them,--religion, poetry, and the life of a\nshepherd of souls; whilst other professions oft serve only to choke up\nthis goodly neighborhood. Son and father seemed to live in one another,\nand on the site of filial and paternal love there arose the structure\nof a rare and singular friendship. Gottreich not only cheered his\nfather by the new birth of his lost poet's youth, but by the still more\nbeautiful similarity of their faith. In days gone by, a minister who\nsent his son to the public theological schools might expect him to\nreturn the sworn antagonist of all that he had himself daily prayed to\nat the altar in the discharge of his office: the son returned to his\nfather's roof as a missionary sent to convert the heathen, or as an\nantichrist. There may have been sorrows of a father, which, though all\nunspoken, were deeper than a mother's sorrows. But times are perhaps\nbetter now.\n\nGottreich, though he entered the high schools with his share of the\nuppish, quibbling of early youth, returned with the faith of his\nancestors and of his father. For he had studied under instructors who\nhad taught him to cling rather to the teachings of the old faith than\nto the ingenious explanations of the commentators, and who had exposed\nto the light alone what is serviceable to man, as to a plant, and to\nits outward growth, but not the roots perniciously. Thus the father\nfound again his old Christian heart sending forth new shoots in the\nbosom of his Gottreich, and moreover the best justification of the\nconvictions of his life and of his love.\n\nIf it be pain to us to love and at the same time to contradict, to\nrefuse with the head what the heart grants, it is all the sweeter to us\nto find ourselves and our faith transplanted forwards in a younger\nbeing. Life is then a beautiful night, in which not one star goes down\nbut another rises in its place.\n\nGottreich possessed a paradise, in which he labored as his father's\ngardener; he was at once the wife, the brother, the friend, the all\nthat is to be loved by man, of his parent. Every Sunday brought him a\nnew pleasure, that of preaching a sermon before his father. He\ndisplayed so much power in his pulpit eloquence, that he seemed to\nlabor more for the elevation and edification of his father than for the\nenlightenment of the common people; though he held a maxim, which I\ntake to be far from erroneous, that the highest subjects of\nintellectual speculation are good for the people as for children, and\nthat _man can only learn to rise, from the consideration of that which\nhe cannot surmount_. If the eye of the old man was moistened, or if his\nhands were suddenly folded in an attitude of prayer, the Sunday became\nthe holiest of festivals; and many a festival has there been in that\nquiet little parsonage, whose festivity no one understood and no one\nperceived. He who looks upon sermon-preaching and sermon-hearing as a\ndull pleasure, will but little understand the zest with which the two\nfriends conversed on discourses delivered, and on those yet to come, as\nif pulpit-criticism was as engrossing as the criticism of the stage.\nThe approbation and the love of an energetic old man like Hartmann,\nwhose spiritual limbs had by no means stiffened on the chilly ridge of\nyears, could not but exercise a powerful influence on a young man like\nGottreich, who, more tenderly and delicately formed both in body and\nmind, was wont to shoot forth in loftier and more rapid flame.\n\nTo these two happy men was added a happy woman also. Justa, an\norphan, sole mistress of her property, had entirely left and sold the\ntrading-house which had been her father's, in the town, and had removed\ninto the upper part of a good peasant's cottage, to live entirely in\nthe country. Justa did nothing in the world by halves, but she often\ndid things more than most would deem completely, at least in all that\ntouched her generosity. She had not long resided in the village of\nHeim, and had seen the meek Gottreich, and listened to some of his\nspringtide sermons, ere she discovered that he had won her heart,\nfilled as it was with the love of virtue; she nevertheless refused to\ngrant him her hand until the conclusion of the great peace, after\nwhich they were to be married. She was ever fonder of doing what is\ndifficult than what is easy. I wish that it was here the place to\ntell of the May-time life they led, which seemed to blossom in the low\nparsonage-house hard by the church-door under Justa's hand; how she came\nin the morning from her own cottage, to order matters in the little\ndwelling for the day; how the evenings were passed in the garden,\nornamented with few, but pretty flower-beds, and commanding a view of\nmany a well-watered meadow and distant hill, and stars without number;\nhow these three hearts played into one another, no one of which in this\nmost pure and intimate intercourse knew or felt anything which was not\nof the fairest; and how good and gay intention marked the passage of\ntheir lives. Every bench was a church chair, all was peaceful and holy,\nand the firmament above an infinite church dome.\n\nIn many a village and in many a house a true Eden may be hid, which has\nneither been named nor marked down; for joy is fond of covering over\nand concealing her tenderest flowers. Gottreich reposed in such a\nfulness of bliss and love, of poetry and religion, of springtime, of\nthe past and of the future, that he feared in the bottom of his heart\nto speak his happiness out, save in prayer. In prayer, thought he, man\nmay say all, his happiness and his misery. His father was very happy\nalso; there came over him a warm old age,--no winter night, but a\nsummer evening, without frost or darkness: albeit the sun of his life\nwas sunk pretty deep below the mound of earth under which his wife was\nlain down to sleep.\n\nNothing recalls the close of life to a noble-hearted young man so much\nas precisely the happiest and fairest hours which he passes. Gottreich,\nin the midst of the united fragrance and beauty of the flowers of joy,\neven with the morning-star of life above him, could not but think on\nthe time when the same should appear to him as the evening star,\nwarning him of sleep. Then said he to himself: \"All is now so certain\nand so clear before me,--the beauty and the holiness of life, the\nsplendor of the universe, the Creator, the dignity and the greatness of\nman's heart, the bright images of eternal truth, the whole starry\nfirmament of ideas, which enlightens, instructs, and upholds man! But\nwhen I am grown old, and in the obstruction of death, will not all that\nnow rustles so bloomingly and livingly about me appear gray and dull?\nJust when man is approaching that heaven which he has so long\ncontemplated, Death holds the telescope inverted before his dim eye,\nand lets him see only what is empty, distant, shadowy. But is this\nindeed true? Shall I be more likely to be right when I only feel and\nthink and hope, with half a life, incapable of a keen glance or an\nintense sensation,--or am I right now, that my whole heart is warm,\nthat my whole head is clear, and my strength fresh? I acknowledge that\nthe present is the fittest season, and that precisely because I do\nacknowledge it to be the fittest. I will then live through this daytime\nof truth attentively, and bear it away with me to the evening dusk,\nthat it may lighten my end.\"\n\nIn these sweetest May-hours of youth, when heaven and earth and his own\nheart were beating together in harmony, he gave ardent words to his\nardent thoughts, and kept them written down under the title of\n\"_Reminiscences of the best Hours of Life for the Hour of Death_.\" He\nmeant to cheer himself at his last hour with these views of his happy\nlife, and to look back from the glow of the evening to the brightness\nof the morning of his youth.\n\nThus lived these three beings, ever rejoicing more deeply in one\nanother and in their genial happiness, when at last the chariots of the\nstruggle and the victories of the holy War[77] began to roll over the\nland.\n\nNow Gottreich became another man; like a young bird of passage, which,\nthough it know nothing of summer climates, frets in its warm cage that\nit cannot fly away with the older birds of its kind. The active powers\nof his nature, which had heretofore been the quiet audience of his\npoetical and oratorical powers, arose; and it seemed to him as if the\nspirit of energy, which hitherto had wasted itself like the flames of a\nbituminous soil on the empty air, were now seeking an object to lay\nhold of. He dared not, however, risk to propose a separation to his\nfather, but he by turns tormented and refreshed himself inwardly with\nthe idea of laboring and combating with the rest. To Justa alone he\nconfided his wishes, but she did not give them encouragement, because\nshe thought the old man's solitude would be too great for him to bear.\nAt last the old man himself, inspirited for war by Gottreich and his\nbetrothed one, said that his son had better go, that he had long\ndesired it, and had only been silent through love for him. He hoped,\nwith God's aid, to be able to discharge his pastoral duties for a\ntwelvemonth; so that he, too, should be doing something for his\ncountry.\n\nGottreich departed, trusting to the autumnal strength of his father's\nlife. He enlisted as a common soldier, and preached also wherever he\nwas able. The entrance on a new career awakens new energies and powers,\nwhich rapidly unfold into life and vigor. Although fortune spared him\nthe wounds which he would so willingly have brought back with him into\nthe peaceful future of his life, in memory as it were of the focus of\nhis youth, yet it was happiness enough to take part in the battles,\nand, like an old republican, to fight together with a whole nation for\nthe common cause.\n\nWhen at length, in the most beautiful month of May which ever Germany\nhad won by conquest, the festivals of victory and of peace began in\nmore than one nation. Gottreich was unwilling to pass those days of\nrejoicing so far from those who were dearest to him; he longed for\ntheir company, that his joy might be doubled: so he took the road to\nHeim. Thousands, before and after him, journeyed at that time over the\nliberated land, from a happy past to a happy future; but few there were\nwho saw, like Gottreich, so pure a firmament over the mountains of his\nnative valleys, in which not a star was missing, but every one of them\nwas twinkling and bright. Justa had already sent him the little annals\nof the parsonage; had told him how she longed for his return, and how\nhis father rejoiced; how well the old man stood the labors of his\noffice, and how she had still better secrets of joy in store for him.\nTo these latter belonged, perhaps, one which he had not forgotten,\nnamely, her promise to give him her hand after the great peace.\n\nWith such prospects he enjoyed in thought, ever from Whitsuntide\nforwards, that holy evening when he should unexpectedly relieve the old\nman from all his labors, and begin to prepare the tranquil festivities\nof the village.\n\nAs he was thus thinking upon that day's meeting, and as the mountains\nabove his father's village, in which he was so soon to clasp those fond\nhearts to his own, were seen more and more clearly in relief against\nthe blue sky, his \"Reminiscences of the best Hours of Life for the Hour\nof Death\" re-echoed in his soul, and he could not refrain from noting\namongst them, as he went along, the joy of meeting again here below.\n\nBehind him there was coming up a storm from the east, in the direction\nof his home, before which he seemed to come a happy messenger; for the\nstorms of war, which he had seen upon the earth, had reconciled to him\nand made him love those of heaven; and the parched ground, the dropping\nflowers, and the ears of corn had long been thirsting for the waters of\nthe warm clouds. A parishioner of Heim, who was laboring in the fields,\nsaluted him as he passed, and expressed his joy that the rain and\nGottreich had both come at last together.\n\nAnd now he caught sight of the low church-steeple, peeping from the\nclustered trees, and he entered upon that tract of the valley where the\nparsonage lay, all reddened by the evening sun. At every window he\nhoped to see his betrothed one, if perchance she might be looking out\non the sunset before the storm came on; and as he came nearer, he hoped\nto see the lattice open, and Whitsuntide brooms in the chief apartment;\nbut he found nothing of all this.\n\nAt last he entered quietly the parsonage-house, and slowly opened the\nwell-known door. The room was empty, but he heard a noise overhead.\nWhen he opened the door of his upper chamber, which was filled with a\nglow from the west, Justa was kneeling before the bed of his father,\nwho, sitting half upright, was looking with a haggard, stiff, and bony\ncountenance toward the setting sun before him. A clasp of her lover to\nher breast, and one exclamation, was all his reception. But his father\nstretched his wizened hand slowly out, and said, with difficulty, \"Thou\nart come at the right time!\" without adding whether he spoke of the\npreachings or of their separation.\n\nJusta hastily related how the old man had overworked himself, till body\nand spirit had given way together,--so that he no longer took a share\nin anything, though he longed to be with the sharers,--and how he lay\nprostrate with broken wings, looking upwards like a needy child. The\nold man was grown hard of hearing, and she could say all this in his\npresence.\n\nGottreich soon confirmed it to himself. He would fain have infused the\nfire of conquest, reflected in his own bosom, which, like a red evening\ncloud, was announcing a fair dawn to Europe, into that old and once\nstrong heart; but he heard neither wish nor question of it. The old\nman gazed steadily upon the sun, until at last it was hid by the storm.\nNevertheless the war of the elements seemed to touch him but little;\nthe glare of life broke dimly through the thickening ice of death. A\ndying man knows no present,--nothing but the future and the past.\n\nOn a sudden the landscape grew dark, all the winds stood pent, the\nearth oppressed; then there came a gush of rain and a crash of thunder.\nThe lightning streamed around the old man, and he looked up altered and\nastonished. \"Hist!\" said he; \"I hear the rain once more;--speak\nquickly, children, for I shall soon depart.\"\n\nBoth his children clung to him, but he was too weak to embrace them.\n\nAnd now, as the warm, healing springs of the clouds bathed the sick\nearth, down from the dripping tree to the blades of grass, and as the\nsky glistened mildly as with a tear of joy, and the thunder went\nwarring away behind the distant mountains, the sick man pointed\nupwards, and said, \"Seest thou the lordliness of God? My son,\nstrengthen now at the last my weary soul with something holy, in the\nspirit of love, and not of penance; for if our hearts condemn us not,\nthen have we confidence toward God. Say something rich in love to me of\nGod and of his works.\"\n\nThen the eyes of his son overflowed, to think that he should read the\nReminiscences which he had prepared for his own death-bed at the\ndeath-bed of his father. When he said this to him, the old man\nanswered, \"Hasten, my son!\" and with a faltering voice, Gottreich began\nto read:--\n\n\"Remember, in the darkening hour, that the glow of the universe once\nfilled thy breast, and that thou hast acknowledged the magnitude of\nexistence. Hast thou not looked forth into one half of infinity by\nnight, and into the other half by day? Think away the nothingness of\nspace, and the earth which is around thee; worlds above, around, and\nbeneath arch thee about as a centre, all impelling and impelled,\nsplendor within splendor, magnitude within magnitude; all brightness\ncentring in the universal Sun. Carry thy thoughts forwards through\neternity, toward that universal Sun; thou shalt not arrive at darkness\nnor emptiness. What is empty dwells only between the worlds, not around\nthe world.\n\n\"Remember, in the dark hour, those times when thou hast prayed to God\nin ecstasy, and when thou hast thought on him,--the greatest thought of\nfinite man,--the Infinite One!\"\n\nHere the old man clasped his hands, and prayed low.\n\n\"Hast thou not known and felt the existence of that Being, whose\ninfinity consists not only in his strength, in his wisdom, and his\neternity, but also in his love and in his justice? Canst thou forget\nthe time when the blue sky by day and the blue sky by night opened on\nthee, as if the mildness of God was looking down on thee? Hast thou not\nfelt the love of the Infinite, when it veiled itself in its image, in\nloving hearts of men; as the sun, which casts its light not on our moon\nalone, for our nights, but on the morning and evening star also, and on\nevery little twinkler, even to the farthest from the earth?\n\n\"Remember, in the dark hour, how in the spring of thy life the mounds\nof earth which are graves appeared to thee only as the mountain-tops of\nanother far and new world; and how in the midst of the fulness of life\nthou didst acknowledge the value of death. The snow of the grave shall\nwarm the frost-bitten limbs of age to life again. As a navigator who\nsuddenly disembarks from the cold, wintry, and lonely sea, upon a coast\nwhich is laden with the warm, rich blossoms of spring, so with one leap\nfrom our little bark we pass at once from winter to an eternal\nspringtime.\n\n\"Rejoice, in this dark hour, that thy life dwells in the midst of a\nwider and larger life. The earth-clod of the globe has been divinely\nbreathed upon. A world swarms with life,--for the leaf of every tree is\na land of souls; and every little life would freeze and perish, if it\nwere not warmed and borne up by the eddies of life about it. The sea\nof time glitters, like the sea of space, with countless beings of\nlight: death and resurrection are the valleys and mountains of the\never-swelling ocean. There exists no dead anatomy; what seems to be\nsuch is only another body. Without a universal living existence, there\nwould be nothing but a wide, all-encompassing death. We cling like\nmosses to the Alps of nature, drawing life from the high clouds. Man is\nthe butterfly which flutters up to Chimborazo, but above the butterfly\nsoars the condor: however many, small or great, the giant and the child\nare free wanderers in one garden; and the fly of a day may retrace its\ninfinite series of progenitors to those first beings of its kind which\nplayed over the waters of Paradise before the evening sun.\n\n\"Never forget the thought, which is now so clear to thee, that the\nindividuality of man lasts out the greatest suffering and the most\nentrancing joy alike unscathed, while the body crumbles away in the\npains and pleasures of the flesh. Herein are souls like marsh-lights,\nwhich shine in the storm and the rain unextinguishable.\n\n\"Canst thou forget, in the dark hour, that there have been mighty men\namongst us, and that thou art following after them? Raise thyself like\nthe spirits which stood upon their mountains, having the storm of life\nonly about and never above them. Call back to thee the kingly race of\nsages and of poets, who have inspirited and enlightened nation after\nnation.\"\n\n\"Speak of our Redeemer!\" said the father.\n\n\"Remember Jesus Christ, in the dark hour,--remember Him who also passed\nthrough life,--remember that soft Moon of the infinite Sun, given to\nenlighten the night of the world. Let life be hallowed to thee, and\ndeath also, for he shared both of them with thee. May his calm and\nlofty form look down on thee in the last darkness, and show thee his\nFather!\"\n\nA low roll of thunder was now heard to pass over the dun clouds which\nthe tempest had left, and the setting sun filled the entire vault of\nheaven with the magnificence of his fire.\n\n\"Remember, in the last hour, how the heart of man can love. Canst thou\nforget the love wherewith one heart repays a thousand hearts, and the\nsoul during life is nourished and vivified from another soul, as the\noak of a hundred years clings fast to the same spot with its roots, and\nderives new strength, and sends forth new buds during its hundred\nsprings?\"\n\n\"Dost thou mean me?\" said the father.\n\n\"I mean my mother also,\" replied the son.\n\nJusta wept, when she heard how her lover would console himself in his\nlast hours with the reminiscence of the days of her love; and the\nfather said, but very gently, thinking on his wife, \"To meet again, to\nmeet again!\"\n\n\"Remember then, in the last hour,\" continued Gottreich, \"that pure\nbeing with whom thy life was beautiful and great,--with whom thou hast\nwept tears of joy, with whom thou hast prayed to God, and in whom God\nappeared unto thee, in whom thou didst find the first and last heart of\nlove,--and then close thine eyes in peace!\"\n\nOn a sudden the clouds were cleft into two huge, black mountains,\nand the deep sun looked forth from between them, as it were out of\na valley between buttresses of rock, gazing upon the earth with its\njoy-glistening eye.\n\n\"See!\" said the dying man, \"what a glare!\"\n\n\"It is the evening sun, father.\"\n\n\"Ay, this day shall we see one another again!\" continued the old man;\nbut he spoke of his wife, who was long since dead.\n\nThe son was unable, from his emotion, to paint to his father the\nblessedness of meeting again upon the earth, which he had that very day\nenjoyed by anticipation and described upon his journey; or to say to\nhim how it comes, that meeting again is a renewal of love in a better\nstate; and that, if the first meeting was apt to overflow into the\nfuture, reminiscence binds the flowers of the present and the fruits of\nthe past upon one stem.\n\nWho could have courage to speak of the joys of earthly meeting to one\nwho seemed to be already in the contemplation of a meeting in heaven?\n\nStartled, he asked, \"Father, what ails thee?\"\n\n\"I _do_ think thereon in the dark hour; ay, thereon and thereupon\nagain; and death is also beautiful, and the parting in Christ,\"\nmurmured to himself the old man, as he tried to take Gottreich's hand,\nwhich he had not strength to press. It was but the usual nervous\nsnatching of the fingers of the dying. He continued to think that his\nson was still speaking to him, and said, more and more distinctly and\nemphatically, \"O thou blessed God!\" until all the other luminaries of\nlife were extinguished, and in his soul there stood nothing but the one\nsun,--God!\n\nAt length he raised himself, and, stretching out his arm forcibly,\nexclaimed: \"There are three fair rainbows over the evening sun; I must\ngo after the sun, and pass through with him!\" He then fell back, and\nall was over.\n\nAt that moment the sun went down, and there glimmered at his setting a\nbroad rainbow in the east.\n\n\"He is gone!\" said Gottreich to Justa, in a voice choked with grief;\n\"but he is gone from us unto his God, in the midst of great, pious, and\nunmingled joy; then weep no more, Justa!\"\n\nAt that moment his own hitherto restrained tears found a vent, and he\npressed the dead hand against his face.\n\nIt grew dark, and a warm rain distilled gently over the earth. The\nchildren left his motionless form alone, and wept more tranquilly for\nthat sun of their love, which, with its pure light, had withdrawn from\nthe clouds and tempests of the world to another dawn.\n\n\n\n\n                THE NEW-YEAR'S NIGHT OF AN UNHAPPY MAN.\n\n\nAn old man stood in the New-Year's night at the window, and gazed with\na look of restless despair upon the immutable, ever-blooming heaven,\nand out over the still pure white earth whereupon there was now no one\nso joyless and sleepless as he. For his grave stood near to him. It was\ncovered only with the snow of age, not with the green of youth; and he\nbrought with him thither out of his whole rich life nothing but errors\nand sins and sickness; a ruined body, a desolated soul, a breast full\nof poison, an old age full of remorse. The fair days of his youth\nwandered about him now like ghosts, and they bore him back again to\nthat clear morning when his father first placed him at the cross-road\nof life, the right hand leading by the sunny ways of virtue into a\nwide, peaceful land, full of light and of harvests; the left, down into\nthe mole-ways of vice towards a black cavern, full of down-dropping\npoison, full of darting serpents and dark sultry damps.\n\nAh! the serpents hung about his breast, and the poison-drops upon his\ntongue, and he knew now where he was.\n\nKnowing not what he did, and with unspeakable grief, he cried out to\nHeaven: \"Give me my youth once more! O father, place me again upon the\ncross-road, that I may choose otherwise!\"\n\nBut his father and his youth were long gone. He saw wandering lights\ndancing on the marshes, and dying out upon _God's Acre_, and he said,\n\"These are my sinful days!\" He saw a star fly out from heaven, to\nglimmer in its fall, and to be extinguished on the earth. \"That is I,\"\nsaid his bleeding heart; and the serpent-teeth of remorse gnawed again\ninto his wounds.\n\nHis burning fancy showed him creeping night-wanderers upon the roofs,\nand the windmill threw up its arms threatening to crush him, and a mask\nleft behind in the dead-house assumed by degrees his own feature.\n\nSuddenly, in the midst of this tumult, music for the New Year flowed\ndown from the tower, like distant church-song. He was deeply moved. He\nlooked around the horizon and over the wide earth, and thought of his\nyouthful friends, who now, happier and better than he, were teachers\nfor the world, fathers of happy children, and favored men, and he\nsaid, \"O, I also could be happy, dear parents, had I fulfilled your\nNew-Year's wishes and instructions.\"\n\nIn the feverish memories of his youth, it seemed to him that the mask\nwith his features raised itself up in the dead-house; finally, through\nthe superstition which discerns spirits and the future on New-Year's\nnight, it became a living youth, in the position of the beautiful boy\nof the Capitol, pulling out a thorn, and his formerly blooming face\ndanced weird and bitter before him.\n\nHe could look no more: he covered his eyes: hot tears streamed down\nupon the snow;--again he softly sighed, hopeless and unconscious, \"Come\nagain, O youth, come again!\"\n\nAnd it came again; for on that New-Year's night he had only dreamed\nthus fearfully. He was still a youth; yet his errors had been no dream.\nBut he thanked God that he, still young, might turn aside from the foul\nways of vice, and could follow the sunny path which leads to the fair\nland of harvests. Turn aside with him, O youth, if thou standest upon\nhis wandering way. This frightful dream will in future be thy judge;\nbut if thou shouldst one day call out, full of grief, \"Come again, O\nbeautiful youth!\" so shall it never return again.\n\n\n\n\n                         THE DEATH OF AN ANGEL.\n\n\nThe tenderest and kindest angel, the Angel of the _last_ hour, whom we\nharshly call Death, is sent to us, that he may mildly and gently pluck\naway the sinking heart of man from life, and bear it unhurt in his warm\nhands out of the cold breast into high, warming Eden. His brother is\nthe Angel of the first hour, who twice kisses man,--once when he begins\nthis life; and again, when he awakes on high, without wounds, and\nenters smiling upon the other life, as he came weeping into this.\n\nAs the Angel of the last hour saw the battle-fields stretched before\nhim, full of blood and tears, and drew the trembling souls away, his\nmild eyes melted, and he said: \"Ah! I will once die like man, that I\nmay enter into his last agony, and soothe it when I dissolve the ties\nof life!\"\n\nThe boundless circle of angels, who love each other above, pressed\naround the sympathetic one, and promised their beloved to surround him\nwith heavenly rays after the instant of his death; thereby he might\nknow that death had been; and his brother, whose kiss opens our cold\nlips, as the morning light does the chill flowers, gently touched his\nforehead, and said: \"When I kiss thee again, my brother, thou shalt\nhave died upon the earth, and will be again with us.\"\n\nLoving and moved, the Angel descended to the battlefield, where only\none beautiful, ardent Youth still panted, and heaved his shattered\nbreast. Near the hero stood his Betrothed alone. He could no longer\nfeel her hot tears, and her sorrow passed him unrecognized, like a\ndistant battle-cry.--Then the Angel quickly clothed himself in her dear\nform, rested by him, drew the wounded soul with one hot kiss out of the\ncloven breast, and gave it to his brother on high, who kissed it for\nthe second time, when suddenly it smiled.\n\nThe Angel of the last hour passed like a lightning-flash into\nthe deserted frame, shone through the body, and stirred the warm\nlife-stream again with the strengthened heart. But how was he affected\nby this new clothing of the body! His clear eye became confused in the\nwhirl of unwonted, nervous life;--his once flying thought waded now\nslowly through the atmosphere of his brain,--the moist, faint-hued\nvapor dried away from all objects which formerly hung, autumnal-like,\nfloating over them; now they pierced him out of the hot air with\nburning, painful spots of color,--all sensations became more gloomy,\nyet stormier and more nearly allied to _self_; and they seemed to him\nto be like instinct, as those of the beasts appear to us. Hunger tore\nhim, thirst consumed him, pain stabbed him. Alas! his breast, torn and\nbleeding, heaved upward, and his first breath drawn was his first sigh\nafter the heaven he had left! \"Is this the death of man?\" he thought;\nbut as he did not see the promised token of death, neither angel nor\nthe surrounding heavenly flame, therefore he perceived this to be only\nthe life of man.\n\nIn the evening, the earthly strength of the Angel declined, and a\ncrushing globe seemed to revolve about his head. Then Sleep sent his\nmessengers. Images of the mind shifted out of the sunshine into a misty\nfire; the shadows of the day were thrown upon his brain; they came\nconfused, and colossal, one upon another, and the world of sense reared\nitself uncontrolled and poured in upon him. Then Dream sent his\nmessengers. Finally the funereal veil of Sleep wrapped itself thickly\nabout him, and, sunk in the vault of night, he lay there lonely and\nmotionless, like us poor mortals. But then, thou, heavenly Dream! didst\ndescend, with thy thousand reflecting-glasses before his soul, and\ndidst show in all of them a circle of angels and a radiant heaven; and\nthe earthly body seemed to fall away from him with all its thorns.\n\"Ah!\" said he, in vain rapture, \"my sleep was also my death.\" Yet when\nhe awoke again, with his compressed heart full of heavy human blood,\nand looked out upon the earth and upon the night, he cried, \"I saw the\nangels and the starry heavens; but it was only the image of Death, and\nnot his presence.\"\n\nThe Betrothed of the translated hero did not mark that an angel only\ndwelt in the breast of her beloved; yet she loved the purified aspect\nof the wounded soul, and still gladly held the hand of him who had past\nso far away. But the Angel loved her deceived heart with the love of a\nman's soul in return; jealous of his own nature, he wished that he\nmight not die before her, but love her so long that she might forgive\nhim, when they met again in heaven, for having clasped together upon\nher breast an angel and a lover. Yet she died sooner; the late sorrow\nhad bowed the head of this flower too low, and it lay broken upon the\ngrave. She sank before the weeping Angel, not like the sun, who before\nall-beholding Nature casts himself so gorgeous into the sea that its\nred waves strike the very heaven, but like the tranquil moon, who, in\nthe midnight, silvers the vaporous air, and sinks down unseen behind\nits dim veil. Death sent his gentler sister Unconsciousness before; she\ntouched the heart of the Betrothed, and chilled the warm countenance;\nthe flowers of her cheek withered; the pale snow of winter, under which\nthe spring of eternity grows green, clothed her forehead and her hands.\nThen a burning tear broke from the swelling eye of the Angel, and,\nwhile he thought his heart loosed itself in the form of a tear as a\npearl from the brittle shell, his Betrothed, awaked to the last\ndelirium, moved her eyes once again, drew him close to her heart, and\ndied as she kissed him, and said, \"Now I am with thee, my brother!\"\nThen the Angel believed his heavenly brother had given him the sign of\nthe kiss and death. Yet no radiant heaven surrounded him, nor aught but\nfunereal darkness, and he sighed because this was not his death, only\nthe anguish of man over the death of another.\n\n\"O ye afflicted mortals!\" he cried, \"how can ye weary ones survive\nthis! How can ye become old when the circle of youthful forms breaks\nand lies at length altogether scattered around,--when the graves of\nyour friends lead down like steps to your own,--and when age becomes\nlike the silent, blank evening hour of a cold battle-field! O ye poor\nmortals! how can your hearts endure it?\"\n\nThe body of the translated hero-soul placed the gentle Angel among hard\nmen, their injustice, and the distortions of Vice and of Passion; about\nhis figure, also, was laid the thorny girdle of sceptres bound\ntogether, which compresses the hemispheres with its stings, and\nwhich is always laced more tightly by the great; he saw the claws of\ncrowned and emblazoned beasts fasten themselves on their displumed\nprey, and heard it panting with enfeebled beating of the wings; he saw\nthe whole terrestrial globe encircled in the winding swarthy folds of\nthe giant-serpent, Vice, plunging and concealing its poisonous head\ndeep in the breast of man. Then the hot sting of enmity was made to\nshoot through that tender heart, which, during a long eternity, had\nlain in the warmth of angelic love, and the holy love-fed spirit was\nforced to shudder over an inward dissolution. \"Ah!\" said he, \"the death\nof man is full of woe!\" Yet this was not death; for no angel appeared.\n\nThus in a few days he became weary of this life which we bear for half\na hundred years, and he longed to go back. The evening sun attracted\nhis kindred spirit. The wounds of his shattered breast exhausted him\nwith pain. He went out with the evening glow upon his pale cheeks to\n\"God's Acre,\" that green background of our life, where the forms which\nhe had once stripped of all their beautiful souls were now crumbling\naway. He placed himself with sorrowful longing upon the bare grave of\nhis unspeakably beloved and departed bride, and looked towards the\nfading evening sun. Seated on this dear knoll, he regarded his\nsuffering body, and thought: Thou also, tender breast, wouldst be lying\nhere in decay, and wouldst give no more pain, did I not support thee.\nThen he reflected upon the grievous life of man, and the throbs of the\nwounded breast showed him the pangs with which mortals purchase their\nvirtue and their death, and which he had joyfully spared the noble soul\nof this body. Deeply touched by human virtue, he wept out of his\nboundless love for men, who, amid the craving of their own needs, under\nlow-hung clouds, behind mists which stream over the sharp-cutting paths\nof life, never turn away from the lofty star of duty, but in their\ndarkness stretch out loving arms towards every suffering breast they\nencounter, while around them nothing glimmers but the hope of setting\nlike the sun in the old world, in order to arise in the new.\n\nJust then the ecstasy opened his wounds, and blood, the tear of the\nsoul, flowed from his heart upon the cherished knoll,--the dissolving\nbody sank quietly towards his beloved,--tears of rapture broke the\nsunset light into, a rosy, swimming sea,--distant echoing tones, as of\nthe earth passing wide through ringing ether, played in the vaporous\nlustre. Then a dark cloud or short night shot by the Angel, and was\nfull of sleep; and now a radiant heaven opened and overspread him, and\na thousand angels shone around. \"Art thou again here, thou deceiving\ndream?\" he said. But the Angel of the first hour stepped through the\nrays to him, and gave the sign of the kiss, and said: \"That was death,\nthou immortal brother and heavenly friend!\"\n\nAnd the Youth and his beloved softly repeated the words.\n\n\n\n\n                         A DREAM AND THE TRUTH.\n\n               WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF A MOTHER FOLLOWING\n                          THAT OF HER HUSBAND.\n\n\nSleep buries the first world, its nights and sorrows, and brings to us\na second world, with the forms we have loved and lost, and scenes too\nvast for this little earth.\n\nI was in the Isle of the Blest, in the second world. This I dreamed.\nThe stars were nearer; the heaven-blue lay on the flowers; all the\nbreezes were melodious tones; and repose and ravishment, which with us\nare sundered, there dwelt conjoined. And the dead, from around whom had\nfallen that mist of life which veiled the higher heaven before, rested\nlike mild evening suns in the azure ether.\n\nThen, behold, the earth rose out of the deep beneath, on her course,\nand the Spring had covered her with his blossoms and buds. As she drew\nnearer to the Isle of the Blest, a voice full of love cried, \"Look\ndown, ye dead, on your old home, and see the beloved who have lost, but\nnot forgotten you.\"\n\nFor in the spring the earth always passes by the eternal World of the\nBlest, whose off-cast husk sinks into its clods; and therefore it is,\nthat in the spring poor mortals experience such a profound longing, so\npowerful a presentiment, and so many haunting recollections of their\nlost beloved.\n\nAfter the voice, all the Blest stepped forward on the shore of the\nSupernal Isle, and each one sought on the wan earth the heart which had\nremembered him. One noble being gazed down, seeking after his spouse\nand after his children, around whom the glad spring-tide of earth was\nflowing; but _they_ had no spring.\n\nAlas! the father now saw his wife racked with anguish, and his children\ndissolved in tears. He discerned, in the strangling hand of Pain, the\npallid form whose convulsed heart now reposes, and whose moistened eyes\nare now shut and cold; and beside it he recognized the loving companion\nof his former life fatally bleeding on the thorns of earthly martyrdom.\nAnd as sorrow, with glowing iron stylus, graved in the crumbling image\nlife's farewell letter, and as she lost hope, but not yet patience, and\nas her fading eye desired no further happiness save that of her\nchildren, and as these could only share, but not remove, the sleepless\nnights of their mother, the affectionate father sank down, weeping, and\nprayed: \"Eternal One, suffer her to die! Break the agonized bosom, and\ngive me my friend again, and heal the wounded form at last under the\nearth. Eternal One, suffer her to die!\"\n\nAnd as he prayed, the weary heart here in its martyr-life heard him,\nand his faithful wife returned forever to his heart. Why weep ye,\ntender children, that your parents, after the same sufferings,\nshould now have the same joys? that now, after their winter of life,\nan everlasting May has dawned on their souls? Does the painted\nspring-house under the earth trouble you, or the black boundary-hill on\nthe earth, or the dread hand of decay, which extinguishes earthly scars\nand wounds and the whole body?\n\nNo, let the Spring scatter his flowers on their cold faces, and dry the\ntears on yours; and when you think painfully of them, comfort\nyourselves with saying, \"We tenderly loved them, and no one has\nwounded, save He who now heals them.\"\n\n\n\n\n                       THE BEAUTY OF DEATH IN THE\n                             BLOOM OF YOUTH.\n\n\nIn the lives both of men and of women, the period of the deepest\nhappiness will be found to be, not that of childhood, but of youth. The\njoys of childhood are like the spring flowers,--beautiful, but small;\nlike the tinted forget-me-not,--pretty, but without fragrance. The\nhigher and more brilliant joys of knowledge and the affections are as\nyet undeveloped; the world of the ideal lies wrapped, as it were, in a\ndark-green bud.\n\nWith what other and what brighter radiance is the period of youth\nencircled!--that heavenly time of our first friendship and our first\nlove,--of our first poem and our first philosophy,--of our first full\nenjoyment of nature and music and the drama,--of our first castles in\nthe air, and our first vigorous training for active life. And this\nperiod is not simply irrecoverable,--that is the case with all past\ntime,--but for the very reason that in its perfect bloom its only\noffice is to minister to the fruits it so beautifully enfolds, it is\nthe highest and the culminating period; for there is necessarily a\ngreater productive force present in the process than in the results of\ndevelopment, in the flower of youth than in the ripeness of manhood. In\nhis more advanced years, one is seldom led to enter upon a new path of\nknowledge or a higher moral life; but in his youth, one gives himself\nup, with inextinguishable fire, to some system of philosophy, or some\ntotal change in his moral life. It calls for more strength in a man to\nbe converted than to stand still.\n\nAs the highest bodily strength and the most perfect health, the\nprobability of the longest life and the greatest beauty,--in short, the\nbest bodily attributes,--belong to the period of youth, so, and for\nthat very reason, the intellectual wealth which comes not by\nacquisition, but by inheritance, is the largest. Great attainments,\nexperience, and skill are certainly the fruits of age and of labor; but\nwhat are these things, compared with the ideal enjoyments which come of\nthe first sciences we study, when the tree of knowledge, grafted upon\nthe tree of life, puts forth its branches,--compared with the delight\nwith which the new truths of geometry, or of philosophy, or of any\nfavorite science new-born to us, fill the soul? For even in science,\nhowever far its limits may be pushed, one is ever descending from the\nheight of the ideal to the vulgar level of reality.\n\nYouth is the full moon, illumined by the magic light of the sun. Age is\nthe new moon, upon which the day-earth (life) throws a meagre light.\n\n\n\n\n                       A DREAM OF A BATTLE-FIELD.\n\n\nI dreamed that from far off in the darkness I heard groans which seemed\nto come from every quarter to which I turned. At length they came only\nout of the gate of a valley which led between two, rocky ridges, where\nthe darkness was illumined only by the red light of a comet, with its\nsparkling eye, and its tail sweeping back and forth like that of a\ntiger thirsty for blood. Then several wagons, filled with amputated\nhands grasping one the other either in prayer or struggle, came softly\ntowards me on unrevolving wheels; and one small wagon also, full of\neyes without eyelids, which grimly gazed upon and mirrored one another.\nA long metal coffin, mounted on the wheels of a gun-carriage, was with\ndifficulty pulled along by iron elephants. On it was inscribed, \"The\nashes of the tenth army.\" With frightful exertion it was dragged like a\ntall tree round the corner of the narrow, rocky valley,--forced to bend\nby the weight of its contents, and the end of it seeming never to come.\n\nOver the earth, and the sorrow of it, was a round ball of fire like a\nsun, whence came incessant flashes of lightning. And thirsty people\nopened vessels full of vipers, which darted out, and stung them to more\nburning thirst.... A crown, great like a shield, and red-hot, came\nwhirling down with circular motion into a group of soldiers dancing,\nand scattered them. Upon still-gaping wounds it rained down thistles,\nwhich took root quickly and grew; and upon every fallen corpse struck a\nthunderbolt, and slew it again. I looked up to the heavens for\nconsolation; but there, in the place of the sunset's glow, and the\ncolors of the dawn, and the northern lights, was smoking blood. Swift\nas an arrow, villages and cities shot through the air like long clouds\nof ashes; some few streets only, which had been blown up by mining,\nhanging fast in the sky, with the remnants of houses and of men\nclinging to them. On a neighboring mountain were glaciers and ice-peaks,\nupon which children were transfixed; and on the distant summits, whence\none could look down upon the battle-field, were parents and children\nand brides, eagerly gazing upon a mirror held over it.\n\nAt length the gate sprang open, and broke in pieces on the\nbattle-field, and the storm of woe burst forth. Then I looked in upon\nthat terrible world, and fell senseless to the earth; for what I saw\nwas too horrible for man to look upon or to remember.\n\nGradually it seemed to me in my swoon as if this frightful field was\nmoving further and further off, while its sounds of horror died away\ninto songs of swans. And out of the distance floated up to me, on the\ngentle breezes, the tones of shepherd's flutes,--now far off, now\nnear,--breaking, at length, with full sound upon my ear. And then I was\nlifted up and borne along on wings of ether, with the light breaking\nthrough my closed eyelids. And a creative finger touched me, and high\nin heaven, upon a green cloud, I opened my eyes. Above me was the blue\nabyss of the stars; below me stretched a blue ocean, on whose horizon\nglittered, in the glow of the sunset, the countless islands of the\nblessed; around me floated scattered cloudlets, tinted with the red and\nwhite of roses and of lilies, and with the many colors of manifold\nflowers.\n\n\"Who, O God, has brought me to life out of my woe?\" I cried.\n\n\"Child of man, it is my Father who has done it,\" answered a soft voice\nvery near me. But I saw no form of any person; only a halo of glory\nhovering near me indicated the place of the invisible being.\n\nUnder the stare now, on high, rose again, like the songs of the\nspheres, the old mournful tones. The islands on the horizon began to\nmove, and swim in joy around one another. Many of them dipped into the\ndark waves, and came up again brilliant as the colors of the morning.\nSome went down into the sea, and reappeared covered with pearls. But\none of them, crowned with cedars and palms and oaks, with strong young\ngiants on its shores, went straight out into the ocean, toward the\neast.\n\n\"Am I upon earth?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Ask me not,\" replied the voice, \"for I know all thy thoughts, and will\nanswer thee in thy heart. Thou wilt be upon the earth when it rises in\nthe east from the sea; beneath the sea it circles swiftly round the\nsun. The sea of time is the wave on the ocean of eternity.\"\n\nAs if borne upon a stream, the cedar island came ever nearer to the\ngreen cloud. Youths greater than those of earth looked down upon the\nblue sea, and sang songs of gladness,--or gazed in rapture upon the\nheavens, and folded their hands in prayer,--or slumbered in arbors of\nrainbows and tears of joy. Behind them stood lions; above them circled\neagles.\n\n\"Upon the cedar island dwell men _who, like me_, have died for the\nearth; but in earthly faces shall it be revealed to thee how the\nInfinite Father rewards those who have shed their blood for their\ncountry. The youths who are looking down into the waves have a nearer\nview of their old earth moving in the waters, as the island moves with\nit. They see only happy countries, and their friends who rejoice in\ntheir deeds, and posterity which praises them. And every flower which\nsprang from their blood is shown to them of God.\n\n\"Those who are gazing up to heaven, and praying, see an altar upon\nevery sun,--and greater brethren who make higher sacrifices to the\nHighest; and they are entreating the Father to summon them also to\nstill higher sacrifices. And when he thunders, he calls them.\n\n\"Those who are slumbering in tears of joy are seeing their brother\nsoldiers dying bravely, and are comforting them in death, and welcoming\nthem in tearful recognition as they pass from the earth to the island.\"\n\nAnd now white flowers floated up from the earth to the surface of the\nsea, and all the sleepers awoke. The flowers were the souls of their\nmothers, who in death were following their sons fallen upon the\nbattle-field; and the flowers became angels and flew towards the youths.\nIt was an endless dying of endless joy. The soft murmurs of love from\nthose who thus again found one another stirred the lilies and the roses\nto sounds as of harps. But as the mothers breathed the vibrating air\nand their hearts beat tremulously in harmony with the sound, they died\naway and exhaled into a flower-cloud. And the cloud arose and floated\nalong the heavens to the distant islands where dwell the good mothers\nand the happy brides, longing still for the time when all the islands\nof the blessed were one fixed land of promise.\n\n\"Ye sons of men, joy is an eternity older than pain, and ever will be\nso,--for that has scarcely existed. Sacrifice ye, then, time to\neternity.\"\n\nA noble old man with the martyr's crown on his head looked up to the\ngreen cloud and prayed to the voice near me. Then saw I mirrored in the\nold man's eyes the form of the being near me. And my heart was humbled\nbefore the greatest man of earth as he repeated to me again the words,\n\"Sacrifice time to eternity.\"\n\nAnd now there came up from the sea near the cedar island a smoke as of\na volcano, but throwing out only crowns of oak-leaves and palm-branches\nand streams of light. And at length a vast altar covered with young men\nand old, sleeping, rose from the waves. But when the light of heaven\ntouched the sleepers they awoke suddenly, and, rushing upon the island,\nfell upon the breasts of their old comrades in arms. And the stars of\nheaven shone over them in glad, undying token of their union. The\noak-forests rustled and the lions roared and the eagles, circling in\nthe air, bathed themselves for joy in the fire and the lightning which\nshot from the stars. And the storm spread itself over the universe, and\nscattered balls of fire like suns, and thundered as with the noise of\nmany worlds, and mingled its hot tears of joy with those of the heroes.\nAnd from below the sea came a dull echo from the earth. Then the cloud\nsank upon the island, and with a rushing sound received up into itself\nthe heroes who had prayed to the Father to permit them to sacrifice in\nhigher worlds.\n\nWhen the storm had disappeared with them behind the stars, the vastness\nof creation appeared. All being rejoiced in eternity. The worlds lay\nalong the heavens like an Alpine chain; the suns encircled the primal\nsource of light; and covering all was the Throne of God.\n\n\"Pray before thou wakest, for the earth, too, will disappear,\" said the\nvoice near me. And my whole heart was filled with prayer by the very\nnearness of this higher being. But the green cloud now moved more\nrapidly with me eastward toward the approaching earth; and the cedar\nisland floated with its happy multitudes towards the other islands. The\nsea glowed in the east as with the colors of the dawn; and deeper and\ndeeper sank the green cloud into the aurora of earth.\n\nSuddenly, then, the halo of glory round the head of the invisible being\nbecame as a great rainbow, and was absorbed in an infinite radiance\nwhich filled the heavens.\n\nAnd the earth passed away like a summer night.\n\nI awoke, and instead of the cloud there was a green meadow around me,\nand above me glittered the stars. The first night of summer had\nfollowed the last night of spring. The moon was rising like a silver\nbow in the ghostly air. And in the north the sunset colors of the\nspring were changing upon the mountain-tops into the morning glow of\nthe summer. My heart still clung to the eternal stars, where now awake\nI lingered in my dream, and I sighed, \"Alas! each day above is the\nbeginning of spring.\" Then I heard the voice in me repeat the old\nwords, \"Child of man, sacrifice time to eternity,\"--and I sighed no\nmore.\n\n\n\n                               FOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 1: I need not tell any one that the valley itself is situated\nin the departments of the Upper Pyrenees.]\n\n[Footnote 2: It is well known that the Symplegadian rocks continually\ndashed against each other, and destroyed every passing ship, until\nOrpheus's lyre subdued and tranquillized them.]\n\n[Footnote 3: Alluding to a painting by Reynolds, in which Garrick,\ninvited by both Muses, follows Thalia.]\n\n[Footnote 4: A kind of jelly-fish.]\n\n[Footnote 5: Ten drops of this instantly sweeten half a pound of sour\nbeer.]\n\n[Footnote 6: The cave is twenty feet high, but the entrance only five\nfeet.]\n\n[Footnote 7: French miles. The valley is about two German miles--ten\nEnglish miles--long.]\n\n[Footnote 8: The Hoefersche heaven-path, or how to learn the way to\neternal salvation in twenty-four hours.]\n\n[Footnote 9: A market-place in Rome where deformed beings were sold,\nand fetched a higher price the uglier they were.]\n\n[Footnote 10: A Parisian dentist wrote this over his door.]\n\n[Footnote 11: In the same Sec. Kant says: \"Everything that Newton has\nwritten in his immortal _Principia_, though such a large head was\nrequired to invent it, can be learned; but to compose spirited poems\ncannot be taught, however complete the instructions for learning the\nart may be. The reason is, that Newton can explain all the steps he had\nto take, from the first elements of geometry to his grandest and most\nprofound inventions; he can explain them, not alone to himself, but to\nothers, even to the remote descendants, while no Homer or Wieland can\nshow how his ideally rich, and yet thoughtful characters, came forth\nfrom his brain; for he knows it not himself, and therefore cannot teach\nit others.\"\n\nI had hoped that I could depend upon Kant, who has a million times more\nintelligence than I have, as upon a mental _Charge d'Affaires_; but\nwhen I came to this passage (and to those upon repentance, music, the\norigin of evil, &c), I saw I must myself follow him, and not only pray\nafter him, as I had before done, but reflect. But to return! Certainly\nNewton's \"Principles\" can be learned, that is, the new ones may be\nrepeated, but that also can happen to the invented poems; yet you can\nbe taught to invent them as little as Newton's Principles. A new\nphilosophic idea seems, after its birth, to lie more clearly in its\nformer seed-vessels and organic molecules than a poetic one; but why\nwas Newton the first to see it? He and Kant can discover, no better\nthan Shakespeare or Leibnitz, how the beginning of a new idea suddenly\nbursts from the cloud of old ones; they can show their _Nexus_ (else\nthey would not be human ones) with the old ones, but not their\nconception from it; the same holds of the poetic. Let Kant teach us to\n_invent systems_ and truths (not to prove them, though, strictly\nspeaking, the one is closely allied to the other), then he shall be\ntaught to invent epics, and I will be responsible for it. He seems to\nme to confound the difficulty of forming ideas with the less important\none of forming new ones; the difficulty of transition with the\ninexplicability of the matter. I fear and wonder at the latent\nalmightiness with which man orders, that is, creates his range of\nideas. I know no better symbol of creation than the regularity and\ncausality of the creation of ideas in us, which no will and no mind can\nregulate and create, for any such arrangement and intention would\npresuppose the unborn idea. And in this creation the grand enigma of\nour moral freedom is veiled.]\n\n[Footnote 12: Gold dissolved in strong acid, mixed with a small\nquantity of quicksilver in a vial, forms a tree with foliage.]\n\n[Footnote 13: The male glowworms are black.]\n\n[Footnote 14: Rameses caused his son to be fastened to the topmost\npoint of an obelisk, that they who had to raise it should risk a more\nvaluable life than their own.]\n\n[Footnote 15: It lives more than two years, though it does not long\nsurvive the period of its leaving the grub-state, just as other\ninsects, to whom nature has given the rose period of youth, only\n_after_ the thorny age of reproduction.]\n\n[Footnote 16: It is well known that the sight of blood damps courage,\nand that the Jews are not permitted to eat blood.]\n\n[Footnote 17: Beauty in this connection, I adopt in the same sense\nwhich Schiller gives to it in his aesthetic critique, a prize essay of\nhis genius on Beauty, which here, like Longinus, is at once the subject\nand the delineator of the exalted.]\n\n[Footnote 18: If he had been, I would have read page 224 in the third\npart of Hesperus to him.]\n\n[Footnote 19: The sun reflected in the water.]\n\n[Footnote 20: At a circumcision, the Jews place one chair for the\noperator, and another for the prophet Elias, who is supposed invisibly\nto occupy it.]\n\n[Footnote 21: These animals shine by night. Care must be taken not to\ndraw them into the brain from the flower calyxes with the perfume.]\n\n[Footnote 22: The Guernsey lily from Japan has its name from the Island\nof Guernsey, on which some roots of it were cast by a wrecked vessel.]\n\n[Footnote 23: For the climatic dissimilarity of the planets must\nproduce, as the climatic difference between the zones, Negroes, Greeks,\nIndians, etc., but always human beings.]\n\n[Footnote 24: One ought, therefore, not to say _mundus intelligibilis_,\nbut _mundus intellectus_.]\n\n[Footnote 25: It may be said, that in this manner every Utopia, which\nis also a copy, must be realized, for the original of all dreams and\nUtopias does indeed exist,--though partially and disconnectedly; but\nthe Original of the Eternal cannot exist in pieces and by parcels.]\n\n[Footnote 26: This applies chiefly to the higher and richer orders,\nwith whom the saturation of the five camel stomachs, the senses, and\nthe starving of Psyche or the soul, at last determines into a horrible\nhorror of life, and into a repulsive mingling of _high aspirations and\ngrovelling desires_. The savage, the beggar, and the provincialist far\nsurpass the rich and high in spiritual enjoyment, for in these, as in\nthe houses of the Jews, (in memory of the destruction of Jerusalem)\nthere must always be something incomplete, and the poor have too many\nof their earthly wants assuaged to be overwhelmed and pained by the\ndemands of their ethereal nature.]\n\n[Footnote 27: The new moon always rises with the sun, although dark and\ninvisible.]\n\n[Footnote 28: There are three kinds of men. To some, a heaven is\ngranted even on this earth; to others, a _limbus patrum_ in which joy\nand sorrow reign equally; and, lastly, to some a hell in which grief\npredominates. Beings who have suffered for twenty years on the sick-bed\nof bodily pain, which is not, like mental sorrow, worn out by time,\nhave certainly had more unhappiness than happiness, and, but for\nimmortality, would be an eternal reproach to the highest moral being.\nAnd if there exists no such unhappy being, it is yet in the power of a\ntyrant to make one, on a clinical torture-bed, with the assistance of a\nphysician and a philosopher. Such a one, at least, has a right to\ndemand a future indemnity for his sufferings, because the Creator\ncannot have formed a creature to mourn more than it can rejoice.\n\nBesides, though the object of our grief may seem but a deception in the\neyes of the Eternal One, our grief itself cannot. Human suffering is\nalso distinguished from brutish pain, because the animal only feels the\nwound, as we perhaps do in sleep, but it sees it not. Its pain is not\ntrebled and increased by _anticipation_, _recollection_, and\n_sensibility_; it is an evanescent sting, and nothing more. Therefore\ntears were only given to human eyes.]\n\n[Footnote 29: Ignorance concerning our connection with the body and our\nconnection with the second world.]\n\n[Footnote 30: The yearly destruction of the slowly developed, beautiful\nflower-world does not argue against this; for to the tangible world\neach condition of its parts is as indifferent and perfect as the other,\nand rose-ashes are as good as rose-buds (without, of course,\nconsidering the organic soul). Nothing is beautiful but our\nappreciation of the beautiful, not the object itself. If it should be\nsaid that nature destroys so many developments, for whose growth she\nhad already provided, that she breaks many thousand eggs, tears so many\nbuds, crushes men in all stages of life with her blind tread, I would\nreply that the interrupted development is yet a condition of the\nperfected one, and that every position of its parts is indifferent to\nmaterial objects, and, as coverings of the spiritual being, they still\ntestify to a compensating immortality of the latter.]\n\n[Footnote 31: Methinks the folly of spiritual mortality has not been\nsufficiently considered from this point of view. The living or\nspiritual whole (for the lifeless one has no other object than to be a\nmeans for the living), as such, can attain no object which each portion\nof it does not attain, for each one is one whole, and every other whole\ncan only exist as a collective idea, and not as a reality. To consider\nthe untenability of a progress contained in a course of vanishing\nshadows more vividly, one might shorten the life of a soul so that he,\ne. g. could only read one page of Kant's Critic, and then die. For the\nsecond page another soul must be created, and so for the new edition\n884 souls. The mistake will perhaps become perceptible to most people\nby the increasing moonlight of liberality which has gradually risen\nover the past centuries; but the necessity for compensation demands\nimmortality.]\n\n[Footnote 32: Raphael died when he had finished the painting of the\nresurrection, and Haman died while his essay on resurrection and\ndisembodiment was being printed.]\n\n[Footnote 33: So are the Vampires called.]\n\n[Footnote 34: _Fixlein_ stands in the middle of the volume; preceded by\n_Einer Mustheil fuer Maedchen_ (A Jelly-course for young Ladies); and\nfollowed by _Some_ Jus De Tablette _for Men_. A small portion of the\nPreface relating to the first I have already omitted. Neither of the\ntwo have the smallest relation to _Fixlein_.--Ed.]\n\n[Footnote 35: _J. P. H_., _Jean Paul_ Hasus, _Jean Paul_, &c., have in\nsuccession been Richter's signatures. At present even, his German\ndesignation, either in writing or speech, is never _Richter_, but _Jean\nPaul_.--Ed.]\n\n[Footnote 36: For understanding many little hints which occur in this\n_Life of Fixlein_, it will be necessary to bear in mind the following\nparticulars: A German _Gymnasium_, in its complete state, appears to\ninclude eight Masters; Rector, Conrector, Subrector, Quintus, Quartus,\nTertius, &c., to the _first_ or lowest. The _forms_, or classes, again,\nare arranged in an inverse order; the _Primaner_ (boys of the _Prima_,\nor first form) being the most advanced, and taught by the Rector; the\n_Secundaner_, by the Conrector, &c.; and therefore the _Quartaner_ by\nthe Quintus. In many cases, it would seem, the number of Teachers is\nonly six; but in this Flachsenfingen Gymnasium we have express evidence\nthat there was no curtailment.--Ed.]\n\n[Footnote 37: A university beer.]\n\n[Footnote 38: From Peter I will copy one or two of these privileges;\nthe whole of which were once, at the origin of universities, in full\nforce. For instance, a student can compel a citizen to let him his\nhouse and his horse; an injury, done even to his relations, must be\nmade good fourfold; he is not obliged to fulfil the written commands of\nthe Pope; the neighborhood must indemnify him for what is stolen from\nhim; if he and a non-student are living at variance, the latter only\ncan be expelled from the boarding-house; a Doctor is obliged to support\na poor student; if he is killed, the next ten houses are laid under\ninterdict till the murderer is discovered; his legacies are not\nabridged by _falcidia_, &c., &c.]\n\n[Footnote 39: _Literary Germany_, a work (I believe of no great merit)\nwhich Richter often twitches in the same style.--Ed.]\n\n[Footnote 40: See _Schmelzle's Journey_, p. 289--Ed.]\n\n[Footnote 41: As in the State.--[V. or Von, _de_, _of_, being the\nsymbol of the nobility, the middle order of the State.--Ed.]]\n\n[Footnote 42: In Erlang, my petition has been granted. The _Bible\nInstitution_ of that town have found instead of the 116,301 As,\nwhich Fixlein at first pretended with such certainty to find in the\nBible-books (which false number was accordingly given in the first\nEdition of this Work, p. 81), the above-mentioned 323,015; which\n(uncommonly singular) is precisely the sum of all the letters in the\nKoran put together. See _Luedeke's Beschr. des Turk. Reichs_ (Luedeke's\nDescription of the Turkish Empire. New edition, 1780).]\n\n[Footnote 43: _Paravicini Singularia de viris claris_, Cent. I. 2.]\n\n[Footnote 44: _Ejusd_., Cent. II. Philelphus quarrelled with the Greek\nabout the quantity of a syllable; the prize or bet was the beard of the\nvanquished. Timotheus lost his.]\n\n[Footnote 45: Their prayer-barrel, Kueruedu, is a hollowed shell, a\ncalabash, full of unrolled formulas of prayer; they sway it from side\nto side, and then it works. More philosophically viewed, since in\nprayer the feeling only is of consequence, it is much the same whether\nthis express itself by motion of the mouth or of the calabash.]\n\n[Footnote 46: In German, as in some other languages, the common mode of\naddress is by the _third_ person; plural, it indicates respect;\nsingular, command; the _second_ person is also used; plural, it\ngenerally denotes indifference; singular, great familiarity, and\nsometimes its product, contempt. _Dutzenfreund_, _Thouing-friend_, is\nthe strictest term of intimacy; and among the wild _Burschen_\n(Students) many a duel (happily however, often ending like the\n_Polemo-Middinia_ in one drop of blood) has been fought, in consequence\nof saying _Du_ (thou) and _Sie_ (they) in the wrong place.--Ed.]\n\n[Footnote 47: These antique Christmas festivities Richter describes\nwith equal _gusto_ in another work (_Briefe und Zukuenftige\nLebenslemf_); where the Christ-child (falsely reported to the young\nones to have been seen flying through the air, with gold wings); the\nBirch-bough fixed in a corner of the room, and by him made to grow; the\nfruit of gilt sweetmeats, apples, nuts, which (for good boys) it\nsuddenly produces, &c., &c., are specified with the same fidelity as\nhere.--Ed.]\n\n[Footnote 48: Which he purposed to make for his Island of St. Pierre in\nthe Bienne Lake.]\n\n[Footnote 49: Borrowed from the \"Imperial Mine-product-sale-Commission,\"\nin Vienna. In their very names these Vienna people show taste.]\n\n[Footnote 50: As, by the evidence at present before us, we can found on\nno other presumption, than that he must die in his thirty-second year;\nit would follow, that, in case he died two-and-thirty years after the\ndeath of the testatrix, no farthing could be claimed by him; since,\naccording to our fiction, at the making of the testament he was not\neven one year old.]\n\n[Footnote 51: In St. Paul's Church at London, where the slightest\nwhisper sounds over, across a space of 143 feet.]\n\n[Footnote 52: So much, according to Political Economists, a man yearly\nrequires in Germany.]\n\n[Footnote 53: This singular tone of my address to a Prince can only be\nexcused by the equally singular relation wherein the Biographer stands\nto the Flachsenfingen Sovereign, and which I would willingly unfold\nhere were it not that, in my Book, which, under the title of\n_Dog-post-days_, I mean to give to the world at Easter-fair, 1795, I\nhoped to expound the matter to universal satisfaction.]\n\n[Footnote 54: His _Clerical Law_, p. 551.]\n\n[Footnote 55: Eichhorn's _Einleitung ins A. T_. (Introduction to the\nOld Testament), Vol. II.]\n\n[Footnote 56: Both have the same sound. _Fuechslein_ means Foxling,\nFox-whelp.--Ed.]\n\n[Footnote 57: Campe, a German philologist, who, along with several\nothers of that class, has really proposed, as represented in the text,\nto substitute for all Greek or Latin derivatives corresponding German\nterms of the like import. _Geography_, which may be _Erdbeschreibung_\n(Earth-description), was thenceforth to be nothing else; a _Geometer_\nbecame an _Earth-measurer_, &c., &c. _School-undergovernor_, instead of\n_Subrector_, is by no means the happiest example of the system, and\nseems due rather to the Schadeck Lawyer than to Campe, whom our Author\nhas elsewhere more than once eulogized for his project in similar\nstyle.--Ed.]\n\n[Footnote 58: _New Universal German Library_, a reviewing periodical,\nin those days conducted by Nicolai, a sworn enemy to what has since\nbeen called the New School.--Ed.]\n\n[Footnote 59: Superstition declares, that on the spot where the rainbow\nrises a golden key is left.]\n\n[Footnote 60: To the Spring, namely, which begins with snow-drops, and\nends with roses and pinks.]\n\n[Footnote 61: This Christian superstition is not only a Rabbinical, but\nalso a Roman one. _Cicero de Senectute_.]\n\n[Footnote 62: For, according to the Jurists, fifteen persons make a\npeople.]\n\n[Footnote 63: A long philosophical elucidation is indispensably\nrequisite; which will be found in this Book, under the title, _Natural\nMagic of the Imagination_. [A part of the _Jus de Tablette_ appended to\nthis Biography, unconnected with it, and not given here.--Ed.]]\n\n[Footnote 64: This pygmy piece of ordnance, with its cunningly devised\nburning-glass, is still to be seen on the south side of the Paris\nVanity-Fair; and in fine weather, to be heard, on all sides thereof,\nproclaiming the conversion (so it seems to Richter) of the Day from\nForenoon to Afternoon.--Ed.]\n\n[Footnote 65: The Wild Hunter, _Wilde Jaeger_, is a popular spectre of\nGermany.--Ed.]\n\n[Footnote 66: Indicating to the congregation what Psalm is to be\nsung.--Ed.]\n\n[Footnote 67: Salerno was once famous for its medical science; but\nhere, as in many other cases, we could desire the aid of Herr Reinhold\nwith his _Lexicon-Commentary_.--Ed.]\n\n[Footnote 68: This hospitable Potentate is as unknown to me as to any\nof my readers.--Ed.]\n\n[Footnote 69: A little work printed in manuscript types; and seldom\ngiven by him to any but Princes. This piece of print-writing he\nintentionally passes off to the great as a piece of hand-writing; these\npersons being both more habituated and inclined to the reading of\nmanuscript than of print.]\n\n[Footnote 70: Thus defined by Adelung in his Lexicon: \"_Kraeutermuetze_,\nin Medicine, a cap with various dried herbs sewed into it, and which is\nworn for all manner of troubles in the head.\"--Ed.]\n\n[Footnote 71: Linne formed in Upsal a flower-clock, the flowers of\nwhich, by their different times of falling asleep, indicated the hours\nof the day.]\n\n[Footnote 72: The good Professor of Catechetics is out here. _Indignor\nquandoque bonus dormitat Schmelzle_.--Ed.]\n\n[Footnote 73: Passenger so placed in the huge German Postwagen, that he\ncannot look out.--Ed.]\n\n[Footnote 74: _Titan_ is also the title of this Legations-Rath Jean\nPierre or Jean Paul (Friedrich Richter)'s chief novel.--Ed.]\n\n[Footnote 75: Bruehl, I suppose; but the historical edition of the\nmatter is, that Bruehl's treasonable secrets were come at by the more\nordinary means of wax impressions of his keys.--Ed.]\n\n[Footnote 76: Cities of Richter's romance kingdom. Flachsenfingen he\nsometimes calls _Klein-Wien_, Little Vienna.--Ed.]\n\n[Footnote 77: The campaign of 1813-14 was the holy war of Germany, or\nFreiheitskampf, to which Jean Paul here alludes.--Translator.]\n\n\n\n                                THE END\n\n\n\n\n\n\n      Cambridge: Stereotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"The Campaner Thal, and Other Writings","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":107595}