Meanwhile, in the interior of the company, a multitude of alterations

were occurring. Philina, since the evening subsequent to that of the

fire, had never given our friend the smallest sign of closer intimacy.

She had, as it seemed on purpose, hired a remote lodging: she associated

with Elmira, and came seldomer to Serlo,--an arrangement very gratifying

to Aurelia. Serlo continued still to like her, and often visited her

quarters, particularly when he hoped to find Elmira there. One evening

he took Wilhelm with him. At their entrance, both of them were much

surprised to see Philina, in the inner room, sitting in close contact

with a young officer. He wore a red uniform with white pantaloons; but,

his face being turned away, they could not see it. Philina came into the

outer room to meet her visitors, and shut the door behind her. "You

surprise me in the middle of a very strange adventure," cried she.

"It does not appear so strange," said Serlo; "but let us see this

handsome, young, enviable gallant. You have us in such training, that we

dare not show any jealousy, however it may be."

"I must leave you to suspicion for a time," replied Philina in a jesting

tone; "yet I can assure you, the gallant is a lady of my friends, who

wishes to remain a few days undiscovered. You shall know her history in

due season; nay, perhaps you shall even behold the beautiful spinster in

person; and then most probably I shall have need of all my prudence and

discretion, for it seems too likely that your new acquaintance will

drive your old friend out of favor."

Wilhelm stood as if transformed to stone. At the first glance, the red

uniform had reminded him of Mariana: the figure, too, was hers; the fair

hair was hers; only the present individual seemed to be a little taller.

"For Heaven's sake," cried he, "let us know something more about your

friend! let us see this lady in disguise! We are now partakers of your

secret: we will promise, we will swear; only let us see the lady!"

"What a fire he is in!" cried Philina: "but be cool, be calm; for to-day

there will nothing come of it."

"Let us only know her name!" cried Wilhelm.

"It were a fine secret, then," replied Philina.

"At least her first name!"

"If you can guess it, be it so. Three guesses I will give you,--not a

fourth. You might lead me through the whole calendar."

"Well!" said Wilhelm: "Cecilia, then?"

"None of your Cecilias!"

"Henrietta?"

"Not at all! Have a care, I pray you: guess better, or your curiosity

will have to sleep unsatisfied."

Wilhelm paused and shivered: he tried to speak, but the sound died away

within him. "Mariana?" stammered he at last, "Mariana?"

"Bravo!" cried Philina. "Hit to a hair's-breadth!" said she, whirling

round upon her heel, as she was wont on such occasions.

Wilhelm could not utter a word; and Serlo, not observing his emotion,

urged Philina more and more to let them in.

Conceive the astonishment of both, when Wilhelm, suddenly and vehemently

interrupting their raillery, threw himself at Philina's feet, and, with

an air and tone of the deepest passion, begged and conjured her, "Let me

see the stranger," cried he: "she is mine; she is my Mariana! She for

whom I have longed all the days of my life, she who is still more to me

than all the women in this world! Go in to her at least, and tell her

that I am here,--that the man is here who linked to her his earliest

love, and all the happiness of his youth. Say that he will justify

himself, though he left her so unkindly; he will pray for pardon of her;

and will grant her pardon, whatsoever she may have done to him; he will

even make no pretensions further, if he may but see her, if he may but

see that she is living and in happiness."

Philina shook her head, and said, "Speak low! Do not betray us! If the

lady is indeed your friend, her feelings must be spared; for she does

not in the least suspect that you are here. Quite a different sort of

business brings her hither; and you know well enough, one had rather see

a spectre than a former lover at an inconvenient time. I will ask her,

and prepare her: we will then consider what is further to be done.

To-morrow I shall write you a note, saying when you are to come, or

whether you may come at all. Obey me punctually; for I protest, that,

without her own and my consent, no eye shall see this lovely creature. I

shall keep my doors better bolted; and, with axe and crow, you surely

will not visit me."

Our friend conjured her, Serlo begged of her; but all in vain: they were

obliged to yield, and leave the chamber and the house.

With what feelings Wilhelm passed the night is easy to conceive. How

slowly the hours of the day flowed on, while he sat expecting a message

from Philina, may also be imagined. Unhappily he had to play that

evening: such mental pain he had never endured. The moment his part was

done, he hastened to Philina's house, without inquiring whether he had

got her leave or not. He found her doors bolted: and the people of the

house informed him that mademoiselle had set out early in the morning,

in company with a young officer; that she had talked about returning

shortly; but they had not believed her, she having paid her debts, and

taken every thing along with her.

This intelligence drove Wilhelm almost frantic. He hastened to Laertes,

that he might take measures for pursuing her, and, cost what it would,

for attaining certainty regarding her attendant. Laertes, however,

represented to him the imprudence of such passion and credulity. "I dare

wager, after all," said he, "that it is no one else but Friedrich. The

boy is of a high family, I know; he is madly in love with Philina; it is

likely he has cozened from his friends a fresh supply of money, so that

he can once more live with her in peace for a while."

These considerations, though they did not quite convince our friend,

sufficed to make him waver. Laertes showed him how improbable the story

was with which Philina had amused them; reminded him how well the

stranger's hair and figure answered Friedrich; that with the start of

him by twelve hours, they could not easily be overtaken; and, what was

more than all, that Serlo could not do without him at the theatre.

By so many reasons, Wilhelm was at last persuaded to postpone the

execution of his project. That night Laertes got an active man, to whom

they gave the charge of following the runaways. It was a steady person,

who had often officiated as courier and guide to travelling-parties, and

was at present without employment. They gave him money, they informed

him of the whole affair; instructing him to seek and overtake the

fugitives, to keep them in his eye, and instantly to send intelligence

to Wilhelm where and how he found them. That very hour he mounted horse,

pursuing this ambiguous pair; by which exertions, Wilhelm was in some

degree at least, composed.

CHAPTER XVI.

The departure of Philina did not make a deep sensation, either in the

theatre or in the public. She never was in earnest with any thing: the

women universally detested her; the men rather wished to see her

selves-two than on the boards. Thus her fine, and, for the stage, even

happy, talents were of no avail to her. The other members of the company

took greater labor on them to supply her place: the Frau Melina, in

particular, was much distinguished by her diligence and zeal. She noted

down, as formerly, the principles of Wilhelm; she guided herself

according to his theory and his example; there was of late a something

in her nature that rendered her more interesting. She soon acquired an

accurate mode of acting: she attained the natural tone of conversation

altogether, that of keen emotion she attained in some degree. She

contrived, moreover, to adapt herself to Serlo's humors: she took pains

in singing for his pleasure, and succeeded in that matter moderately

well.

By the accession of some other players, the company was rendered more

complete: and while Wilhelm and Serlo were busied each in his degree,

the former insisting on the general tone and spirit of the whole, the

latter faithfully elaborating the separate passages, a laudable ardor

likewise inspired the actors; and the public took a lively interest in

their concerns.

"We are on the right path," said Serlo once: "if we can continue thus,

the public, too, will soon be on it. Men are easily astonished and

misled by wild and barbarous exhibitions; yet lay before them any thing

rational and polished, in an interesting manner, and doubt not they will

catch at it."

"What forms the chief defect of our German theatre, what prevents both

actor and spectator from obtaining proper views, is the vague and

variegated nature of the objects it contains. You nowhere find a barrier

on which to prop your judgment. In my opinion, it is far from an

advantage to us that we have expanded our stage into, as it were, a

boundless arena for the whole of nature; yet neither manager nor actor

need attempt contracting it, until the taste of the nation shall itself

mark out the proper circle. Every good society submits to certain

conditions and restrictions; so also must every good theatre. Certain

manners, certain modes of speech, certain objects, and fashions of

proceeding, must altogether be excluded. You do not grow poorer by

limiting your household expenditure."

On these points our friends were more or less accordant or at variance.

The majority, with Wilhelm at their head, were for the English theatre;

Serlo and a few others for the French.

It was also settled, that in vacant hours, of which unhappily an actor

has too many, they should in company peruse the finest plays in both

these languages; examining what parts of them seemed best and worthiest

of imitation. They accordingly commenced with some French pieces. On

these occasions, it was soon observed, Aurelia went away whenever they

began to read. At first they supposed she had been sick: Wilhelm once

questioned her about it.

"I would not assist at such a reading," said she, "for how could I hear

and judge, when my heart was torn in pieces? I hate the French language

from the bottom of my soul."

"How can you be hostile to a language," cried our friend, "to which we

Germans are indebted for the greater part of our accomplishments; to

which we must become indebted still more, if our natural qualities are

ever to assume their proper form?"

"It is no prejudice!" replied Aurelia, "a painful impression, a hated

recollection of my faithless friend, has robbed me of all enjoyment in

that beautiful and cultivated tongue. How I hate it now with my whole

strength and heart! During the period of our kindliest connection, he

wrote in German; and what genuine, powerful, cordial German! It was not

till he wanted to get quit of me that he began seriously to write in

French. I marked, I felt, what he meant. What he would have blushed to

utter in his mother tongue, he could by this means write with a quiet

conscience. It is the language of reservations, equivocations, and lies:

it is a _perfidious_ language. Heaven be praised! I cannot find another

word to express this _perfide_ of theirs in all its compass. Our poor

_treulos_, the _faithless_ of the English, are innocent as babes beside

it. _Perfide_ means faithless with pleasure, with insolence and malice.

How enviable is the culture of a nation that can figure out so many

shades of meaning by a single word! French is exactly the language of

the world,--worthy to become the universal language, that all may have

it in their power to cheat and cozen and betray each other! His French

letters were always smooth and pleasant, while you read them. If you

chose to believe it, they sounded warmly, even passionately; but, if you

examined narrowly, they were but phrases,--accursed phrases! He has

spoiled my feeling to the whole language, to French literature, even to

the beautiful, delicious expressions of noble souls which may be found

in it. I shudder when a French word is spoken in my hearing."

In such terms she could for hours continue to give utterance to her

chagrin, interrupting or disturbing every other kind of conversation.

Sooner or later, Serlo used to put an end to such peevish lamentations

by some bitter sally; but by this means, commonly, the talk for the

evening was destroyed.

In all provinces of life, it is unhappily the case, that whatever is to

be accomplished by a number of co-operating men and circumstances cannot

long continue perfect. Of an acting company as well as of a kingdom, of

a circle of friends as well as of an army, you may commonly select the

moment when it may be said that all was standing on the highest pinnacle

of harmony, perfection, contentment, and activity. But alterations will

ere long occur; the individuals that compose the body often change; new

members are added; the persons are no longer suited to the

circumstances, or the circumstances to the persons; what was formerly

united quickly falls asunder. Thus it was with Serlo's company. For a

time you might have called it as complete as any German company could

ever boast of being. Most of the actors were occupying their proper

places: all had enough to do, and all did it willingly. Their private

personal condition was not bad; and each appeared to promise great

things in his art, for each commenced with animation and alacrity. But

it soon became apparent that a part of them were mere automatons, who

could not reach beyond what was attainable without the aid of feeling.

Nor was it long till grudgings and envyings arose among them, such as

commonly obstruct every good arrangement, and easily distort and tear in

pieces every thing that reasonable and thinking men would wish to keep

united.

The departure of Philina was not quite so insignificant as it had at

first appeared. She had always skilfully contrived to entertain the

manager, and keep the others in good humor. She had endured Aurelia's

violence with amazing patience, and her dearest task had been to flatter

Wilhelm. Thus she was, in some respects, a bond of union for the whole:

the loss of her was quickly felt.

Serlo could not live without some little passion of the love sort.

Elmira was of late grown up, we might almost say grown beautiful; for

some time she had been attracting his attention: and Philina, with her

usual dexterity, had favored this attachment so soon as she observed it.

"We should train ourselves in time," she would say, "to the business of

procuress: nothing else remains for us when we are old." Serlo and

Elmira had by this means so approximated to each other, that, shortly

after the departure of Philina, both were of a mind: and their small

romance was rendered doubly interesting, as they had to hide it

sedulously from the father; Old Boisterous not understanding jokes of

that description. Elmira's sister had been admitted to the secret; and

Serlo was, in consequence, obliged to overlook a multitude of things in

both of them. One of their worst habits was an excessive love of

junketing,--nay, if you will, an intolerable gluttony. In this respect

they altogether differed from Philina, to whom it gave a new tint of

loveliness, that she seemed, as it were, to live on air, eating very

little; and, for drink, merely skimming off, with all imaginable grace,

the foam from a glass of champagne.

Now, however, Serlo, if he meant to please his doxies, was obliged to

join breakfast with dinner; and with this, by a substantial bever, to

connect the supper. But, amid gormandizing, Serlo entertained another

plan, which he longed to have fulfilled. He imagined that he saw a kind

of attachment between Wilhelm and Aurelia, and he anxiously wished that

it might assume a serious shape. He hoped to cast the whole mechanical

department of his theatrical economy on Wilhelm's shoulders; to find in

him, as in the former brother, a faithful and industrious tool. Already

he had, by degrees, shifted over to him most of the cares of management;

Aurelia kept the strong-box; and Serlo once more lived as he had done of

old, entirely according to his humor. Yet there was a circumstance which

vexed him in secret, as it did his sister likewise.

The world has a particular way of acting towards public persons of

acknowledged merit: it gradually begins to be indifferent to them, and

to favor talents which are new, though far inferior; it makes excessive

requisitions of the former, and accepts of any thing with approbation

from the latter.

Serlo and Aurelia had opportunity enough to meditate on this

peculiarity. The strangers, especially the young and handsome ones, had

drawn the whole attention and applause upon themselves; and Serlo and

his sister, in spite of the most zealous efforts, had in general to make

their exits without the welcome sound of clapping hands. It is true,

some special causes were at work on this occasion. Aurelia's pride was

palpable, and her contempt for the public was known to many. Serlo,

indeed, flattered every individual; but his cutting jibes against the

whole were often circulated and repeated. The new members, again, were

not only strangers, unknown, and wanting help, but some of them were

likewise young and amiable: thus all of them found patrons.

Erelong, too, there arose internal discontents, and many bickerings,

among the actors. Scarcely had they noticed that our friend was acting

as director, when most of them began to grow the more remiss, the more

he strove to introduce a better order, greater accuracy, and chiefly to

insist that every thing mechanical should be performed in the most

strict and regular manner.

Thus, by and by, the whole concern, which actually for a time had nearly

looked ideal, grew as vulgar in its attributes as any mere itinerating

theatre. And, unhappily, just as Wilhelm, by his labor, diligence, and

vigorous efforts, had made himself acquainted with the requisitions of

the art, and trained completely both his person and his habits to comply

with them, he began to feel, in melancholy hours, that this craft

deserved the necessary outlay of time and talents less than any other.

The task was burdensome, the recompense was small. He would rather have

engaged with any occupation in which, when the period of exertion is

passed, one can enjoy repose of mind, than with this, wherein, after

undergoing much mechanical drudgery, the aim of one's activity cannot

still be attained but by the strongest effort of thought and emotion.

Besides, he had to listen to Aurelia's complaints about her brother's

wastefulness: he had to misconceive the winks and nods of Serlo, trying

from afar to lead him to a marriage with Aurelia. He had, withal, to

hide his own secret sorrow, which pressed heavy on his heart, because of

that ambiguous officer whom he had sent in quest of. The messenger

returned not, sent no tidings; and Wilhelm feared that his Mariana was

lost to him a second time.

About this period, there occurred a public mourning, which obliged our

friends to shut their theatre for several weeks. Wilhelm seized this

opportunity to pay a visit to the clergyman with whom the harper had

been placed to board. He found him in a pleasant district; and the first

thing that he noticed in the parsonage was the old man teaching a boy to

play upon his instrument. The harper showed great joy at sight of

Wilhelm: he rose, held out his hand, and said, "You see, I am still good

for something in the world; permit me to continue; for my hours are all

distributed, and full of business."

The clergyman saluted Wilhelm very kindly, and told him that the harper

promised well, already giving hopes of a complete recovery.

Their conversation naturally turned upon the various modes of treating

the insane.

"Except physical derangements," observed the clergyman, "which often

place insuperable difficulties in the way, and in regard to which I

follow the prescriptions of a wise physician, the means of curing

madness seem to me extremely simple. They are the very means by which

you hinder sane persons from becoming mad. Awaken their activity;

accustom them to order; bring them to perceive that they hold their

being and their fate in common with many millions; that extraordinary

talents, the highest happiness, the deepest misery, are but slight

variations from the general lot: in this way, no insanity will enter,

or, if it has entered, will gradually disappear. I have portioned out

the old man's hours: he gives lessons to some children on the harp; he

works in the garden; he is already much more cheerful. He wishes to

enjoy the cabbages he plants: my son, to whom in case of death he has

bequeathed his harp, he is ardent to instruct, that the boy may be able

to make use of his inheritance. I have said but little to him, as a

clergyman, about his wild, mysterious scruples; but a busy life brings

on so many incidents, that erelong he must feel how true it is, that

doubt of any kind can be removed by nothing but activity. I go softly to

work: yet, if I could get his beard and hood removed, I should reckon it

a weighty point; for nothing more exposes us to madness than

distinguishing ourselves from others, and nothing more contributes to

maintain our common sense than living in the universal way with

multitudes of men. Alas! how much there is in education, in our social

institutions, to prepare us and our children for insanity!"

Wilhelm staid some days with this intelligent divine; heard from him

many curious narratives, not of the insane alone, but of persons such as

commonly are reckoned wise and rational, though they may have

peculiarities which border on insanity.

The conversation became doubly animated, on the entrance of the doctor,

with whom it was a custom to pay frequent visits to his friend the

clergyman, and to assist him in his labors of humanity. The physician

was an oldish man, who, though in weak health, had spent many years in

the practice of the noblest virtues. He was a strong advocate for

country life, being himself scarcely able to exist except in the open

air. Withal, he was extremely active and companionable. For several

years he had shown a special inclination to make friends with all the

country clergymen within his reach. Such of these as were employed in

any useful occupation he strove by every means to help; into others, who

were still unsettled in their aims, he endeavored to infuse a taste for

some profitable species of exertion. Being at the same time in

connection with a multitude of noblemen, magistrates, judges, he had in

the space of twenty years, in secret, accomplished much towards the

advancement of many branches of husbandry: he had done his best to put

in motion every project that seemed capable of benefiting agriculture,

animals, or men, and had thus forwarded improvement in its truest sense.

"For man," he used to say, "there is but one misfortune,--when some idea

lays hold of him, which exerts no influence upon active life, or, still

more, which withdraws him from it. At the present time," continued he,

on this occasion, "I have such a case before me: it concerns a rich and

noble couple, and hitherto has baffled all my skill. The affair belongs

in part to your department, worthy pastor; and your friend here will

forbear to mention it again.

"In the absence of a certain nobleman, some persons of the house, in a

frolic not entirely commendable, disguised a young man in the master's

clothes. The lady was to be imposed upon by this deception; and,

although it was described to me as nothing but a joke, I am much afraid

the purpose of it was to lead this noble and most amiable lady from the

path of honor. Her husband, however, unexpectedly returns; enters his

chamber; thinks he sees his spirit; and from that time falls into a

melancholy temper, firmly believing that his death is near.

"He has now abandoned himself to men who pamper him with religious

ideas; and I see not how he is to be prevented from going among the

Hernhuters with his lady, and, as he has no children, from depriving his

relations of the chief part of his fortune."

"With his lady?" cried our friend in great agitation; for this story had

frightened him extremely.

"And, alas!" replied the doctor, who regarded Wilhelm's exclamation only

as the voice of common sympathy, "this lady is herself possessed with a

deeper sorrow, which renders a removal from the world desirable to her

also. The same young man was taking leave of her: she was not

circumspect enough to hide a nascent inclination towards him: the youth

grew bolder, clasped her in his arms, and pressed a large portrait of

her husband, which was set with diamonds, forcibly against her breast.

She felt a sharp pain, which gradually went off, leaving first a little

redness, then no trace at all. As a man, I am convinced that she has

nothing further to reproach herself with, in this affair; as a

physician, I am certain that this pressure could not have the smallest

ill effect. Yet she will not be persuaded that an induration is not

taking place in the part; and, if you try to overcome her notion by the

evidence of feeling, she maintains, that, though the evil is away this

moment, it will return the next. She conceives that the disease will end

in cancer, and thus her youth and loveliness be altogether lost to

others and herself."

"Wretch that I am!" cried Wilhelm, striking his brow, and rushing from

the company into the fields. He had never felt himself in such a

miserable case.

The clergyman and the physician were of course exceedingly astonished at

this singular discovery. In the evening all their skill was called for,

when our friend returned, and, with a circumstantial disclosure of the

whole occurrence, uttered the most violent accusations of himself. Both

took interest in him: both felt a real concern about his general

condition, particularly as he painted it in the gloomy colors which

arose from the humor of the moment.

Next day the physician, without much entreaty, was prevailed upon to

accompany him in his return; both that he might bear him company, and

that he might, if possible, do something for Aurelia, whom our friend

had left in rather dangerous circumstances.

In fact, they found her worse than they expected. She was afflicted with

a sort of intermittent fever, which could the less be mastered, as she

purposely maintained and aggravated the attacks of it. The stranger was

not introduced as a physician: he behaved with great courteousness and

prudence. They conversed about her situation, bodily and mental: her new

friend related many anecdotes of persons who, in spite of lingering

disorders, had attained a good old age; adding, that, in such cases,

nothing could be more injurious than the intentional recalling of

passionate and disagreeable emotions. In particular he stated, that, for

persons laboring under chronical and partly incurable distempers, he had

always found it a very happy circumstance when they chanced to

entertain, and cherish in their minds, true feelings of religion. This

he signified in the most unobtrusive manner, as it were historically;

promising Aurelia at the same time the reading of a very interesting

manuscript, which he said he had received from the hands of an excellent

lady of his friends, who was now deceased. "To me," he said, "it is of

uncommon value; and I shall trust you even with the original. Nothing

but the title is in my hand-writing: I have called it, 'Confessions of a

Fair Saint.'"

Touching the medical and dietetic treatment of the racked and hapless

patient, he also left his best advice with Wilhelm. He then departed;

promising to write, and, if possible, to come again in person.

Meanwhile, in Wilhelm's absence, there had changes been preparing such

as he was not aware of. During his directorship, our friend had managed

all things with a certain liberality and freedom; looking chiefly at the

main result. Whatever was required for dresses, decorations, and the

like, he had usually provided in a plentiful and handsome style; and,

for securing the co-operation of his people, he had flattered their

self-interest, since he could not reach them by nobler motives. In this

he felt his conduct justified the more; as Serlo for his own part never

aimed at being a strict economist, but liked to hear the beauty of his

theatre commended, and was contented if Aurelia, who conducted the

domestic matters, on defraying all expenses, signified that she was free

from debt, and could besides afford the necessary sums for clearing off

such scores as Serlo in the interim, by lavish kindness to his

mistresses or otherwise, might have incurred.

Melina, who was charged with managing the wardrobe, had all the while

been silently considering these things, with the cold, spiteful temper

peculiar to him. On occasion of our friend's departure, and Aurelia's

increasing sickness, he contrived to signify to Serlo, that more money

might be raised and less expended, and, consequently, something be laid

up, or at least a merrier life be led. Serlo hearkened gladly to such

allegations, and Melina risked the exhibition of his plan.

"I will not say," continued he, "that any of your actors has at present

too much salary: they are meritorious people, they would find a welcome

anywhere; but, for the income which they bring us in, they have too

much. My project would be, to set up an opera; and, as to what concerns

the playhouse, I may be allowed to say it, you are the person for

maintaining that establishment upon your single strength. Observe how at

present your merits are neglected; and justice is refused you, not

because your fellow-actors are excellent, but merely good.

"Come out alone, as used to be the case; endeavor to attract around you

middling, I will even say inferior people, for a slender salary; regale

the public with mechanical displays, as you can so cleverly do; apply

your remaining means to the opera, which I am talking of; and you will

quickly see, that, with the same labor and expense, you will give

greater satisfaction, while you draw incomparably more money than at

present."

These observations were so flattering to Serlo, that they could not fail

of making some impression on him. He readily admitted, that, loving

music as he did, he had long wished for some arrangement such as this;

though he could not but perceive that the public taste would thus be

still more widely led astray, and that with such a mongrel theatre, not

properly an opera, not properly a playhouse, any residue of true feeling

for regular and perfect works of art must shortly disappear.

Melina ridiculed, in terms more plain than delicate, our friend's

pedantic notions in this matter, and his vain attempts to form the

public mind, instead of being formed by it: Serlo and he at last agreed,

with full conviction, that the sole concern was, how to gather money,

and grow rich, or live a joyous life; and they scarcely concealed their

wish to be delivered from those persons who at present hindered them.

Melina took occasion to lament Aurelia's weak health, and the speedy end

which it threatened; thinking all the while directly the reverse. Serlo

affected to regret that Wilhelm could not sing, thus signifying that his

presence was by no means indispensable. Melina then came forward with a

whole catalogue of savings, which, he said, might be effected; and Serlo

saw in him his brother-in-law replaced threefold. They both felt that

secrecy was necessary in the matter, but this mutual obligation only

joined them closer in their interests. They failed not to converse

together privately on every thing that happened; to blame whatever

Wilhelm or Aurelia undertook; and to elaborate their own project, and

prepare it more and more for execution.

Silent as they both might be about their plan, little as their words

betrayed them, in their conduct they were not so politic as constantly

to hide their purposes. Melina now opposed our friend in many points

that lay within the province of the latter; and Serlo, who had never

acted smoothly to his sister, seemed to grow more bitter the more her

sickness deepened, the more her passionate and variable humors would

have needed toleration.

About this period they took up the "Emilie Galotti" of Lessing. The

parts were very happily distributed and filled: within the narrow circle

of this tragedy, the company found room for showing all the complex

riches of their acting. Serlo, in the character of Marinelli, was

altogether in his place; Odoardo was very well exhibited; Madam Melina

played the Mother with considerable skill; Elmira gained distinction as

Emilie; Laertes made a stately Appiani; and Wilhelm had bestowed the

study of some months upon the Prince's part. On this occasion, both

internally and with Aurelia and Serlo, he had often come upon this

question: What is the distinction between a noble and a well-bred

manner? and how far must the former be included in the latter, though

the latter is not in the former?

Serlo, who himself in Marinelli had to act the courtier accurately,

without caricature, afforded him some valuable thoughts on this. "A

well-bred carriage," he would say, is difficult to imitate; for in

strictness it is negative, and it implies a long-continued previous

training. You are not required to exhibit in your manner any thing that

specially betokens dignity; for, by this means, you are like to run into

formality and haughtiness: you are rather to avoid whatever is

undignified and vulgar. You are never to forget yourself; are to keep a

constant watch upon yourself and others; to forgive nothing that is

faulty in your own conduct, in that of others neither to forgive too

little nor too much. Nothing must appear to touch you, nothing to

agitate: you must never overhaste yourself, must ever keep yourself

composed, retaining still an outward calmness, whatever storms may rage

within. The noble character at certain moments may resign himself to his

emotions; the well-bred never. The latter is like a man dressed out in

fair and spotless clothes: he will not lean on any thing; every person

will beware of rubbing on him. He distinguishes himself from others, yet

he may not stand apart; for as in all arts, so in this, the hardest must

at length be done with ease: the well-bred man of rank, in spite of

every separation, always seems united with the people round him; he is

never to be stiff or uncomplying; he is always to appear the first, and

never to insist on so appearing.

"It is clear, then, that, to seem well-bred, a man must actually be so.

It is also clear why women generally are more expert at taking up the

air of breeding than the other sex; why courtiers and soldiers catch it

more easily than other men."

Wilhelm now despaired of doing justice to his part; but Serlo aided and

encouraged him, communicated the acutest observations on detached

points, and furnished him so well, that, on the exhibition of the piece,

the public reckoned him a very proper Prince.

Serlo had engaged to give him, when the play was over, such remarks as

might occur upon his acting: a disagreeable contention with Aurelia

prevented any conversation of that kind. Aurelia had acted the character

of Orsina, in such a style as few have ever done. She was well

acquainted with the part, and during the rehearsals she had treated it

indifferently: but, in the exhibition of the piece, she had opened, as

it were, all the sluices of her personal sorrow; and the character was

represented so as never poet in the first glow of invention could have

figured it. A boundless applause rewarded her painful efforts; but her

friends, on visiting her when the play was finished, found her half

fainting in her chair.

Serlo had already signified his anger at her overcharged acting, as he

called it; at this disclosure of her inmost heart before the public, to

many individuals of which the history of her fatal passion was more or

less completely known. He had spoken bitterly and fiercely; grinding

with his teeth and stamping with his feet, as was his custom when

enraged. "Never mind her," cried he, when he saw her in the chair,

surrounded by the rest: "she will go upon the stage stark-naked one of

these days, and then the approbation will be perfect."

"Ungrateful, inhuman man!" exclaimed she: "soon shall I be carried naked

to the place where approbation or disapprobation can no longer reach our

ears!" With these words she started up, and hastened to the door. The

maid had not yet brought her mantle; the sedan was not in waiting; it

had been raining lately; a cold, raw wind was blowing through the

streets. They endeavored to persuade her to remain, for she was very

warm. But in vain: she purposely walked slow; she praised the coolness,

seemed to inhale it with peculiar eagerness. No sooner was she home,

than she became so hoarse that she could hardly speak a word: she did

not mention that there was a total stiffness in her neck and along her

back. Shortly afterwards a sort of palsy in the tongue came on, so that

she pronounced one word instead of another. They put her to bed: by

numerous and copious remedies, the evil changed its form, but was not

mastered. The fever gathered strength: her case was dangerous.

Next morning she enjoyed a quiet hour. She sent for Wilhelm, and

delivered him a letter. "This sheet," said she, "has long been waiting

for the present moment. I feel that my end is drawing nigh: promise me

that you yourself will take this paper; that, by a word or two, you will

avenge my sorrows on the faithless man. He is not void of feeling: my

death will pain him for a moment."

Wilhelm took the letter; still endeavoring to console her, and to drive

away the thought of death.

"No," said she: "do not deprive me of my nearest hope. I have waited for

him long: I will joyfully clasp him when he comes."

Shortly after this the manuscript arrived which the physician had

engaged to send her. She called for Wilhelm,--made him read it to her.

The effect which it produced upon her, the reader will be better able to

appreciate after looking at the following Book. The violent and stubborn

temper of our poor Aurelia was mollified by hearing it. She took back

the letter, and wrote another, as it seemed, in a meeker tone; charging

Wilhelm at the same time to console her friend, if he should be

distressed about her death; to assure him that she had forgiven him, and

wished him every kind of happiness.

From this time she was very quiet, and appeared to occupy herself with

but a few ideas, which she endeavored to extract and appropriate from

the manuscript, out of which she frequently made Wilhelm read to her.

The decay of her strength was not perceptible: nor had Wilhelm been

anticipating the event, when one morning, as he went to visit her, he

found that she was dead.

Entertaining such respect for her as he had done, and accustomed as he

was to live in her society, the loss of her affected him with no common

sorrow. She was the only person that had truly wished him well: the

coldness of Serlo he had felt of late but too keenly. He hastened,

therefore, to perform the service she had intrusted to him: he wished to

be absent for a time.

On the other hand, this journey was exceedingly convenient for Melina:

in the course of his extensive correspondence, he had lately entered

upon terms with a male and a female singer, who, it was intended,

should, by their performances in interludes, prepare the public for his

future opera. The loss of Aurelia, and Wilhelm's absence, were to be

supplied in this manner; and our friend was satisfied with any thing

that could facilitate his setting out.

He had formed, within himself, a singular idea of the importance of his

errand. The death of his unhappy friend had moved him deeply; and,

having seen her pass so early from the scene, he could not but be

hostilely inclined against the man who had abridged her life, and made

that shortened term so full of woe.

Notwithstanding the last mild words of the dying woman, he resolved,

that, on delivering his letter, he would pass a strict sentence on her

faithless friend; and, not wishing to depend upon the temper of the

moment, he studied an address, which, in the course of preparation,

became more pathetic than just. Having fully convinced himself of the

good composition of his essay, he began committing it to memory, and at

the same time making ready for departure. Mignon was present as he

packed his articles: she asked him whether he intended travelling south

or north; and, learning that it was the latter, she replied, "Then, I

will wait here for thee." She begged of him the pearl necklace which had

once been Mariana's. He could not refuse to gratify the dear little

creature, and he gave it her: the neckerchief she had already. On the

other hand, she put the veil of Hamlet's Ghost into his travelling-bag;

though he told her it could not be of any service to him.

Melina took upon him the directorship: his wife engaged to keep a

mother's eye upon the children, whom Wilhelm parted with unwillingly.

Felix was very merry at the setting out; and, when asked what pretty

thing he wished to have brought back for him, he said, "Hark you! bring

me a papa!" Mignon seized the traveller's hand; then, standing on her

tiptoes, she pressed a warm and cordial, though not a tender, kiss, upon

his lips, and cried, "Master! forget us not, and come soon back."

And so we leave our friend, entering on his journey, amid a thousand

different thoughts and feelings; and here subjoin, by way of close, a

little poem, which Mignon had recited once or twice with great

expressiveness, and which the hurry of so many singular occurrences

prevented us from inserting sooner:--

"Not speech, bid silence, I implore thee;

For secrecy's my duty still:

My heart entire I'd fain lay bare before thee,

But such is not of fate the will.

In season due the sun's course backward throws

Dark night; ensue must light; the mountain's

Hard rock, at length, its bosom doth unclose,

Now grudging earth no more the hidden fountains.

Each seeks repose upon a friend's true breast,

Where by laments he frees his bosom lonely;

Whereas an oath my lips hold closely pressed,

The which to speech a God can open only."

--_Editor's Version._

BOOK VI.

CONFESSIONS OF A FAIR SAINT.

Till my eighth year I was always a healthy child, but of that period I

can recollect no more than of the day when I was born. About the

beginning of my eighth year, I was seized with a hemorrhage; and from

that moment my soul became all feeling, all memory. The smallest

circumstances of that accident are yet before my eyes as if they had

occurred but yesterday.

During the nine months which I then spent patiently upon a sick-bed, it

appears to me the groundwork of my whole turn of thought was laid; as

the first means were then afforded my mind of developing itself in its

own manner.

I suffered and I loved: this was the peculiar form of my heart. In the

most violent fits of coughing, in the depressing pains of fever, I lay

quiet, like a snail drawn back within its house: the moment I obtained a

respite, I wanted to enjoy something pleasant; and, as every other

pleasure was denied me, I endeavored to amuse myself with the innocent

delights of eye and ear. The people brought me dolls and picture-books,

and whoever would sit by my bed was obliged to tell me something.

From my mother I rejoiced to hear the Bible histories, and my father

entertained me with natural curiosities. He had a very pretty cabinet,

from which he brought me first one drawer and then another, as occasion

served; showing me the articles, and pointing out their properties.

Dried plants and insects, with many kinds of anatomical preparations,

such as human skin, bones, mummies, and the like, were in succession

laid upon the sick-bed of the little one; the birds and animals he

killed in hunting were shown to me, before they passed into the kitchen;

and, that the Prince of the World might also have a voice in this

assembly, my aunt related to me love-adventures out of fairy-tales. All

was accepted, all took root. There were hours in which I vividly

conversed with the Invisible Power. I can still repeat some verses which

I then dictated, and my mother wrote down.

Often I would tell my father back again what I had learned from him.

Rarely did I take any physic without asking where the simples it was

made of grew, what look they had, what names they bore. Nor had the

stories of my aunt lighted on stony ground. I figured myself out in

pretty clothes, and met the most delightful princes, who could find no

peace or rest till they discovered who the unknown beauty was. One

adventure of this kind, with a charming little angel dressed in white,

with golden wings, who warmly courted me, I dwelt upon so long, that my

imagination painted out his form almost to visibility.

After a year I was pretty well restored to health, but nothing of the

giddiness of childhood remained with me. I could not play with dolls: I

longed for beings able to return my love. Dogs, cats, and birds, of

which my father kept a great variety, afforded me delight; but what

would I have given for such a creature as my aunt once told me of! It

was a lamb which a peasant-girl took up and nourished in a wood; but, in

the guise of this pretty beast, an enchanted prince was hid, who at

length appeared in his native shape, a lovely youth, and rewarded his

benefactress by his hand. Such a lamb I would have given the world for.

But there was none to be had; and, as every thing about me went on in

such a quite natural manner, I by degrees all but abandoned nearly all

hopes of such a treasure. Meanwhile I comforted myself by reading books

in which the strangest incidents were set forth. Among them all, my

favorite was the "Christian German Hercules:" that devout love-history

was altogether in my way. Whenever any thing befell his dear Valiska,

and cruel things befell her, he always prayed before hastening to her

aid; and the prayers stood there _verbatim_. My longing after the

Invisible, which I had always dimly felt, was strengthened by such

means; for, in short, it was ordained that God should also be my

confidant.

As I grew older I continued reading, Heaven knows what, in chaotic

order. The "Roman Octavia" was the book I liked beyond all others. The

persecutions of the first Christians, decorated with the charms of a

romance, awoke the deepest interest in me.

But my mother now began to murmur at my constant reading; and, to humor

her, my father took away my books to-day, but gave them back to-morrow.

She was wise enough to see that nothing could be done in this way: she

next insisted merely that my Bible should be read with equal diligence.

To this I was not disinclined, and I accordingly perused the sacred

volume with a lively interest. Withal my mother was extremely careful

that no books of a corruptive tendency should come into my hands:

immodest writings I would, of my own accord, have cast away; for my

princes and my princesses were all extremely virtuous.

To my mother, and my zeal for knowledge, it was owing, that, with all my

love of books, I also learned to cook; for much was to be seen in

cookery. To cut up a hen, a pig, was quite a feast for me. I used to

bring the entrails to my father, and he talked with me about them as if

I had been a student of anatomy. With suppressed joy he would often call

me his misfashioned son.

I had passed my twelfth year. I learned French, dancing, and drawing: I

received the usual instructions in religion. In the latter, many

thoughts and feelings were awakened, but nothing properly relating to my

own condition. I liked to hear the people speak of God: I was proud that

I could speak on these points better than my equals. I zealously read

many books which put me in a condition to talk about religion; but it

never once struck me to think how matters stood with _me_, whether _my_

soul was formed according to these holy precepts, whether it was like a

glass from which the everlasting sun could be reflected in its glancing.

From the first I had presupposed all this.

My French I learned with eagerness. My teacher was a clever man. He was

not a vain empiric, not a dry grammarian: he had learning, he had seen

the world. Instructing me in language, he satisfied my zeal for

knowledge in a thousand ways. I loved him so much, that I used to wait

his coming with a palpitating heart. Drawing was not hard for me: I

should have made greater progress had my teacher possessed head and

science; he had only hands and practice.

Dancing was at first one of my smallest amusements; my body was too

sensitive for it; I learned it only in the company of my sisters. But

our dancing-master took a thought of gathering all his scholars, male

and female, and giving them a ball. This event gave dancing quite

another charm for me.

Amid a throng of boys and girls, the most remarkable were two sons of

the marshal of the court. The youngest was of my age; the other, two

years older: they were children of such beauty, that, according to the

universal voice, no one had seen their like. For my part, scarcely had I

noticed them when I lost sight of all the other crowd. From that moment

I began to dance with care, and to wish that I could dance with grace.

How came it, on the other hand, that these two boys distinguished me

from all the rest? No matter: before an hour had passed we had become

the warmest friends, and our little entertainment did not end till we

had fixed upon the time and place where we were next to meet. What a joy

for me! And how charmed was I next morning when both of them inquired

for my health, each in a gallant note, accompanied with a nosegay! I

have never since felt as I then did. Compliment was met by compliment:

letter answered letter. The church and the public-walks were grown a

rendezvous; our young acquaintances, in all their little parties, now

invited us together; while, at the same time, we were sly enough to veil

the business from our parents, so that they saw no more of it than we

thought good.

Thus had I at once got a pair of lovers. I had yet decided upon neither:

they both pleased me, and we did extremely well together. All at once

the eldest of the two fell very sick. I myself had often been sick; and

thus I was enabled, by rendering him many little dainties and delicacies

suited for a sick person, to afford some solace to the sufferer. His

parents thankfully acknowledged my attention: in compliance with the

prayer of their beloved son, they invited me, with all my sisters, to

their house so soon as he had arisen from his sick-bed. The tenderness

which he displayed on meeting me was not the feeling of a child: from

that day I gave the preference to him. He warned me to keep our secret

from his brother; but the flame could no longer be concealed, and the

jealousy of the younger completed our romance. He played us a thousand

tricks: eager to annihilate our joys, he but increased the passion he

was seeking to destroy.

At last I had actually found the wished-for lamb, and this attachment

acted on me like my sickness: it made me calm, and drew me back from

noisy pleasures. I was solitary, I was moved; and thoughts of God again

occurred to me. He was again my confidant; and I well remember with what

tears I often prayed for this poor boy, who still continued sickly.

The more childishness there was in this adventure, the more did it

contribute to the forming of my heart. Our French teacher had now turned

us from translating into daily writing him some letter of our own

invention. I brought my little history to market, shrouded in the names

of Phyllis and Damon. The old man soon saw through it, and, to render me

communicative, praised my labor very much. I still waxed bolder; came

openly out with the affair, adhering, even in the minute details, to

truth. I do not now remember what the passage was at which he took

occasion to remark, "How pretty, how natural, it is! But the good

Phyllis had better have a care: the thing may soon grow serious."

I felt vexed that he did not look upon the matter as already serious;

and I asked him, with an air of pique, what he meant by serious. I had

not to repeat the question: he explained himself so clearly, that I

could scarcely hide my terror. Yet as anger came along with it, as I

took it ill that he should entertain such thoughts, I kept myself

composed: I tried to justify my nymph, and said, with glowing cheeks,

"But, sir, Phyllis is an honorable girl."

He was rogue enough to banter me about my honorable heroine. While we

were speaking French, he played upon the word _honnête_, and hunted the

honorableness of Phyllis over all its meanings. I felt the ridicule of

this, and extremely puzzled. He, not to frighten me, broke off, but

afterwards often led the conversation to such topics. Plays, and little

histories, such as I was reading and translating with him, gave him

frequent opportunity to show how feeble a security against the calls of

inclination our boasted virtue was. I no longer contradicted him, but I

was in secret scandalized; and his remarks became a burden to me.

With my worthy Damon, too, I by degrees fell out of all connection. The

chicanery of the younger boy destroyed our intercourse. Soon after, both

these blooming creatures died. I lamented sore: however, in a short

time, I forgot.

But Phyllis rapidly increased in stature, was altogether healthy, and

began to see the world. The hereditary prince now married, and a short

time after, on his father's death, began his rule. Court and town were

in the liveliest motion: my curiosity had copious nourishment. There

were plays and balls, with all their usual accompaniments; and, though

my parents kept retired as much as possible, they were obliged to show

themselves at court, where I was of course introduced. Strangers were

pouring in from every side; high company was in every house; even to us

some cavaliers were recommended, others introduced; and, at my uncle's,

men of every nation might be met with.

My honest mentor still continued, in a modest and yet striking way, to

warn me, and I in secret to take it ill of him. With regard to his

assertion, that women under every circumstance were weak, I did not feel

at all convinced; and here, perhaps, I was in the right, and my mentor

in the wrong: but he spoke so earnestly that once I grew afraid he might

be right, and said to him, with much vivacity, "Since the danger is so

great, and the human heart so weak, I will pray to God that he may keep

me."

This simple answer seemed to please him, for he praised my purpose; but,

on my side, it was any thing but seriously meant. It was, in truth, but

an empty word; for my feelings towards the Invisible were almost totally

extinguished. The hurry and the crowd I lived in dissipated my

attention, and carried me along as in a rapid stream. These were the

emptiest years of my life. All day long to speak of nothing, to have no

solid thought, never to do any thing but revel,--such was my employment.

On my beloved books I never once bestowed a thought. The people I lived

among had not the slightest tinge of literature or science: they were

German courtiers, a class of men at that time altogether destitute of

culture.

Such society, it may be thought, must naturally have led me to the brink

of ruin. I lived away in mere corporeal cheerfulness: I never took

myself to task, I never prayed, I never thought about myself or God. Yet

I look upon it as a providential guidance, that none of these many

handsome, rich, and well-dressed men could take my fancy. They were

rakes, and did not conceal it; this scared me back: they adorned their

speech with double meanings; this offended me, made me act with coldness

towards them. Many times their improprieties exceeded belief, and I did

not restrain myself from being rude.

Besides, my ancient counsellor had once in confidence contrived to tell

me, that, with the greater part of these lewd fellows, health, as well

as virtue, was in danger. I now shuddered at the sight of them: I was

afraid if one of them in any way approached too near me. I would not

touch their cups or glasses,--even the chairs they had been sitting on.

Thus, morally and physically, I remained apart from them: all the

compliments they paid me I haughtily accepted, as incense that was due.

Among the strangers then resident among us was one young man peculiarly

distinguished, whom we used in sport to call Narciss. He had gained a

reputation in the diplomatic line; and, among the various changes now

occurring at court, he was in hopes of meeting with some advantageous

place. He soon became acquainted with my father: his acquirements and

manners opened for him the way to a select society of most accomplished

men. My father often spoke in praise of him: his figure, which was very

handsome, would have made a still better impression, had it not been for

something of self-complacency which breathed from the whole carriage of

the man. I had seen him. I thought well of him; but we had never spoken.

At a great ball, where we chanced to be in company, I danced a minuet

with him; but this, too, passed without results. The more violent

dances, in compliance with my father, who felt anxious about my health,

I was accustomed to avoid: in the present case, when these came on, I

retired to an adjoining room, and began to talk with certain of my

friends, elderly ladies, who had set themselves to cards.

Narciss, who had jigged it for a while, at last came into the room where

I was; and having got the better of a bleeding at the nose, which had

overtaken him in dancing, he began speaking with me about a multitude of

things. In half an hour the talk had grown so interesting, that neither

of us could think of dancing any more. We were rallied by our friends,

but we did not let their bantering disturb us. Next evening we

recommenced our conversation, and were very careful not to hurt our

health.

The acquaintance then was made. Narciss was often with my sisters and

myself; and I now once more began to reckon over and consider what I

knew, what I thought of, what I had felt, and what I could express

myself about in conversation. My new friend had mingled in the best

society; besides the department of history and politics, with every part

of which he was familiar, he had gained extensive literary knowledge;

there was nothing new that issued from the press, especially in France,

that he was unacquainted with. He brought or sent me many a pleasant

book, but this we had to keep as secret as forbidden love. Learned

women had been made ridiculous, nor were well-informed women

tolerated,--apparently because it would have been uncivil to put so many

ill-informed men to shame. Even my father, much as he delighted in this

new opportunity of cultivating my mind, expressly stipulated that our

literary commerce should remain secret.

Thus our intercourse continued for almost year and day; and still I

could not say, that, in any wise, Narciss had ever shown me aught of

love or tenderness. He was always complaisant and kind, but manifested

nothing like attachment: on the contrary, he even seemed to be in some

degree affected by the charms of my youngest sister, who was then

extremely beautiful. In sport, he gave her many little friendly names

out of foreign tongues; for he could speak two or three of these

extremely well, and loved to mix their idiomatic phrases with his

German. Such compliments she did not answer very liberally; she was

entangled in a different noose: and being very sharp, while he was very

sensitive, the two were often quarrelling about trifles. With my mother

and my aunt he kept on very pleasant terms; and thus, by gradual

advances, he was grown to be a member of the family.

Who knows how long we might have lived in this way, had not a curious

accident altered our relations all at once? My sisters and I were

invited to a certain house, to which we did not like to go. The company

was too mixed; and persons of the stupidest, if not the rudest, stamp

were often to be met there. Narciss, on this occasion, was invited also;

and on his account I felt inclined to go, for I was sure of finding one,

at least, whom I could converse with as I desired. Even at table we had

many things to suffer, for several of the gentlemen had drunk too much:

then, in the drawing-room, they insisted on a game at forfeits. It went

on with great vivacity and tumult. Narciss had lost a forfeit: they

ordered him, by way of penalty, to whisper something pleasant in the ear

of every member of the company. It seems he staid too long beside my

next neighbor, the lady of a captain. The latter on a sudden struck him

such a box with his fist, that the powder flew about me, into my eyes.

When I had got my eyes cleared, and in some degree recovered from my

terror, I saw that both gentlemen had drawn their swords. Narciss was

bleeding; and the other, mad with wine and rage and jealousy, could

scarcely be held back by all the company. I seized Narciss, led him by

the arm up-stairs; and, as I did not think my friend safe even here from

his frantic enemy, I shut the door and bolted it.

Neither of us considered the wound serious, for a slight cut across the

hand was all we saw. Soon, however, I discovered that there was a stream

of blood running down his back, that there was a deep wound on the

head. I now began to be afraid. I hastened to the lobby, to get help:

but I could see no person; every one had staid below to calm the raving

captain. At last a daughter of the family came skipping up: her mirth

annoyed me; she was like to die with laughing at the bedlam spectacle. I

conjured her, for the sake of Heaven, to get a surgeon; and she, in her

wild way, sprang down-stairs to fetch me one herself.

Returning to my wounded friend, I bound my handkerchief about his hand,

and a neckerchief, that was hanging on the door, about his head. He was

still bleeding copiously: he now grew pale, and seemed as if he were

about to faint. There was none at hand to aid me: I very freely put my

arm round him, patted his cheek, and tried to cheer him by little

flatteries. It seemed to act on him like a spiritual remedy: he kept his

senses, but sat as pale as death.

At last the active housewife arrived: it is easy to conceive her terror

when she saw my friend in this predicament, lying in my arms, and both

of us bestreamed with blood. No one had supposed he was wounded: all

imagined I had carried him away in safety.

Now smelling-bottles, wine, and every thing that could support and

stimulate, were copiously produced. The surgeon also came, and I might

easily have been dispensed with. Narciss, however, held me firmly by the

hand: I would have staid without holding. During the dressing of his

wounds, I continued wetting his lips with wine: I minded not, though all

the company were now about us. The surgeon having finished, his patient

took a mute but tender leave of me, and was conducted home.

The mistress of the house now led me to her bedroom: she had to strip me

altogether; and I must confess, while they washed the blood from me, I

saw with pleasure, for the first time, in a mirror, that I might be

reckoned beautiful without help of dress. No portion of my clothes could

be put on again; and, as the people of the house were all either less or

larger than myself, I was taken home in a strange disguise. My parents

were, of course, astonished. They felt exceedingly indignant at my

fright, at the wounds of their friend, at the captain's madness, at the

whole occurrence. A very little would have made my father send the

captain a challenge, that he might avenge his friend without delay. He

blamed the gentlemen that had been there, because they had not punished

on the spot such a murderous attempt; for it was but too clear, that

the captain, instantly on striking, had drawn his sword, and wounded the

other from behind. The cut across the hand had been given just when

Narciss himself was grasping at his sword. I felt unspeakably affected,

altered; or how shall I express it? The passion which was sleeping at

the deepest bottom of my heart had at once broken loose, like a flame

getting air. And if joy and pleasure are well suited for the first

producing and the silent nourishing of love, yet this passion, bold by

nature, is most easily impelled by terror to decide and to declare

itself. My mother gave her little flurried daughter some medicine, and

made her go to bed. With the earliest morrow my father hastened to

Narciss, whom he found lying very sick of a wound-fever.

He told me little of what passed between them, but tried to quiet me

about the probable results of this event. They were now considering

whether an apology should be accepted, whether the affair should go

before a court of justice, and many other points of that description. I

knew my father too well to doubt that he would be averse to see the

matter end without a duel: but I held my peace; for I had learned from

him before, that women should not meddle in such things. For the rest,

it did not strike me as if any thing had passed between the friends, in

which my interests were specially concerned; but my father soon

communicated to my mother the purport of their further conversation.

Narciss, he said, appeared to be exceedingly affected at the help

afforded by me; had embraced him, declared himself my debtor forever,

signified that he desired no happiness except what he could share with

me, and concluded by entreating that he might presume to ask my hand.

All this mamma repeated to me, but subjoined the safe reflection, that,

"as for what was said in the first agitation of mind in such a case,

there was little trust to be placed in it."--"Of course, none," I

answered with affected coldness; though all the while I was feeling,

Heaven knows what.

Narciss continued sick for two months; owing to the wound in his right

hand, he could not even write. Yet, in the mean time, he showed me his

regard by the most obliging courtesies. All these unusual attentions I

combined with what my mother had disclosed to me, and constantly my head

was full of fancies. The whole city talked of the occurrence. With me

they spoke of it in a peculiar tone: they drew inferences, which,

greatly as I struggled to avoid them, touched me very close. What had

formerly been habitude and trifling, was now grown seriousness and

inclination. The anxiety in which I lived was the more violent, the more

carefully I studied to conceal it from every one. The idea of losing him

frightened me: the possibility of any closer union made me tremble. For

a half-prudent girl, there is really something awful in the thought of

marriage.

By such incessant agitations I was once more led to recollect myself.

The gaudy imagery of a thoughtless life, which used to hover day and

night before my eyes, was at once blown away. My soul again began to

awaken, but the greatly interrupted intimacy with my invisible friend

was not so easy to renew. We still continued at a frigid distance: it

was again something, but little to the times of old.

A duel had been fought, and the captain severely wounded, before I ever

heard of it. The public feeling was, in all senses, strong on the side

of my lover, who at length again appeared upon the scene. But, first of

all, he came, with his head tied up and his arm in a sling, to visit us.

How my heart beat while he was there! The whole family was present:

general thanks and compliments were all that passed on either side.

Narciss, however, found an opportunity to show some secret tokens of his

love to me; by which means my inquietude was but increased. After his

recovery he visited us throughout the winter on the former footing; and

in spite of all the soft, private marks of tenderness which he contrived

to give me, the whole affair remained unsettled, undiscussed.

In this manner was I kept in constant practice. I could trust my

thoughts to no mortal, and from God I was too far removed. Him I had

quite forgotten those four wild years: I now again began to think of him

occasionally, but our acquaintance had grown cool; they were visits of

mere ceremony these; and as, moreover, in waiting on him, I used to

dress in fine apparel, to set before him self-complacently my virtue,

honor, and superiorities to others, he did not seem to notice me, or

know me in that finery.

A courtier would have been exceedingly distressed, if the prince who

held his fortune in his hands had treated him in this way; but, for me,

I did not sorrow at it. I had what I required,--health and conveniences:

if God should please to think of me, well; if not, I reckoned I had done

my duty.

This, in truth, I did not think at that period; yet it was the true

figure of my soul. But, to change and purify my feelings, preparations

were already made.

The spring came on: Narciss once visited me unannounced, and at a time

when I happened to be quite alone. He now appeared in the character of

lover, and asked me if I could bestow on him my heart, and, so soon as

he should obtain some lucrative and honorable place, my hand along with

it.

He had been received into our service; but at first they kept him back,

and would not rapidly promote him, because they dreaded his ambition.

Having some little fortune of his own, he was left with a slender

salary.

Notwithstanding my regard for him, I knew that he was not a man to treat

with altogether frankly. I drew up, therefore, and referred him to my

father. About my father he did not seem to doubt, but wished first to be

at one with me, now and here. I at last said, Yes; but stipulated, as an

indispensable condition, that my parents should concur. He then spoke

formally with both of them; they signified their satisfaction: mutual

promises were given, on the faith of his advancement, which it was

expected would be speedy. Sisters and aunts were informed of this

arrangement, and the strictest secrecy enjoined on them.

Thus had my lover become my bridegroom, and great was the difference

between the two. If one could change the lovers of all honorable maidens

into bridegrooms, it would be a kindness to our sex, even though

marriage should not follow the connection. The love between two persons

does not lessen by the change, but it becomes more reasonable.

Innumerable little follies, all coquetries and caprices, disappear. If

the bridegroom tells us that we please him better in a morning-cap than

in the finest head-dress, no discreet young woman will disturb herself

about her hair-dressing; and nothing is more natural than that he, too,

should think solidly, and rather wish to form a housewife for himself

than a gaudy doll for others. And thus it is in every province of the

business.

Should a young woman of this kind be fortunate enough to have a

bridegroom who possesses understanding and acquirements, she learns from

him more than universities and foreign lands can teach. She not only

willingly receives instruction when he offers it, but she endeavors to

elicit more and more from him. Love makes much that was impossible

possible. By degrees, too, that subjection, so necessary and so graceful

for the female sex, begins: the bridegroom does not govern like the

husband; he only asks: but his mistress seeks to discover what he

wants, and to offer it before he asks it.

So did experience teach me what I would not for much have missed. I was

happy, truly happy as woman could be in the world,--that is to say, for

a while.

Amid these quiet joys, a summer passed away. Narciss gave not the

slightest reason to complain of him: he daily became more dear to me; my

whole soul was his. This he well knew, and knew also how to prize it.

Meanwhile, from seeming trifles, something rose, which by and by grew

hurtful to our union.

Narciss behaved to me as to a bride, and never dared to ask of me such

favors as were yet forbidden us. But, about the boundaries of virtue and

decorum, we were of very different opinions. I meant to walk securely,

and so never granted him the smallest freedom which the whole world

might not have witnessed. He, used to dainties, thought this diet very

strict. On this point there was continual variance: he praised my

modesty, and sought to undermine my resolution.

The _serious_ of my old French teacher now occurred to me, as well as

the defence which I had once suggested in regard to it.

With God I had again become a little more acquainted. He had given me a

bridegroom whom I loved, and for this I felt some thankfulness. Earthly

love itself concentrated my soul, and put its powers in motion: nor did

it contradict my intercourse with God. I naturally complained to him of

what alarmed me, but I did not perceive that I myself was wishing and

desiring it. In my own eyes I was strong: I did not pray, "Lead us not

into temptation!" My thoughts were far beyond temptation. In this flimsy

tinsel-work of virtue I came to God. He did not drive me back. On the

smallest movement towards him, he left a soft impression in my soul; and

this impression caused me always to return.

Except Narciss, the world was altogether dead to me: excepting him,

there was nothing in it that had any charm. Even my love for dress was

but the wish to please him: if I knew that he was not to see me, I could

spend no care upon it. I liked to dance; but, if he was not beside me,

it seemed as if I could not bear the motion. At a brilliant festival, if

he was not invited, I could neither take the trouble of providing new

things, nor of putting on the old according to the mode. To me they

were alike agreeable, or rather, I might say, alike burdensome. I used

to reckon such an evening very fairly spent when I could join myself to

any ancient card-party, though formerly I had not the smallest taste for

such things; and, if some old acquaintance came and rallied me about it,

I would smile, perhaps for the first time all that night. So, likewise,

it was with promenades, and every social entertainment that can be

imagined:--

"Him had I chosen from all others;

His would I be, and not another's:

To me his love was all in all."

Thus was I often solitary in the midst of company, and real solitude was

generally acceptable to me. But my busy soul could neither sleep nor

dream: I felt and thought, and acquired by degrees some faculty to speak

about my feelings and my thoughts with God. Then were feelings of

another sort unfolded, but these did not contradict the former feelings:

my affection to Narciss accorded with the universal scheme of nature; it

nowhere hindered the performance of a duty. They did not contradict each

other, yet they were immensely different. Narciss was the only living

form which hovered in my mind, and to which my love was all directed;

but the other feeling was not directed towards any form, and yet it was

unspeakably agreeable. I no longer have it: I no longer can impart it.

My lover, whom I used to trust with all my secrets, did not know of

this. I soon discovered that he thought far otherwise: he often gave me

writings which opposed, with light and heavy weapons, all that can be

called connection with the Invisible. I used to read the books because

they came from him; but, at the end, I knew no word of all that had been

argued in them.

Nor, in regard to sciences and knowledge, was there want of

contradiction in our conduct. He did as all men do,--he mocked at

learned women; and yet he kept continually instructing me. He used to

speak with me on all subjects, law excepted; and, while constantly

procuring books of every kind for me, he frequently repeated the

uncertain precept, "That a lady ought to keep the knowledge she might

have more secret than the Calvinist his creed in Catholic countries."

And while I, by natural consequence, endeavored not to show myself more

wise or learned than formerly before the world, Narciss himself was

commonly the first who yielded to the vanity of speaking about me and

my superiorities.

A nobleman of high repute, and at that time valued for his influence,

his talents, and accomplishments, was living at our court with great

applause. He bestowed especial notice on Narciss, whom he kept

continually about him. They once had an argument about the virtue of

women. Narciss repeated to me what had passed between them: I was not

wanting with my observations, and my friend required of me a written

essay on the subject. I could write French fluently enough: I had laid a

good foundation with my teacher. My correspondence with Narciss was

likewise carried on in French: except in French books, there was then no

elegant instruction to be had. My essay pleased the count: I was obliged

to let him have some little songs, which I had lately been composing. In

short, Narciss appeared to revel without stint in the renown of his

beloved: and the story, to his great contentment, ended with a French

epistle in heroic verse, which the count transmitted to him on

departing; in which their argument was mentioned, and my friend reminded

of his happiness in being destined, after all his doubts and errors, to

learn most certainly what virtue was, in the arms of a virtuous and

charming wife.

He showed this poem first of all to me, and then to almost every one;

each thinking of the matter what he pleased. Thus did he act in several

cases: every stranger, whom he valued, must be made acquainted in our

house.

A noble family was staying for a season in the place, to profit by the

skill of our physician. In this house, too, Narciss was looked on as a

son; he introduced me there; we found among these worthy persons the

most pleasant entertainment for mind and heart. Even the common pastimes

of society appeared less empty here than elsewhere. All knew how matters

stood with us: they treated us as circumstances would allow, and left

the main relation unalluded to. I mention this one family; because, in

the after-period of my life, it had a powerful influence upon me.

Almost a year of our connection had elapsed; and, along with it, our

spring was over. The summer came, and all grew drier and more earnest.

By several unexpected deaths, some offices fell vacant, which Narciss

might make pretensions to. The instant was at hand when my whole destiny

must be decided; and while Narciss, and all our friends, were making

every effort to efface some impressions which obstructed him at court,

and to obtain for him the wished-for situation, I turned with my request

to my Invisible Friend. I was received so kindly, that I gladly came

again. I confessed, without disguise, my wish that Narciss might obtain

the place; but my prayer was not importunate, and I did not require that

it should happen for the sake of my petition.

The place was obtained by a far inferior competitor. I was dreadfully

troubled at this news: I hastened to my room, the door of which I locked

behind me. The first fit of grief went off in a shower of tears: the

next thought was, "Yet it was not by chance that it happened;" and

instantly I formed the resolution to be well content with it, seeing

even this apparent evil would be for my true advantage. The softest

emotions then pressed in upon me, and divided all the clouds of sorrow.

I felt, that, with help like this, there was nothing one might not

endure. At dinner I appeared quite cheerful, to the great astonishment

of all the house.

Narciss had less internal force than I, and I was called upon to comfort

him. In his family, too, he had many crosses to encounter, some of which

afflicted him considerably; and, such true confidence subsisting between

us, he intrusted me with all. His negotiations for entering on foreign

service were not more fortunate; all this I felt deeply on his account

and mine; all this, too, I ultimately carried to the place where my

petitions had already been so well received.

The softer these experiences were, the oftener did I endeavor to renew

them: I hoped continually to meet with comfort where I had so often met

with it. Yet I did not always meet with it: I was as one that goes to

warm him in the sunshine, while there is something standing in the way

that makes a shadow. "What is this?" I asked myself. I traced the matter

zealously, and soon perceived that it all depended on the situation of

my soul: if this was not turned in the straightest direction towards

God, I still continued cold; I did not feel his counter-influence; I

could obtain no answer. The second question was, "What hinders this

direction?" Here I was in a wide field: I perplexed myself in an inquiry

which lasted nearly all the second year of my attachment to Narciss. I

might have ended the investigation sooner, for it was not long till I

had got upon the proper trace; but I would not confess it, and I sought

a thousand outlets.

I very soon discovered that the straight direction of my soul was marred

by foolish dissipations, and employment with unworthy things. The how

and the where were clear enough to me. Yet by what means could I help

myself, or extricate my mind from the calls of a world where every thing

was either cold indifference or hot insanity? Gladly would I have left

things standing as they were, and lived from day to day, floating down

with the stream, like other people whom I saw quite happy: but I durst

not: my inmost feelings contradicted me too often. Yet if I determined

to renounce society, and alter my relations to others, it was not in my

power. I was hemmed in as by a ring drawn round me; certain connections

I could not dissolve; and, in the matter which lay nearest to my heart,

fatalities accumulated and oppressed me more and more. I often went to

bed with tears, and, after a sleepless night, arose again with tears: I

required some strong support: and God would not vouchsafe it me while I

was running with the cap and bells.

I proceeded now to estimate my doings, all and each: dancing and play

were first put upon their trial. Never was there any thing spoken,

thought, or written, for or against these practices, which I did not

examine, talk of, read, weigh, reject, aggravate, and plague myself

about. If I gave up these habits, I was certain that Narciss would be

offended; for he dreaded exceedingly the ridicule which any look of

straitlaced conscientiousness gives one in the eyes of the world. And

doing what I now looked upon as folly, noxious folly, out of no taste of

my own, but merely to gratify him, it all grew wofully irksome to me.

Without disagreeable prolixities and repetitions, it is not in my power

to represent what pains I took, in trying so to counteract those

occupations which distracted my attention and disturbed my peace of

mind, that my heart, in spite of them, might still be open to the

influences of the Invisible Being. But at last, with pain, I was

compelled to admit, that in this way the quarrel could not be composed.

For no sooner had I clothed myself in the garment of folly, than it came

to be something more than a mask, than the foolishness pierced and

penetrated me through and through.

May I here overstep the province of a mere historical detail, and offer

one or two remarks on what was then taking place within me? What could

it be which so changed my tastes and feelings, that, in my twenty-second

year, nay, earlier, I lost all relish for the recreations with which

people of that age are harmlessly delighted? Why were they not harmless

for me? I may answer, "Just because they were not harmless; because I

was not, like others of my years, unacquainted with my soul." No! I knew,

from experiences which had reached me unsought, that there are loftier

emotions, which afford us a contentment such as it is vain to seek in

the amusements of the world; and that, in these higher joys, there is

also kept a secret treasure for strengthening the spirit in misfortune.

But the pleasures of society, the dissipations of youth, must needs have

had a powerful charm for me; since it was not in my power to engage in

them without participation, to act among them as if they were not there.

How many things could I now do, if I liked, with entire coldness, which

then dazzled and confounded me, nay, threatened to obtain the mastery

over me! Here there could no medium be observed: either those delicious

amusements, or my nourishing and quickening internal emotions, must be

given up.

But, in my soul, the strife had, without my own consciousness, already

been decided. Even if there still was any thing within me that longed

for earthly pleasures, I had now become unfitted for enjoying them. Much

as a man might hanker after wine, all desire of drinking would forsake

him, if he should be placed among full barrels in a cellar, where the

foul air was like to suffocate him. Free air is more than wine; this I

felt but too keenly: and, from the first, it would have cost me little

studying to prefer the good to the delightful, if the fear of losing the

affection of Narciss had not restrained me. But at last, when after many

thousand struggles, and thoughts continually renewed, I began to cast a

steady eye upon the bond which held me to him, I discovered that it was

but weak, that it might be torn asunder. I at once perceived it to be

only as a glass bell, which shut me up in the exhausted, airless space:

one bold stroke to break the bell in pieces, and thou art delivered!

No sooner thought than tried. I drew off the mask, and on all occasions

acted as my heart directed. Narciss I still cordially loved: but the

thermometer, which formerly had stood in hot water, was now hanging in

the natural air; it could rise no higher than the warmth of the

atmosphere directed.

Unhappily it cooled very much. Narciss drew back, and began to assume a

distant air: this was at his option, but my thermometer descended as he

drew back. Our family observed this, questioned me, and seemed to be

surprised. I explained to them, with stout defiance, that heretofore I

had made abundant sacrifices; that I was ready, still farther and to the

end of my life, to share all crosses that befell him; but that I

required full freedom in my conduct, that my doings and avoidings must

depend upon my own conviction; that, indeed, I would never bigotedly

cleave to my own opinion, but, on the other hand, would willingly be

reasoned with; yet, as it concerned my own happiness, the decision must

proceed from myself, and be liable to no manner of constraint. The

greatest physician could not move me, by his reasonings, to take an

article of food, which perhaps was altogether wholesome and agreeable to

many, so soon as my experience had shown, that on all occasions it was

noxious to me; as I might produce coffee for an instance: and just as

little, nay, still less, would I have any sort of conduct which misled

me, preached up and demonstrated upon me as morally profitable.

Having so long prepared myself in silence, these debates were rather

pleasant than vexatious to me. I gave vent to my soul: I felt the whole

worth of my determination. I yielded not a hair's-breadth, and those to

whom I owed no filial respect were sharply handled and despatched. In

the family I soon prevailed. My mother from her youth had entertained

these sentiments, though in her they had never reached maturity; for no

necessity had pressed upon her, and exalted her courage to achieve her

purpose. She rejoiced in beholding her silent wishes fulfilled through

me. My younger sisters seemed to join themselves with me: the second was

attentive and quiet. Our aunt had the most to object. The arguments

which she employed appeared to her irrefragable; and they were

irrefragable, being altogether commonplace. At last I was obliged to

show her, that she had no voice in the affair in any sense; and, after

this, she seldom signified that she persisted in her views. She was,

indeed, the only person that observed this transaction close at hand,

without in some degree experiencing its influence. I do not calumniate

her, when I say that she had no character, and the most limited ideas.

My father had acted altogether in his own way. He spoke not much, but

often, with me on the matter: his arguments were rational; and, being

_his_ arguments, they could not be impugned. It was only the deep

feeling of my right that gave me strength to dispute against him. But

the scenes soon changed: I was forced to make appeal to his heart.

Straitened by his understanding, I came out with the most pathetic

pleadings. I gave free course to my tongue and to my tears. I showed him

how much I loved Narciss; how much constraint I had for two years been

enduring; how certain I was of being in the right; that I was ready to

testify that certainty, by the loss of my beloved bridegroom and

prospective happiness,--nay, if it were necessary, by the loss of all

that I possessed on earth; that I would rather leave my native country,

my parents, and my friends, and beg my bread in foreign lands, than act

against these dictates of my conscience. He concealed his emotion: he

said nothing on the subject for a while, and at last he openly declared

in my favor.

During all this time Narciss forbore to visit us; and my father now gave

up the weekly club, where he was used to meet him. The business made a

noise at court, and in the town. People talked about it, as is common in

such cases, which the public takes a vehement interest in, because its

sentence has usurped an influence on the resolutions of weak minds. I

knew enough about the world to understand that one's conduct is often

censured by the very persons who would have advised it, had one

consulted them; and independently of this, with my internal composure, I

should have looked on all such transitory speculations just as if they

had not been.

On the other hand, I hindered not myself from yielding to my inclination

for Narciss. To me he had become invisible, and to him my feelings had

not altered. I loved him tenderly; as it were anew, and much more

steadfastly than before. If he chose to leave my conscience undisturbed,

then I was his: wanting this condition, I would have refused a kingdom

with him. For several months I bore these feelings and these thoughts

about with me; and, finding at last that I was calm and strong enough to

go peacefully and firmly to work, I wrote him a polite but not a tender

note, inquiring why he never came to see me.

As I knew his manner of avoiding to explain himself in little matters,

but of silently doing what seemed good to him, I purposely urged him in

the present instance. I got a long, and, as it seemed to me, pitiful,

reply, in vague style and unmeaning phrases, stating, that, without a

better place, he could not fix himself, and offer me his hand; that I

best knew how hard it had fared with him hitherto; that as he was

afraid lest a fruitless intercourse, so long continued, might prove

hurtful to my reputation, I would give him leave to continue at his

present distance; so soon as it was in his power to make me happy, he

would look upon the word which he had given me as sacred.

I answered him on the spot, that, as our intercourse was known to all

the world, it might, perhaps, be rather late to spare my reputation: for

which, at any rate, my conscience and my innocence were the surest

pledges; however, that I hereby freely gave him back his word, and hoped

the change would prove a happy one for him. The same hour I received a

short reply, which was, in all essential particulars, entirely

synonymous with the first. He adhered to his former statement, that, so

soon as he obtained a situation, he would ask me, if I pleased, to share

his fortune with him.

This I interpreted as meaning simply nothing. I signified to my

relations and acquaintances, that the affair was altogether settled; and

it was so in fact. Having, nine months afterwards, obtained the

much-desired preferment, he offered me his hand, but under the

condition, that, as the wife of a man who must keep house like other

people, I should alter my opinions. I returned him many thanks, and

hastened with my heart and mind away from this transaction, as one

hastens from the playhouse when the curtain falls. And as he, a short

time afterwards, had found a rich and advantageous match, a thing now

easy for him; and as I now knew him to be happy in the way he liked,--my

own tranquillity was quite complete.

I must not pass in silence the fact, that several times before he got a

place, and after it, there were respectable proposals made to me; which,

however, I declined without the smallest hesitation, much as my father

and my mother could have wished for more compliance on my part.

At length, after a stormy March and April, the loveliest May weather

seemed to be allotted me. With good health, I enjoyed an indescribable

composure of mind: look around me as I pleased, my loss appeared a gain

to me. Young and full of sensibility, I thought the universe a thousand

times more beautiful than formerly, when I required to have society and

play, that in the fair garden tedium might not overtake me. And now, as

I did not conceal my piety, I likewise took heart to own my love for the

sciences and arts. I drew, painted, read, and found enough of people to

support me: instead of the great world, which I had left, or, rather,

which had left me, a smaller one formed itself about me, which was

infinitely richer and more entertaining. I had a turn for social life;

and I do not deny, that, on giving up my old acquaintances, I trembled

at the thought of solitude. I now found myself abundantly, perhaps

excessively, indemnified. My acquaintances erelong were very numerous,

not at home only, but likewise among people at a distance. My story had

been noised abroad, and many persons felt a curiosity to see the woman

who had valued God above her bridegroom. There was a certain pious tone

to be observed, at that time, generally over Germany. In the families of

several counts and princes, a care for the welfare of the soul had been

awakened. Nor were there wanting noblemen who showed a like attention;

while, in the inferior classes, sentiments of this kind were diffused on

every side.

The noble family, whom I mentioned above, now drew me nearer to them.

They had, in the mean while, gathered strength; several of their

relations having settled in the town. These estimable persons courted my

familiarity, as I did theirs. They had high connections: I became

acquainted, in their house, with a great part of the princes, counts,

and lords of the empire. My sentiments were not concealed from any one:

they might be honored or be tolerated; I obtained my object,--none

attacked me.

There was yet another way by which I was again led back into the world.

About this period a step-brother of my father, who till now had never

visited the house except in passing, staid with us for a considerable

time. He had left the service of his court, where he enjoyed great

influence and honor, simply because all matters were not managed quite

according to his mind. His intellect was just, his character was rigid.

In these points he was very like my father: only the latter had withal a

certain touch of softness, which enabled him with greater ease to yield

a little in affairs, and though not to do, yet to permit, some things

against his own conviction; and then to evaporate his anger at them,

either in silence by himself, or in confidence amid his family. My uncle

was a great deal younger, and his independence of spirit had been

favored by his outward circumstances. His mother had been very rich, and

he still had large possessions to expect from her near and distant

relatives; so he needed no foreign increase: whereas my father, with his

moderate fortune, was bound to his place by the consideration of his

salary.

My uncle had become still more unbending from domestic sufferings. He

had early lost an amiable wife and a hopeful son; and, from that time,

he appeared to wish to push away from him every thing that did not hang

upon his individual will.

In our family it was whispered now and then with some complacency, that

probably he would not wed again, and so we children might anticipate

inheriting his fortune. I paid small regard to this, but the demeanor of

the rest was not a little modified by their hopes. In his own

imperturbable firmness of character, my uncle had grown into the habit

of never contradicting any one in conversation. On the other hand, he

listened with a friendly air to every one's opinion, and would himself

elucidate and strengthen it by instances and reasons of his own. All who

did not know him fancied that he thought as they did: for he was

possessed of a preponderating intellect, and could transport himself

into the mental state of any man, and imitate his manner of conceiving.

With me he did not prosper quite so well; for here the question was

about emotions, of which he had not any glimpse: and, with whatever

tolerance and sympathy and rationality he spoke about my sentiments, it

was palpable to me, that he had not the slightest notion of what formed

the ground of all my conduct.

With all his secrecy, we by and by found out the aim of his unusual stay

with us. He had, as we at length discovered, cast his eyes upon our

youngest sister, with the view of giving her in marriage, and rendering

her happy as he pleased; and certainly, considering her personal and

mental attractions, particularly when a handsome fortune was laid into

the scale along with them, she might pretend to the first matches. His

feelings towards me he likewise showed us pantomimically, by procuring

me a post of canoness, the income of which I very soon began to draw.

My sister was not so contented with his care as I. She now disclosed to

me a tender secret, which hitherto she had very wisely kept back;

fearing, as in truth it happened, that I would by all means counsel her

against connection with a man who was not suited to her. I did my

utmost, and succeeded. The purpose of my uncle was too serious and too

distinct: the prospect for my sister, with her worldly views, was too

delightful to be thwarted by a passion which her own understanding

disapproved; she mustered force to give it up.

On her ceasing to resist the gentle guidance of my uncle, the foundation

of his plan was quickly laid. She was appointed maid of honor at a

neighboring court, where he could commit her to the oversight and the

instructions of a lady, his friend, who presided there as governess with

great applause. I accompanied her to the place of her new abode. Both of

us had reason to be satisfied with the reception we met with; and

frequently I could not help, in secret, smiling at the character, which

now as canoness, as young and pious canoness, I was enacting in the

world.

In earlier times a situation such as this would have confused me

dreadfully, perhaps have turned my head; but now, in the midst of all

the splendors that surrounded me, I felt extremely cool. With great

quietness I let them frizzle me, and deck me out for hours, and thought

no more of it than that my place required me to wear that gala livery.

In the thronged saloons I spoke with all and each, though no shape or

character among them made any impression on me. On returning to my

house, nearly all the feeling I brought back with me was that of tired

limbs. Yet my understanding drew advantage from the multitude of persons

whom I saw: and I became acquainted with some ladies, patterns of every

virtue, of a noble and good demeanor; particularly with the governess,

under whom my sister was to have the happiness of being formed.

At my return, however, the consequences of this journey, in regard to

health, were found to be less favorable. With the greatest temperance,

the strictest diet, I had not been, as I used to be, completely mistress

of my time and strength. Food, motion, rising, and going to sleep,

dressing and visiting, had not depended, as at home, on my own

conveniency and will. In the circle of social life you cannot stop

without a breach of courtesy: all that was needful I had willingly

performed; because I looked upon it as my duty, because I knew that it

would soon be over, and because I felt myself completely healthy. Yet

this unusual, restless life must have had more effect upon me than I was

aware of. Scarcely had I reached home, and cheered my parents with a

comfortable narrative, when I was attacked by a hemorrhage, which,

although it did not prove dangerous or lasting, yet left a weakness

after it, perceptible for many a day.

Here, then, I had another lesson to repeat. I did it joyfully. Nothing

bound me to the world, and I was convinced that here the true good was

never to be found; so I waited in the cheerfullest and meekest state:

and, after having abdicated life, I was retained in it.

A new trial was awaiting me: my mother took a painful and oppressive

ailment, which she had to bear five years, before she paid the debt of

nature. All this time we were sharply proved. Often, when her terror

grew too strong, she would have us all summoned, in the night, to her

bed, that so at least she might be busied, if not bettered, by our

presence. The load grew heavier, nay, scarcely to be borne, when my

father, too, became unwell. From his youth he had frequently had violent

headaches, which, however, at longest never used to last beyond six and

thirty hours. But now they were continual; and, when they mounted to a

high degree of pain, his moanings tore my very heart. It was in these

tempestuous seasons that I chiefly felt my bodily weakness; because it

kept me from my holiest and dearest duties, or rendered the performance

of them hard to an extreme degree.

It was now that I could try whether the path which I had chosen was the

path of fantasy or truth; whether I had merely thought as others showed

me, or the object of my trust had a reality. To my unspeakable support,

I always found the latter. The straight direction of my heart to God,

the fellowship of the "Beloved Ones."[3] I had sought and found; and

this was what made all things light to me. As a traveller in the dark,

my soul, when all was pressing on me from without, hastened to the place

of refuge; and never did it return empty.

In later times some champions of religion, who seem to be animated more

by zeal than feeling for it, have required of their brethren to produce

examples of prayers actually heard; apparently as wishing to have seal

and signature, that so they might proceed juridically in the matter. How

unknown must the true feeling be to these persons! how few real

experiences can they themselves have made!

I can say that I never returned empty, when in straits and oppression I

called on God. This is saying infinitely much: more I must not and can

not say. Important as each experience was at the critical moment for

myself, the recital of them would be flat, improbable, and

insignificant, were I to specify the separate cases. Happy was I, that a

thousand little incidents in combination proved, as clearly as the

drawing of my breath proved me to be living, that I was not without God

in the world. He was near to me: I was before him. This is what, with a

diligent avoidance of all theological systematic terms, I can with the

greatest truth declare.

Much do I wish, that, in those times too, I had been entirely without

system. But which of us arrives early at the happiness of being

conscious of his individual self, in its own pure combination, without

extraneous forms? I was in earnest with religion. I timidly trusted in

the judgments of others: I entirely gave in to the Hallean system of

conversion, but my nature would by no means tally with it.

According to this scheme of doctrine, the alteration of the heart must

begin with a deep terror on account of sin: the heart in this agony must

recognize, in a less or greater degree, the punishment which it has

merited, must get a foretaste of hell, and so embitter the delight of

sin. At last it feels a very palpable assurance of grace; which,

however, in its progress often fades away, and must again be sought with

earnest prayer.

Of all this no jot or tittle happened with me. When I sought God

sincerely, he let himself be found of me, and did not reproach me about

by-gone things. On looking back, I saw well enough where I had been

unworthy, where I still was so; but the confession of my faults was

altogether without terror. Not for a moment did the fear of hell occur

to me; nay, the very notion of a wicked spirit, and a place of

punishment and torment after death, could nowise gain admission into the

circle of my thoughts. I considered the men who lived without God, whose

hearts were shut against the trust in and the love of the Invisible, as

already so unhappy, that a hell and external pains appeared to promise

rather an alleviation than an increase of their misery. I had but to

look upon the persons, in this world, who in their breasts gave scope to

hateful feelings; who hardened their hearts against the good of whatever

kind, and strove to force the evil on themselves and others; who shut

their eyes by day, that so they might deny the shining of the sun. How

unutterably wretched did these persons seem to me! Who could have formed

a hell to make their situation worse?

This mood of mind continued in me, without change, for half a score of

years. It maintained itself through many trials, even at the moving

death-bed of my beloved mother. I was frank enough, on this occasion,

not to hide my comfortable frame of mind from certain pious but

rigorously orthodox people; and I had to suffer many a friendly

admonition on that score. They reckoned they were just in season, for

explaining with what earnestness one should be diligent to lay a right

foundation in the days of health and youth.

In earnestness I, too, determined not to fail. For the moment I allowed

myself to be convinced; and fain would I have grown, for life,

distressed and full of fears. But what was my surprise on finding that I

absolutely could not. When I thought of God, I was cheerful and

contented: even at the painful end of my dear mother, I did not shudder

at the thought of death. Yet I learned many and far other things than my

uncalled teachers thought of, in these solemn hours.

By degrees I grew to doubt the dictates of so many famous people, and

retained my own sentiments in silence. A certain lady of my friends, to

whom I had at first disclosed too much, insisted always on interfering

with my business. Of her, too, I was obliged to rid myself: I at last

firmly told her, that she might spare herself this labor, as I did not

need her counsel; that I knew my God, and would have no guide but him.

She was greatly offended: I believe she never quite forgave me.

Such determination to withdraw from the advices and the influence of my

friends, in spiritual matters, produced the consequence, that also in my

temporal affairs I gained sufficient courage to obey my own persuasions.

But for the assistance of my faithful, invisible Leader, I could not

have prospered here. I am still gratefully astonished at his wise and

happy guidance. No one knew how matters stood with me: even I myself did

not know.

The thing, the wicked and inexplicable thing, which separates us from

the Being to whom we owe our life, and in whom all that deserves the

name of life must find its nourishment,--the thing which we call sin I

yet knew nothing of.

In my intercourse with my invisible Friend, I felt the sweetest

enjoyment of all my powers. My desire of constantly enjoying this

felicity was so predominant, that I abandoned without hesitation

whatever marred our intercourse; and here experience was my best

teacher. But it was with me as with sick persons who have no medicine,

and try to help themselves by diet: something is accomplished, but far

from enough.

I could not always live in solitude, though in it I found the best

preservative against the dissipation of my thoughts. On returning to the

tumult, the impression it produced upon me was the deeper for my

previous loneliness. My most peculiar advantage lay in this, that love

for quiet was my ruling passion, and that in the end I still drew back

to it. I perceived, as in a kind of twilight, my weakness and my misery,

and tried to save myself by avoiding danger and exposure.

For seven years I had used my dietetic scheme. I held myself not wicked,

and I thought my state desirable. But for some peculiar circumstances

and occurrences I had remained in this position: it was by a curious

path that I got farther. Contrary to the advice of all my friends, I

entered on a new connection. Their objections, at first, made me pause.

I turned to my invisible Leader; and, as he permitted me, I went forward

without fear.

A man of spirit, heart, and talents had bought a property beside us.

Among the strangers whom I grew acquainted with, were this person and

his family. In our manners, domestic economy, and habits we accorded

well; and thus we soon approximated to each other.

Philo, as I propose to call him, was already middle-aged: in certain

matters he was highly serviceable to my father, whose strength was now

decaying. He soon became the friend of the family: and finding in me, as

he was pleased to say, a person free alike from the extravagance and

emptiness of the great world, and from the narrowness and aridness of

the still world in the country, he courted intimacy with me; and erelong

we were in one another's confidence. To me he was very pleasing and

useful.

Though I did not feel the smallest inclination or capacity for mingling

in public business, or seeking any influence on it, yet I liked to hear

about such matters,--liked to know whatever happened far and near. Of

worldly things, I loved to get a clear though unconcerned perception:

feeling, sympathy, affection, I reserved for God, for my people, and my

friends.

The latter were, if I may say so, jealous of Philo, in my new connection

with him. In more than one sense, they were right in warning me about

it. I suffered much in secret, for even I could not consider their

remonstrances as altogether empty or selfish. I had been accustomed,

from of old, to give a reason for my views and conduct; but in this case

my conviction would not follow. I prayed to God, that here, as

elsewhere, he would warn, restrain, and guide me; and, as my heart on

this did not dissuade me, I went forward on my way with comfort.

Philo, on the whole, had a remote resemblance to Narciss: only a pious

education had more enlivened and concentrated his feelings. He had less

vanity, more character; and in business, if Narciss was delicate, exact,

persevering, indefatigable, the other was clear, sharp, quick, and

capable of working with incredible ease. By means of him I learned the

secret history of almost every noble personage with whose exterior I had

got acquainted in society. It was pleasant for me to behold the tumult,

off my watch-tower from afar. Philo could now hide nothing from me: he

confided to me, by degrees, his own concerns, both inward and outward. I

was in fear because of him, for I foresaw certain circumstances and

entanglements; and the mischief came more speedily than I had looked

for. There were some confessions he had still kept back, and even at

last he told me only what enabled me to guess the worst.

What an effect had this upon my heart! I attained experiences which to

me were altogether new. With infinite sorrow I beheld an Agathon, who,

educated in the groves of Delphi, still owed his school-fees, which he

was now obliged to pay with their accumulated interest; and this Agathon

was my especial friend. My sympathy was lively and complete; I suffered

with him; both of us were in the strangest state.

After having long occupied myself with the temper of his mind, I at last

turned round to contemplate my own. The thought, "Thou art no better

than he," rose like a little cloud before me, and gradually expanded

till it darkened all my soul.

I now not only thought myself no better than he: I felt this, and felt

it as I should not wish to do again. Nor was it any transitory mood. For

more than a year, I was compelled to feel, that, had not an unseen hand

restrained me, I might have become a Girard, a Cartouche, a Damiens, or

any wretch you can imagine. The tendencies to this I traced too clearly

in my heart. Heavens, what a discovery!

If hitherto I had never been able, in the faintest degree, to recognize

in myself the reality of sin by experience, its possibility was now

become apparent to me by anticipation, in the frightfullest manner. And

yet I knew not evil; I but feared it: I felt that I might be guilty, and

could not accuse myself of being so.

Deeply as I was convinced that such a temperament of soul, as I now saw

mine to be, could never be adapted for that union with the invisible

Being which I hoped for after death, I did not, in the smallest, fear

that I should finally be separated from him. With all the wickedness

which I discovered in my heart, I still loved _Him_: I hated what I

felt, nay, wished to hate it still more earnestly; my whole desire was,

to be delivered from this sickness, and this tendency to sickness; and I

was persuaded that the great Physician would at length vouchsafe his

help.

The sole question was, What medicine will cure this malady? The practice

of virtue? This I could not for a moment think. For ten years I had

already practised more than mere virtue; and the horrors now first

discovered had, all the while, lain hidden at the bottom of my soul.

Might they not have broken out with me, as they did with David when he

looked on Bathsheba? Yet was not he a friend of God! and was not I

assured, in my inmost heart, that God was my friend?

Was it, then, an unavoidable infirmity of human nature? Must we just

content ourselves in feeling and acknowledging the sovereignty of

inclination? And, with the best will, is there nothing left for us but

to abhor the fault we have committed, and on the like occasion to commit

it again?

From systems of morality I could obtain no comfort. Neither their

severity, by which they try to bend our inclinations, nor their

attractiveness, by which they try to place our inclinations on the side

of virtue, gave me any satisfaction. The fundamental notions, which I

had imbibed from intercourse with my invisible Friend, were of far

higher value to me.

Once, while I was studying the songs composed by David after that

tremendous fall, it struck me very much that he traced his indwelling

corruption even in the substance out of which he had been shaped; yet

that he wished to be freed from sin, and that he earnestly entreated for

a pure heart.

But how was this to be attained? The answer from Scripture I was well

aware of: "that the blood of Jesus cleanseth us from all sin," was a

Bible truth which I had long known. But now, for the first time, I

observed that as yet I had never understood this oft-repeated saying.

The questions, What does it mean? How is it to be? were day and night

working out their answers in me. At last I thought I saw, as by a gleam

of light, that what I sought was to be found in the incarnation of the

everlasting Word, by whom all things, even we ourselves, were made. That

the Eternal descended as an inhabitant to the depths in which we dwell,

which he surveys and comprehends; that he passed through our lot from

stage to stage, from conception and birth to the grave; that by this

marvellous circuit he again mounted to those shining heights, whither we

too must rise in order to be happy: all this was revealed to me, as in a

dawning remoteness.

Oh! why must we, in speaking of such things, make use of figures which

can only indicate external situations? Where is there in his eyes aught

high or deep, aught dark or clear? It is we only that have an Under and

Upper, a night and day. And even for this did he become like us, since

otherwise we could have had no part in him.

But how shall we obtain a share in this priceless benefit? "By faith,"

the Scripture says. And what is faith? To consider the account of an

event as true, what help can this afford me? I must be enabled to

appropriate its effects, its consequences. This appropriating faith must

be a state of mind peculiar, and, to the natural man, unknown.

"Now, gracious Father, grant me faith!" so prayed I once, in the deepest

heaviness of heart. I was leaning on a little table, where I sat: my

tear-stained countenance was hidden in my hands. I was now in the

condition in which we seldom are, but in which we are required to be, if

God is to regard our prayers.

Oh, that I could but paint what I felt then! A sudden force drew my soul

to the cross where Jesus once expired: it was a sudden force, a pull, I

cannot name it otherwise, such as leads our soul to an absent loved one;

an approximation, which, perhaps, is far more real and true than we

imagine. So did my soul approach the Son of man, who died upon the

cross; and that instant did I know what faith was.

"This is faith!" said I, and started up as if half frightened. I now

endeavored to get certain of my feeling, of my view; and shortly I

became convinced that my soul had acquired a power of soaring upwards

which was altogether new to it.

Words fail us in describing such emotions. I could most distinctly

separate them from all fantasy: they were entirely without fantasy,

without image; yet they gave us just such certainty of their referring

to some object as our imagination gives us when it paints the features

of an absent lover.

When the first rapture was over, I observed that my present condition

of mind had formerly been known to me; only I had never felt it in such

strength; I had never held it fast, never made it mine. I believe,

indeed, every human soul at intervals feels something of it. Doubtless

it is this which teaches every mortal that there is a God.

With such faculty, wont from of old to visit me now and then, I had

hitherto been well content: and had not, by a singular arrangement of

events, that unexpected sorrow weighed upon me for a twelvemonth; had

not my own ability and strength, on that occasion, altogether lost

credit with me,--I perhaps might have remained content with such a state

of matters all my days.

But now, since that great moment, I had, as it were, got wings. I could

mount aloft above what used to threaten me; as the bird can fly singing

and with ease across the fiercest stream, while the little dog stands

anxiously baying on the bank.

My joy was indescribable; and, though I did not mention it to any one,

my people soon observed an unaccustomed cheerfulness in me, and could

not understand the reason of my joy. Had I but forever held my peace,

and tried to nourish this serene temper in my soul; had I not allowed

myself to be misled by circumstances, so as to reveal my secret,--I

might then have been saved once more a long and tedious circuit.

As in the previous ten years of my Christian course, this necessary

force had not existed in my soul, I had just been in the case of other

worthy people,--had helped myself by keeping my fancy always full of

images, which had some reference to God,--a practice so far truly

useful; for noxious images and their baneful consequences are by that

means kept away. Often, too, our spirit seizes one or other of these

spiritual images, and mounts with it a little way upwards, like a young

bird fluttering from twig to twig.

Images and impressions pointing towards God are presented to us by the

institutions of the Church, by organs, bells, singing, and particularly

by the preaching of our pastors. Of these I used to be unspeakably

desirous; no weather, no bodily weakness, could keep me from church; the

sound of the Sunday bells was the only thing that rendered me impatient

on a sick-bed. Our head court-chaplain, a gifted man, I heard with great

pleasure; his colleagues, too, I liked: and I could pick the golden

apple of the Word from the common fruit, with which on earthen platters

it was mingled. With public ordinances, all sorts of private exercises

were combined; and these, too, only nourished fancy and a finer kind of

sense. I was so accustomed to this track, I reverenced it so much, that

even now no higher one occurred to me. For my soul has only feelers, and

not eyes: it gropes, but does not see. Ah! that it could get eyes, and

look!

Now again, therefore, I went with a longing mind to sermon; but, alas!

what happened? I no longer found what I was wont to find. These

preachers were blunting their teeth on the shell, while I enjoyed the

kernel. I soon grew weary of them; and I had already been so spoiled,

that I could not be content with the little they afforded me. I required

images, I wanted impressions from without, and reckoned it a pure

spiritual desire that I felt.

Philo's parents had been in connection with the Herrnhuter Community: in

his library were many writings of Count Zinzendorf's. He had spoken with

me, more than once, very candidly and clearly on the subject; inviting

me to turn over one or two of these treatises, if it were but for the

sake of studying a psychological phenomenon. I looked upon the count,

and those that followed him, as very heterodox; and so the Ebersdorf

Hymn-book, which my friend had pressed upon me, lay unread.

However, in this total destitution of external excitements for my soul,

I opened the hymn-book, as it were, by chance, and found in it, to my

astonishment, some songs which actually, though under a fantastic form,

appeared to shadow what I felt. The originality and simplicity of their

expression drew me on. It seemed to be peculiar emotions expressed in a

peculiar way: no school technology suggested any notion of formality or

commonplace. I was persuaded that these people felt as I did: I was very

happy to lay hold of here and there a stanza in their songs, to fix it

in my memory, and carry it about with me for days.

Since the moment when the truth had been revealed to me, some three

months had in this way passed on. At last I came to the resolution of

disclosing every thing to Philo, and asking him to let me have those

writings, about which I had now become immoderately curious. Accordingly

I did so, notwithstanding there was something in my heart which

earnestly dissuaded me.

I circumstantially related to him all the story; and as he was himself a

leading person in it, and my narrative conveyed the sharpest reprimand

on him, he felt surprised and moved to an extreme degree. He melted into

tears. I rejoiced; believing that, in his mind also, a full and

fundamental change had taken place.

He provided me with all the writings I could require, and now I had

excess of nourishment for my imagination. I made rapid progress in the

Zinzendorfic mode of thought and speech. And be it not supposed that I

am yet incapable of prizing the peculiar turn and manner of the count. I

willingly do him justice: he is no empty fantast; he speaks of mighty

truths, and mostly in a bold, figurative style; the people who despise

him know not either how to value or discriminate his qualities.

At that time I became exceedingly attached to him. Had I been mistress

of myself, I would certainly have left my friends and country, and gone

to join him. We should infallibly have understood each other, and should

hardly have agreed together long.

Thanks to my better genius, that now kept me so confined by my domestic

duties! I reckoned it a distant journey if I visited the garden. The

charge of my aged, weakly father afforded me employment enough; and in

hours of recreation, I had Fancy to procure me pastime. The only mortal

whom I saw was Philo; he was highly valued by my father; but, with me,

his intimacy had been cooled a little by the late explanation. Its

influence on him had not penetrated deep: and, as some attempts to talk

in my dialect had not succeeded with him, he avoided touching on this

subject; and the rather, as his extensive knowledge put it always in his

power to introduce new topics in his conversation.

I was thus a Herrnhut sister on my own footing. I had especially to hide

this new turn of my temper and my inclinations from the head

court-chaplain, whom, as my father confessor, I had much cause to honor,

and whose high merits his extreme aversion to the Herrnhut Community did

not diminish, in my eyes, even then. Unhappily this worthy person had to

suffer many troubles on account of me and others.

Several years ago he had become acquainted with an upright, pious

gentleman, residing in a distant quarter, and had long continued in

unbroken correspondence with him, as with one who truly sought God. How

painful was it to the spiritual leader, when this gentleman subsequently

joined himself to the Community of Herrnhut, where he lived for a long

while! How delightful, on the other hand, when at length he quarrelled

with the brethren, determined to settle in our neighborhood, and seemed

once more to yield himself completely to the guidance of his ancient

friend!

The stranger was presented, as in triumph, by the upper pastor, to all

the chosen lambs of his fold. To our house alone he was not introduced,

because my father did not now see company. The gentleman obtained no

little approbation: he combined the polish of the court with the winning

manner of the brethren; and, having also many fine qualities by nature,

he soon became the favorite saint with all who knew him,--a result at

which the chaplain was exceedingly contented. But, alas! it was merely

in externals that the gentleman had split with the Community: in his

heart he was yet entirely a Herrnhuter. He was, in truth, concerned for

the reality of the matter; but yet the gimcracks, which the count had

stuck round it, were, at the same time, quite adapted to his taste.

Besides, he had now become accustomed to this mode of speaking and

conceiving: and, if he had to hide it carefully from his old friend, the

gladder was he, in any knot of trusty persons, to come forth with his

couplets, litanies, and little figures; in which, as might have been

supposed, he met with great applause.

I knew nothing of the whole affair, and wandered quietly along in my

separate path. For a good while we continued mutually unknown.

Once, in a leisure hour, I happened to visit a lady who was sick. I

found several acquaintances with her, and soon perceived that my

appearance had cut short their conversation. I affected not to notice

any thing, but saw erelong, with great surprise, some Herrnhut figures

stuck upon the wall in elegant frames. Quickly comprehending what had

passed before my entrance, I expressed my pleasure at the sight, in a

few suitable verses.

Conceive the wonder of my friends! We explained ourselves: instantly we

were agreed, and in each other's confidence.

I often henceforth sought opportunities of going out. Unhappily I found

such only once in the three or four weeks; yet I grew acquainted with

our gentleman apostle, and by degrees with all the body. I visited their

meetings when I could: with my social disposition, it was quite

delightful for me to communicate to others, and to hear from them, the

feelings which, till now, I had conceived and harbored by myself.