One evening while at table he was silent, though his look was very

cheerful.

"To-day," said Jarno, "you have met with an adventure; and, no doubt,

you relished it."

"I give you credit for your penetration," said Lothario. "Yes, I have

met with a very pleasing adventure. At another time, perhaps, I should

not have considered it so charming as to-day, when it came upon me so

attractively. Towards night I rode out beyond the river, through the

hamlets, by a path which I had often visited in former years. My bodily

ailings must have reduced me more than I supposed: I felt weak; but, as

my strength was re-awakening, I was, as it were, new-born. All objects

seemed to wear the hues they had in earlier times: all looked graceful,

lovely, charming, as they have not looked to me for many years. I easily

observed that it was mere debility, yet I continued to enjoy it: I rode

softly onwards, and could now conceive how men may grow to like diseases

which attune us to those sweet emotions. You know, perhaps, what used of

old so frequently to lead me that way?"

"If I mistake not," answered Jarno, "it was a little love-concern you

were engaged in with a farmer's daughter."

"It might be called a great one," said Lothario; "for we loved each

other deeply, seriously, and for a long time. To-day, it happened, every

thing combined to represent before me in its liveliest color the

earliest season of our love. The boys were again shaking may-bugs from

the trees: the ashen grove had not grown larger since the day I saw her

first. It was now long since I had met with Margaret. She is married at

a distance; and I had heard by chance that she was come with her

children, some weeks ago, to pay a visit to her father."

"This ride, then, was not altogether accidental?"

"I will not deny," replied Lothario, "that I wished to meet her. On

coming near the house, I saw her father sitting at the door: a child of

probably a year old was standing by him. As I approached, a female gave

a hasty look from an upper window; and a minute afterwards I heard some

person tripping down-stairs. I thought surely it was she; and, I will

confess, I was flattering myself that she had recognized me, and was

hastening to meet me. But what was my surprise and disappointment, when

she bounded from the door, seized the child, to whom the horses had come

pretty close, and took it in! It gave me a painful twinge: my vanity,

however, was a little solaced when I thought I saw a tint of redness on

her neck and on the ear, which were uncovered.

"I drew up, and, while speaking with the father, glanced sideways over

all the windows, to observe if she would not appear at some of them; but

no trace of her was visible. Ask I would not, so I rode away. My

displeasure was a little mollified by wonder; though I had not seen the

face, it appeared to me that she was scarcely changed; and ten years are

a pretty space! Nay, she looked even younger, quite as slim, as light of

foot; her neck, if possible, was lovelier than before; her cheeks as

quick at blushing; yet she was the mother of six children, perhaps of

more. This apparition suited the enchantment which surrounded me so

well, that I rode along with feelings grown still younger; and I did not

turn till I was at the forest, when the sun was going down. Strongly as

the falling dew and the prescription of our doctor called upon me to

proceed direct homewards, I could not help again going round by the

farmhouse. I observed a woman walking up and down the garden, which is

fenced by a light hedge. I rode along the footpath to it, and found

myself at no great distance from the person whom I wanted.

"Though the evening sun was glancing in my eyes, I saw that she was busy

with the hedge, which only slightly covered her. I thought I recognized

my mistress. On coming up, I halted, not without a palpitation at the

heart. Some high twigs of wild roses, which a soft air was blowing to

and fro, made her figure indistinct to me. I spoke to her, asked her how

she was. She answered, in an under-tone, 'Quite well.' In the mean time

I perceived a child behind the hedge, engaged in plucking roses; and I

took the opportunity of asking where her other children were. 'It is not

my child,' said she: 'that were rather early!' And at this moment it

happened that the twigs were blown aside, and her face could be

distinctly seen. I knew not what to make of the affair. It was my

mistress, and it was not. Almost younger, almost lovelier, than she

used to be ten years before. 'Are not you the farmer's daughter?'

inquired I, half confused. 'No,' said she: 'I am her cousin.'

"'You resemble one another wonderfully,' added I.

"'Yes, so says every one that knew her half a score of years ago.'

"I continued putting various questions to her: my mistake was pleasant

to me, even after I had found it out. I could not leave this living

image of by-gone blessedness that stood before me. The child, meanwhile,

had gone away: it had wandered to the pond in search of flowers. She

took her leave, and hastened after it.

"I had now, however, learned that my former love was really in her

father's house. While riding forward, I employed myself in guessing

whether it had been her cousin or she that had secured the child from

harm. I more than once, in thought, repeated all the circumstances of

the incident: I can remember few things that have affected me more

gratefully. But I feel that I am still unwell: we must ask the doctor to

deliver us from the remains of this pathetic humor."

With confidential narratives of pretty love adventures, it often happens

as with ghost stories: when the first is told, the others follow of

themselves.

Our little party, in recalling other times, found numerous passages of

this description. Lothario had the most to tell. Jarno's histories were

all of one peculiar character: what Wilhelm could disclose we already

know. He was apprehensive they might mention his adventure with the

countess; but it was not hinted at, not even in the remotest manner.

"It is true," observed Lothario, "there can scarcely any feeling in the

world be more agreeable than when the heart, after a pause of

indifference, again opens to love for some new object; yet I would

forever have renounced that happiness, had fate been pleased to unite me

with Theresa. We are not always youths: we ought not always to be

children. To the man who knows the world, who understands what he should

do in it, what he should hope from it, nothing can be more desirable

than meeting with a wife who will everywhere co-operate with him, who

will everywhere prepare his way for him; whose diligence takes up what

his must leave; whose occupation spreads itself on every side, while his

must travel forward on its single path. What a heaven had I figured for

myself beside Theresa! Not the heaven of an enthusiastic bliss, but of a

sure life on earth; order in prosperity, courage in adversity, care for

the smallest, and a spirit capable of comprehending and managing the

greatest. Oh! I saw in her the qualities which, when developed, make

such women as we find in history, whose excellence appears to us far

preferable to that of men,--this clearness of view, this expertness in

all emergencies, this sureness in details, which brings the whole so

accurately out, although they never seem to think of it. You may well

forgive me," added he, and turning to Wilhelm, with a smile, "that I

forsook Aurelia for Theresa: with the one I could expect a calm and

cheerful life, with the other not a happy hour."

"I will confess," said Wilhelm, "that, in coming hither, I had no small

anger in my heart against you; that I proposed to censure with severity

your conduct to Aurelia."

"It was really censurable," said Lothario: "I should not have exchanged

my friendship for her with the sentiment of love; I should not, in place

of the respect which she deserved, have intruded an attachment she was

neither calculated to excite nor to maintain. Alas! she was not lovely

when she loved,--the greatest misery that can befall a woman."

"Well, it is past!" said Wilhelm. "We cannot always shun the things we

blame; in spite of us, our feelings and our actions sometimes strangely

swerve from their natural and right direction; yet there are certain

duties which we never should lose sight of. Peace be to the ashes of our

friend! Without censuring ourselves or her, let us with sympathizing

hearts strew flowers upon her grave. But, at the grave in which the

hapless mother sleeps, let me ask why you acknowledge not the child,--a

son whom any father might rejoice in, and whom you appear entirely to

overlook? With your pure and tender nature, how can you altogether cast

away the instinct of a parent? All this while you have not spent one

syllable upon that precious creature, of whose attractions I could say

so much."

"Whom do you speak of?" asked Lothario: "I do not understand you."

"Of whom but of your son, Aurelia's son, the lovely child, to whose good

fortune there is nothing wanting, but that a tender father should

acknowledge and receive him."

"You mistake, my friend!" exclaimed Lothario; "Aurelia never had a son,

at least by me: I know of no child, or I would with joy acknowledge it;

and, even in the present case, I will gladly look upon the little

creature as a relic of her, and take charge of educating it. But did

she ever give you to believe that the boy was hers, was mine?"

"I cannot recollect that I ever heard a word from her expressly on the

subject; but we took it up so, and I never for a moment doubted it."

"I can give you something like a clew to this perplexity," said Jarno.

"An old woman, whom you must have noticed often, gave Aurelia the child:

she accepted it with passion, hoping to alleviate her sorrows by its

presence; and, in truth, it gave her many a comfortable hour."

This discovery awoke anxieties in Wilhelm: he thought of his dear Mignon

and his beautiful Felix with the liveliest distinctness. He expressed

his wish to remove them both from the state in which they were.

"We shall soon arrange it," said Lothario. "The little girl may be

committed to Theresa: she cannot be in better hands. As for the boy, I

think you should yourself take charge of him: what in us the women leave

uncultivated, children cultivate when we retain them near us."

"But first, I think," said Jarno, "you will once for all renounce the

stage, as you have no talent for it."

Our friend was struck: he had to curb himself, for Jarno's harsh

sentence had not a little wounded his self-love. "If you convince me of

that," replied he, forcing a smile, "you will do me a service, though it

is but a mournful service to rouse one from a pleasing dream."

"Without enlarging on the subject," answered Jarno, "I could merely wish

you would go and fetch the children. The rest will come in course."

"I am ready," answered Wilhelm: "I am restless, and curious to see if I

can get no further knowledge of the boy: I long to see the little girl

who has attached herself so strangely to me."

It was agreed that he should lose no time in setting out. Next day he

had prepared himself: his horse was saddled; he only waited for Lothario

to take leave of him. At the dinner-hour they went as usual to table,

not waiting for the master of the house. He did not come till late, and

then sat down by them.

"I could bet," said Jarno, "that to-day you have again been making trial

of your tenderness of heart: you have not been able to withstand the

curiosity to see your quondam love."

"Guessed!" replied Lothario.

"Let us hear," said Jarno, "how it went: I long to know."

"I confess," replied Lothario, "the affair lay nearer my heart than it

reasonably ought: so I formed the resolution of again riding out, and

actually seeing the person whose renewed young image had affected me

with such a pleasing illusion. I alighted at some distance from the

house, and sent the horses to a side, that the children, who were

playing at the door, might not be disturbed. I entered the house: by

chance she met me just within the threshold; it was herself; and I

recognized her, notwithstanding the striking change. She had grown

stouter, and seemed to be larger; her gracefulness was shaded by a look

of staidness; her vivacity had passed into a calm reflectiveness. Her

head, which she once bore so airily and freely, drooped a little: slight

furrows had been traced upon her brow.

"She cast down her eyes on seeing me, but no blush announced any inward

movement of the heart. I held out my hand to her, she gave me hers; I

inquired about her husband, he was absent; about her children, she

stepped out and called them; all came in and gathered round her. Nothing

is more charming than to see a mother with a child upon her arm; nothing

is more reverend than a mother among many children. That I might say

something, I asked the name of the youngest. She desired me to walk in

and see her father; I agreed; she introduced me to the room, where every

thing was standing almost just as I had left it; and, what seemed

stranger still, the fair cousin, her living image, was sitting on the

very seat behind the spinning-wheel, where I had found my love so often

in the self-same form. A little girl, the very figure of her mother, had

come after us; and thus I stood in the most curious scene, between the

future and the past, as in a grove of oranges, where within a little

circle flowers and fruits are living, in successive stages of their

growth, beside each other. The cousin went away to fetch us some

refreshment: I gave the woman I had loved so much my hand, and said to

her, 'I feel a true joy in seeing you again.'--'You are very good to say

so,' answered she; 'but I also can assure you I feel the highest joy.

How often have I wished to see you once more in my life! I have wished

it in moments which I regarded as my last.' She said this with a settled

voice, without appearance of emotion, with that natural air which of old

delighted me so much. The cousin returned, the father with her; and I

leave you to conceive with what feelings I remained, and with what I

came away."

CHAPTER VIII.

In his journey to the town, our friend was thinking of the lovely women

whom he knew or had heard of: their curious fortunes, which contained so

little happiness, were present to him with a sad distinctness. "Ah!"

cried he, "poor Mariana! What shall I yet learn of thee? And thou, noble

Amazon, glorious, protecting spirit, to whom I owe so much, whom I

everywhere expect to meet, and nowhere see, in what mournful

circumstances may I find thee, shouldst thou again appear before me!"

On his arrival in the town, there was not one of his acquaintances at

home: he hastened to the theatre; he supposed they would be rehearsing.

Here, however, all was still; the house seemed empty: one little door

alone was open. Passing through it to the stage, he found Aurelia's

ancient serving-maid, employed in sewing linen for a new decoration:

there was barely light enough to let her work. Felix and Mignon were

sitting by her on the floor: they had a book between them; and, while

Mignon read aloud, Felix was repeating all the words, as if he, too,

knew his letters,--as if he, too, could read.

The children started up, and ran to him: he embraced them with the

tenderest feelings, and brought them closer to the woman. "Art thou the

person," said he to her with an earnest voice, "from whom Aurelia

received this child?" She looked up from her work, and turned her face

to him: he saw her in full light; he started back in terror,--it was old

Barbara.

"Where is Mariana?" cried he. "Far from here," replied the crone.

"And Felix"--

"Is the son of that unhappy and too true and tender-hearted girl. May

you never feel what you have made us suffer! May the treasure which I

now deliver you make you as happy as he made us wretched!"

She arose to go away: Wilhelm held her fast. "I mean not to escape

you," said she: "let me fetch a paper that will make you glad and

sorrowful."

She retired, and Wilhelm gazed upon the child with a painful joy: he

durst not reckon him his own. "He is thine!" cried Mignon, "he is

thine!" and passed the child to Wilhelm's knee.

Barbara came back, and handed him a letter. "Here are Mariana's last

words," said she.

"She is dead!" cried he.

"Dead," said the old woman. "I wish to spare you all reproaches."

Astonished and confounded, Wilhelm broke up the letter; but scarcely had

he read the first words of it when a bitter grief took hold of him: he

let the letter fall, and sank upon a seat. Mignon hurried to him, trying

to console him. In the mean time Felix had picked up the letter: he

teased his playmate till she yielded, till she knelt beside him and read

it over. Felix repeated the words, and Wilhelm was compelled to hear

them twice. "If this sheet should ever reach thee, then lament thy

ill-starred friend. Thy love has caused her death. The boy, whose birth

I survive but a few days, is thine: I die faithful to thee, much as

appearances may be against me; with thee I lost every thing that bound

me to life. I die content, for they have assured me that the child is

healthy and will live. Listen to old Barbara; forgive her: farewell, and

forget me not."

What a painful, and yet, to his comfort, half enigmatic letter! Its

contents pierced through his heart, as the children, stuttering and

stammering, pronounced and repeated them.

"That's what has come of it!" said the crone, not waiting till he had

recovered. "Thank Heaven, that, having lost so true a love, you have

still left you so fine a child. Your grief will be unequalled when you

learn how the poor, good girl stood faithful to you to the end, how

miserable she became, and what she sacrificed for your sake."

"Let me drain the cup of sorrow and of joy at once!" cried Wilhelm.

"Convince me, even persuade me, that she was a good girl, that she

deserved respect as well as love: then leave me to my grief for her

irreparable loss."

"It is not yet time," said Barbara: "I have work to do, and I would not

we were seen together. Let it be a secret that Felix is your son: I

should have too much abuse to suffer from the company, for having

formerly deceived them. Mignon will not betray us: she is good and

close."

"I have known it long, and I said nothing," answered Mignon. "How is it

possible?" cried Barbara. "Whence?" cried Wilhelm.

"The spirit told it me."

"Where? Where?"

"In the vault, when the old man drew his knife, it called to me, 'Bring

his father;' and I thought it must be thou."

"_Who_ called to thee?"

"I know not: in my heart, in my head, I was terrified; I trembled, I

prayed; then it called, and I understood it."

Wilhelm pressed her to his heart, recommended Felix to her, and retired.

He had not observed till then that she was grown much paler and thinner

than when he left her. Madam Melina was the first acquaintance he met:

she received him in the friendliest manner. "Oh that you might find

every thing among us as you wished!" exclaimed she.

"I doubt it," answered Wilhelm: "I do not expect it. Confess that they

have taken all their measures to dispense with me."

"Why would you go away?" replied his friend.

"We cannot soon enough convince ourselves," said he, "how very simply we

may be dispensed with in the world. What important personages we

conceive ourselves to be! We think that it is we alone who animate the

circle we move in; that, in our absence, life, nourishment, and breath

will make a general pause: and, alas! the void which occurs is scarcely

remarked, so soon is it filled up again; nay, it is often but the place,

if not for something better, at least for something more agreeable."

"And the sorrows of our friends we are not to take into account?"

"For our friends, too, it is well, when they soon recover their

composure, when they say each to himself, there where thou art, there

where thou remainest, accomplish what thou canst; be busy, be courteous,

and let the present scene delight thee."

On a narrower inquiry, he found what he had looked for: the opera had

been set up, and was exclusively attracting the attention of the public.

His parts had in the mean while been distributed between Horatio and

Laertes, and both of them were in the habit of eliciting from the

spectators far more liberal applause than he had ever been enabled to

obtain.

Laertes entered: and Madam Melina cried, "Look you here at this lucky

fellow; he is soon to be a capitalist, or Heaven knows what!" Wilhelm,

in embracing him, discovered that his coat was superfine: the rest of

his apparel was simple, but of the very best materials.

"Solve me the riddle!" cried our friend.

"You are still in time to learn," replied Laertes, "that my running to

and fro is now about to be repaid; that a partner in a large commercial

house is turning to advantage my acquirements from books or observation,

and allowing me a share with him. I would give something, could I

purchase back my confidence in women: there is a pretty niece in the

house; and I see well enough, that, if I pleased, I might soon be a made

man."

"You have not heard," said Frau Melina, "that a marriage has already

taken place among ourselves? Serlo is actually wedded to the fair

Elmira: her father would not tolerate their secret correspondence."

They talked in this manner about many things that had occurred while he

was absent: nor was it difficult for him to observe, that, according to

the present temper and constitution of the company, his dismissal had

already taken place.

He impatiently expected Barbara, who had appointed him to wait for her

far in the night. She was to come when all were sleeping: she required

as many preparations as if she had been the youngest maiden gliding in

to her beloved. Meanwhile he read a hundred times the letter she had

given him,--read with unspeakable delight the word _faithful_ in the

hand of his darling, with horror the announcement of her death, whose

approaches she appeared to view unmoved.

Midnight was past, when something rustled at the half-open door, and

Barbara came in with a little basket. "I am to tell you the story of our

woes," said she: "and I must believe that you will sit unmoved at the

recital; that you are waiting for me but to satisfy your curiosity; that

you will now, as you did formerly, retire within your cold selfishness,

while our hearts are breaking. But look you here! Thus, on that happy

evening, did I bring you the bottle of champagne; thus did I place the

three glasses on the table: and as you then began, with soft nursery

tales, to cozen us and lull us asleep; so will I now with stern truths

instruct you and keep you waking."

Wilhelm knew not what to say, when the old woman, in fact, let go the

cork, and filled the three glasses to the brim.

"Drink!" cried she, having emptied at a draught her foaming glass.

"Drink, ere the spirit of it pass! This third glass shall froth away

untasted to the memory of my unhappy Mariana. How red were her lips when

she then drank your health! Ah, and now forever pale and cold!"

"Sibyl! Fury!" cried Wilhelm, springing up, and striking the table with

his fist, "what evil spirit possesses thee and drives thee? For what

dost thou take me, that thou thinkest the simplest narrative of

Mariana's death and sorrows will not harrow me enough, but usest these

hellish arts to sharpen my torment? If thy insatiable greediness is

such, that thou must revel at the funeral-table, drink and speak! I have

loathed thee from of old; and I cannot reckon Mariana guiltless while I

even look upon thee, her companion."

"Softly, mein Herr!" replied the crone: "you shall not ruffle me. Your

debts to us are deep and dark: the railing of a debtor does not anger

one. But you are right: the simplest narrative will punish you

sufficiently. Hear, then, the struggle and the victory of Mariana

striving to continue yours."

"Continue mine?" cried Wilhelm: "what fable dost thou mean to tell me?"

"Interrupt me not," said she; "hear me, and then give what belief you

list: to me it is all one. Did you not, the last night you were with us,

find a letter in the room, and take it with you?"

"I found the letter _after_ I had taken it with me: it was lying in the

neckerchief, which, in the warmth of my love, I had seized and carried

off."

"What did the sheet contain?"

"The expectation of an angry lover to be better treated on the next than

he had been on the preceding evening. And that you kept your word to

him, I need not be told; for I saw him with my own eyes gliding from

your house before daybreak."

"You may have seen him; but what occurred within, how sadly Mariana

passed that night, how fretfully I passed it, you are yet to learn. I

will be altogether candid: I will neither hide nor palliate the fact,

that I persuaded Mariana to yield to the solicitations of a certain

Norberg; it was with repugnance that she followed my advice, nay, that

she even heard it. He was rich; he seemed attached: I hoped he would be

constant. Soon after, he was forced to go upon his journey; and Mariana

became acquainted with you. What had I then to abide! What to hinder,

what to undergo! 'Oh!' cried she often, 'hadst thou spared my youth, my

innocence, but four short weeks, I might have found a worthy object of

my love; I had then been worthy of him; and love might have given, with

a quiet conscience, what now I have sold against my will.' She entirely

abandoned herself to her affection for you: I need not ask if you were

happy. Over her understanding I had an unbounded power, for I knew the

means of satisfying all her little inclinations: but over her heart I

had no control; for she never sanctioned what I did for her, what I

counselled her to do, when her heart said nay. It was only to

irresistible necessity that she would yield, but erelong the necessity

appeared to her extremely pressing. In the first period of her youth,

she had never known want; by a complication of misfortunes, her people

lost their fortune; the poor girl had been used to have a number of

conveniences; and upon her young spirit certain principles of honor had

been stamped, which made her restless, without much helping her. She had

not the smallest skill in worldly matters: she was innocent in the

strictest meaning of the word. She had no idea that one could buy

without paying; nothing frightened her more than being in debt: she

always rather liked to give than take. This, and this alone, was what

made it possible that she could be constrained to give herself away, in

order to get rid of various little debts which weighed upon her."

"And couldst not thou," cried Wilhelm, in an angry tone, "have saved

her?"

"Oh, yes!" replied the beldame, "with hunger and need, with sorrow and

privation; but for this I was not disposed."

"Abominable, base procuress! So thou hast sacrificed the hapless

creature! Offered her up to thy throat, to thy insatiable maw!"

"It were better to compose yourself, and cease your reviling," said the

dame. "If you will revile, go to your high, noble houses: there you will

meet with many a mother, full of anxious cares to find out for some

lovely, heavenly maiden the most odious of men, provided he be the

richest. See the poor creature shivering and faltering before her fate,

and nowhere finding consolation, till some more experienced female lets

her understand, that, by marriage, she acquires the right, in future, to

dispose of her heart and person as she pleases."

"Peace!" cried Wilhelm. "Dost thou think that one crime can be the

excuse of another? To thy story, without further observations!"

"Do you listen, then, without blaming! Mariana became yours against my

will. In this adventure, at least, I have nothing to reproach myself

with. Norberg returned; he made haste to visit Mariana: she received him

coldly and angrily,--would not even admit him to a kiss. I employed all

my art in apologizing for her conduct,--gave him to understand that her

confessor had awakened her conscience: that, so long as conscientious

scruples lasted, one was bound to respect them. I at last so far

succeeded that he went away, I promising to do my utmost for him. He was

rich and rude; but there was a touch of goodness in him, and he loved

Mariana without limit. He promised to be patient, and I labored with the

greatest ardor not to try him too far. With Mariana I had a stubborn

contest: I persuaded her, nay, I may call it forced her, by the threat

of leaving her, to write to Norberg, and invite him for the night. You

came, and by chance picked up his answer in the neckerchief. Your

presence broke my game. For scarcely were you gone, when she anew began

her lamentation: she swore she would not be unfaithful to you; she was

so passionate, so frantic, that I could not help sincerely pitying her.

In the end, I promised, that for this night also I would pacify her

lover, and send him off, under some pretence or other. I entreated her

to go to bed, but she did not seem to trust me: she kept on her clothes,

and at last fell asleep, without undressing, agitated and exhausted with

weeping as she was.

"Norberg came; representing in the blackest hues her conscientious

agonies and her repentance, I endeavored to retain him: he wished to see

her, and I went into the room to prepare her; he followed me, and both

of us at once came forward to her bed. She awoke, sprang wildly up, and

tore herself from our arms: she conjured and begged, she entreated,

threatened, and declared she would not yield. She was improvident enough

to let fall some words about the true state of her affections, which

poor Norberg had to understand in a spiritual sense. At length he left

her, and she locked her door. I kept him long with me, and talked with

him about her situation. I told him that she was with child; that, poor

girl, she should be humored. He was so delighted with his fatherhood,

with his prospect of a boy, that he granted every thing she wished: he

promised rather to set out and travel for a time, than vex his dear,

and injure her by these internal troubles. With such intentions, at an

early hour he glided out; and if you, mein Herr, stood sentry by our

house, there was nothing wanting to your happiness, but to have looked

into the bosom of your rival, whom you thought so favored and so

fortunate, and whose appearance drove you to despair."

"Art thou speaking truth?" said Wilhelm.

"True," said the crone, "as I still hope to drive you to despair."

"Yes: certainly you would despair, if I could rightly paint to you the

following morning. How cheerfully did she awake! how kindly did she call

me in, how warmly thank me, how cordially press me to her bosom! 'Now,'

said she, stepping up to her mirror with a smile, 'can I again take

pleasure in myself, and in my looks, since once more I am my own, am

his, my one beloved friend's. How sweet is it to conquer! How I thank

thee for taking charge of me; for having turned thy prudence and thy

understanding, once, at least, to my advantage! Stand by me, and devise

the means of making me entirely happy!'

"I assented, would not irritate her: I flattered her hopes, and she

caressed me tenderly. If she retired but a moment from the window, I was

made to stand and watch: for you, of course, would pass; for she at

least would see you. Thus did we spend the restless day. At night, at

the accustomed hour, we looked for you with certainty. I was already out

waiting at the staircase: I grew weary, and came in to her again. With

surprise I found her in her military dress: she looked cheerful and

charming beyond what I had ever seen her. 'Do I not deserve,' said she,

'to appear to-night in man's apparel? Have I not struggled bravely? My

dearest shall see me as he saw me for the first time: I will press him

as tenderly and with greater freedom to my heart than then; for am I not

his much more than I was then, when a noble resolution had not freed me?

But,' added she, after pausing for a little, 'I have not yet entirely

won him; I must still risk the uttermost, in order to be worthy, to be

certain of possessing him; I must disclose the whole to him, discover to

him all my state, then leave it to himself to keep or to reject me. This

scene I am preparing for my friend, preparing for myself; and, were his

feelings capable of casting me away, I should then belong again entirely

to myself; my punishment would bring me consolation, I would suffer all

that fate could lay upon me.'

"With such purposes and hopes, mein Herr, this lovely girl expected you:

you came not. Oh! how shall I describe the state of watching and of

hope? I see thee still before me,--with what love, what heartfelt love,

thou spokest of the man whose cruelty thou hadst not yet experienced."

"Good, dear Barbara!" cried Wilhelm, springing up, and seizing the old

woman by the hand, "we have had enough of mummery and preparation! Thy

indifferent, thy calm, contented tone betrays thee. Give me back my

Mariana! She is living, she is near at hand. Not in vain didst thou

choose this late, lonely hour to visit me; not in vain hast thou

prepared me by thy most delicious narrative. Where is she? Where hast

thou hidden her? I believe all, I will promise to believe all, so thou

but show her to me, so thou give her to my arms. The shadow of her I

have seen already: let me clasp her once more to my bosom. I will kneel

before her, I will entreat forgiveness; I will congratulate her upon her

victory over herself and thee; I will bring my Felix to her. Come! Where

hast thou concealed her? Leave _her_, leave me no longer in uncertainty!

Thy object is attained. Where hast thou hidden her? Let me light thee

with this candle, let me once more see her fair and kindly face!"

He had pulled old Barbara from her chair: she stared at him; tears

started into her eyes, wild pangs of grief took hold of her. "What

luckless error," cried she, "leaves you still a moment's hope? Yes, I

have hidden her, but beneath the ground: neither the light of the sun

nor any social taper shall again illuminate her kindly face. Take the

boy Felix to her grave, and say to him, 'There lies thy mother, whom thy

father doomed unheard.' The heart of Mariana beats no longer with

impatience to behold you: not in a neighboring chamber is she waiting

the conclusion of my narrative or fable; the dark chamber has received

her, to which no bridegroom follows, from which none comes to meet a

lover."

She cast herself upon the floor beside a chair, and wept bitterly.

Wilhelm now, for the first time, felt entirely convinced that Mariana

was no more: his emotions it is easy to conceive. The old woman rose: "I

have nothing more to tell you," cried she, and threw a packet on the

table. "Here are some writings that will put your cruelty to shame:

peruse these sheets with unwet eyes, if you can." She glided softly out.

Our friend had not the heart to open the pocket-book that night: he had

himself presented it to Mariana; he knew that she had carefully

preserved in it every letter he had sent her. Next morning he prevailed

upon himself: he untied the ribbon; little notes came forward written

with pencil in his own hand, and recalled to him every situation, from

the first day of their graceful acquaintance to the last of their stern

separation. In particular, it was not without acute anguish that he read

a small series of billets which had been addressed to himself, and to

which, as he saw from their tenor, Werner had refused admittance.

"No one of my letters has yet penetrated to thee; my entreaties, my

prayers, have not reached thee; was it thyself that gave these cruel

orders? Shall I never see thee more? Yet again I attempt it: I entreat

thee, come, oh come! I ask not to retain thee, if I might but once more

press thee to my heart."

"When I used to sit beside thee, holding thy hands, looking in thy eyes,

and with the full heart of love and trust to call thee 'Dear, dear good

Wilhelm!' it would please thee so, that I had to repeat it over and

over. I repeat it once again: 'Dear, dear good Wilhelm! Be good as thou

wert: come, and leave me not to perish in my wretchedness.'"

"Thou regardest me as guilty: I am so, but not as thou thinkest. Come,

let me have this single comfort, to be altogether known to thee, let

what will befall me afterwards."

"Not for my sake alone, for thy own too, I beg of thee to come. I feel

the intolerable pains thou art suffering, whilst thou fleest from me.

Come, that our separation may be less cruel! Perhaps I was never worthy

of thee till this moment, when thou art repelling me to boundless woe."

"By all that is holy, by all that can touch a human heart, I call upon

thee! It involves the safety of a soul, it involves a life, two lives,

one of which must ever be dear to thee. This, too, thy suspicion will

discredit: yet I will speak it in the hour of death; the child which I

carry under my heart is thine. Since I began to love thee, no other man

has even pressed my hand. Oh that thy love, that thy uprightness, had

been the companions of my youth!"

"Thou wilt not hear me? I must even be silent. But these letters will

not die: perhaps they will speak to thee, when the shroud is covering my

lips, and the voice of thy repentance cannot reach my ear. Through my

weary life, to the last moment, this will be my only comfort, that,

though I cannot call myself blameless, towards thee I am free from

blame."

* * * * *

Wilhelm could proceed no farther: he resigned himself entirely to his

sorrow, which became still more afflicting; when, Laertes entering, he

was obliged to hide his feelings. Laertes showed a purse of ducats, and

began to count and reckon them, assuring Wilhelm that there could be

nothing finer in the world than for a man to feel himself on the way to

wealth; that nothing then could trouble or detain him. Wilhelm bethought

him of his dream, and smiled; but at the same time, he remembered with a

shudder, that in his vision Mariana had forsaken him, to follow his

departed father, and that both of them at last had moved about the

garden, hovering in the air like spirits.

Laertes forced him from his meditations: he brought him to a

coffee-house, where, immediately on Wilhelm's entrance, several persons

gathered round him. They were men who had applauded his performance on

the stage: they expressed their joy at meeting him; lamenting that, as

they had heard, he meant to leave the theatre. They spoke so reasonably

and kindly of himself and his acting, of his talent, and their hopes

from it, that Wilhelm, not without emotion, cried at last, "Oh, how

infinitely precious would such sympathy have been to me some months ago!

How instructive, how encouraging! Never had I turned my mind so totally

from the concerns of the stage, never had I gone so far as to despair of

the public."

"So far as this," said an elderly man who now stepped forward, "we

should never go. The public is large: true judgment, true feeling, are

not quite so rare as one believes; only the artist ought not to demand

an unconditional approval of his work. Unconditional approval is always

the least valuable: conditional you gentlemen are not content with. In

life, as in art, I know well, a person must take counsel with himself

when he purposes to do or to produce any thing: but, when it is produced

or done, he must listen with attention to the voices of a number; and,

with a little practice, out of these many votes he will be able to

collect a perfect judgment. The few who could well have saved us this

trouble for the most part hold their peace."

"This they should not do," said Wilhelm. "I have often heard people, who

themselves kept silence in regard to works of merit, complain and lament

that silence was kept."

"To-day, then, we will speak aloud," cried a young man. "You must dine

with us; and we will try to pay off a little of the debt which we have

owed to you, and sometimes also to our good Aurelia."

This invitation Wilhelm courteously declined: he went to Frau Melina,

whom he wished to speak with on the subject of the children, as he meant

to take them from her.

Old Barbara's secret was not too religiously observed by him. He

betrayed himself so soon as he again beheld the lovely Felix. "Oh my

child!" cried he: "my dear child!" He lifted him, and pressed him to his

heart.

"Father! what hast thou brought for me?" cried the child. Mignon looked

at both, as if she meant to warn them not to blab.

"What new phenomenon is this?" said Frau Melina. They got the children

sent away; and Wilhelm, thinking that he did not owe old Barbara the

strictest secrecy, disclosed the whole affair to Frau Melina. She viewed

him with a smile. "Oh, these credulous men!" exclaimed she. "If any

thing is lying in their path, it is so easy to impose it on them; while

in other cases they will neither look to the right nor left, and can

value nothing which they have not previously impressed with the stamp of

an arbitrary passion!" She sighed, against her will: if our friend had

not been altogether blind, he must have noticed in her conduct an

affection for him which had never been entirely subdued.

He now spoke with her about the children,--how he purposed to keep Felix

with him, and to place Mignon in the country. Madam Melina, though sorry

at the thought of parting with them, said the plan was good, nay,

absolutely necessary. Felix was becoming wild with her, and Mignon

seemed to need fresh air and other occupation: she was sickly, and was

not yet recovering.

"Let it not mislead you," added Frau Melina, "that I have lightly hinted

doubts about the boy's being really yours. The old woman, it is true,

deserves but little confidence; yet a person who invents untruths for

her advantage, may likewise speak the truth when truths are profitable

to her. Aurelia she had hoodwinked to believe that Felix was Lothario's

son; and it is a property of us women, that we cordially like the

children of our lovers, though we do not know the mothers, or even hate

them from the heart." Felix came jumping in: she pressed him to her with

a tenderness which was not usual to her.

Wilhelm hastened home, and sent for Barbara, who, however, would not

undertake to meet him till the twilight. He received her angrily. "There

is nothing in the world more shameful," said he, "than establishing

one's self on lies and fables. Already thou hast done much mischief with

them; and now, when thy word could decide the fortune of my life, now

must I stand dubious, not venturing to call the child my own, though to

possess him without scruple would form my highest happiness. I cannot

look upon thee, scandalous creature, without hatred and contempt."

"Your conduct, if I speak with candor," said the old woman, "appears to

me intolerable. Even if Felix were not yours, he is the fairest and the

loveliest child in nature: one might purchase him at any price, to have

him always near one. Is he not worthy your acceptance? Do not I deserve

for my care, for the labor I have had with him, a little pension for the

small remainder of my life? Oh, you gentlemen who know no want! It is

well for you to talk of truth and honor; but how the miserable being

whose smallest necessity is unprovided for, who sees in her perplexities

no friend, no help, no counsel, how she is to press through the crowd of

selfish men, and to starve in silence, you are seldom at the trouble to

consider. Did you read Mariana's letters? They are the letters she wrote

to you at that unhappy season. It was in vain that I attempted to

approach you to deliver you these sheets: your savage brother-in-law had

so begirt you, that craft and cunning were of no avail; and at last,

when he began to threaten me and Mariana with imprisonment, I had then

to cease my efforts and renounce all hope. Does not every thing agree

with what I told you? And does not Norberg's letter put the story

altogether out of doubt?"

"What letter?" asked he.

"Did you not find it in the pocket-book?" said Barbara.

"I have not yet read all of them."

"Give me the pocket-book: on that paper every thing depends. Norberg's

luckless billet caused this sorrowful perplexity: another from his hand

may loose the knots, so far as aught may still depend upon unravelling

them." She took a letter from the book: Wilhelm recognized that odious

writing; he constrained himself, and read,--

"Tell me, girl, how hast thou got such power over me? I would not have

believed that a goddess herself could make a sighing lover of me.

Instead of hastening towards me with open arms, thou shrankest back from

me: one might have taken it for aversion. Is it fair that I should spend

the night with old Barbara, sitting on a trunk, and but two doors

between me and my pretty Mariana? It is too bad, I tell thee! I have

promised to allow thee time to think, not to press thee unrelentingly: I

could run mad at every wasted quarter of an hour. Have not I given thee

gifts according to my power? Dost thou still doubt of my love? What wilt

thou have? Do but tell me: thou shalt want for nothing. Would the Devil

had the priest that put such stuff into thy head! Why didst thou go to

such a churl? There are plenty of them that allow young people somewhat.

In short, I tell thee, things must alter: in two days I must have an

answer, for I am to leave the town; and, if thou become not kind and

friendly to me, thou shalt never see me more."...

In this style the letter spun itself to great length; turning, to

Wilhelm's painful satisfaction, still about the same point, and

testifying for the truth of the account which he had got from Barbara. A

second letter clearly proved that Mariana, in the sequel, also had

maintained her purpose; and it was not without heartfelt grief, that,

out of these and other papers, Wilhelm learned the history of the

unlucky girl to the very hour of her death.

Barbara had gradually tamed rude, regardless Norberg, by announcing to

him Mariana's death, and leaving him in the belief that Felix was his

son. Once or twice he had sent her money, which, however, she retained

for herself; having talked Aurelia into taking charge of the child. But,

unhappily, this secret source of riches did not long endure. Norberg, by

a life of riot, had impaired his fortune; and, by repeated love-affairs,

his heart was rendered callous to his supposed first-born.

Probable as all this seemed, beautifully as it all agreed, Wilhelm did

not venture to give way to joy. He still appeared to dread a present

coming from his evil Genius.

"Your jealous fears," said Barbara, who guessed his mood of mind, "time

alone can cure. Look upon the child as a stranger one; take stricter

heed of him on that account; observe his gifts, his temper, his

capacities; and if you do not, by and by, discover in him the exact

resemblance of yourself, your eyes must certainly be bad. Of this I can

assure you,--were I a man, no one should foist a child on me; but it is

a happiness for women, that, in these cases, men are not so quick of

sight."

These things over, Wilhelm and Barbara parted: he was to take Felix with

him; she, to carry Mignon to Theresa, and afterwards to live in any

place she pleased, upon a small annuity which he engaged to settle on

her.

He sent for Mignon, to prepare her for the new arrangement. "Master,"

said she, "keep me with thee: it will do me good, and do me ill."

He told her, that, as she was now grown up, there should be something

further done for her instruction. "I am sufficiently instructed,"

answered she, "to love and grieve."

He directed her attention to her health, and showed that she required

continuous care, and the direction of a good physician. "Why care for

me," said she, "when there are so many things to care for?"

After he had labored greatly to persuade her that he could not take her

with him, that he would conduct her to a place where he might often see

her, she appeared as if she had not heard a word of it. "Thou wishest

not to have me with thee," said she. "Perhaps it is better: send me to

the old harper; the poor man is lonely where he is."

Wilhelm tried to show her that the old man was in comfortable

circumstances. "Every hour I long for him," replied the child.

"I did not see," said Wilhelm, "that thou wert so fond of him when he

was living with us."

"I was frightened for him when he was awake; I could not bear his eyes:

but, when he was asleep, I liked so well to sit by him! I used to chase

the flies from him: I could not look at him enough. Oh! he has stood by

me in fearful moments: none knows how much I owe him. Had I known the

road, I should have run away to him already."

Wilhelm set the circumstances in detail before her: he said that she had

always been a reasonable child, and that, on this occasion also, she

might do as she desired. "Reason is cruel," said she; "the heart is

better: I will go as thou requirest, only leave me Felix."

After much discussion her opinion was not altered; and Wilhelm at last

resolved on giving Barbara both the children, and sending them together

to Theresa. This was the easier for him, as he still feared to look

upon the lovely Felix as his son. He would take him on his arm, and

carry him about: the child delighted to be held before the glass;

Wilhelm also liked, though unavowedly, to hold him there, and seek

resemblances between their faces. If for a moment any striking

similarity appeared between them, he would press the boy in his arms;

and then, at once affrighted by the thought that he might be mistaken,

he would set him down, and let him run away. "Oh," cried he, "if I were

to appropriate this priceless treasure, and it were then to be snatched

from me, I should be the most unhappy man on earth!"

The children had been sent away; and Wilhelm was about to take a formal

leave of the theatre, when he felt that in reality he had already taken

leave, and needed but to go. Mariana was no more: his two guardian

spirits had departed, and his thoughts hied after them. The fair boy

hovered like a beautiful uncertain vision in the eyes of his

imagination: he saw him, at Theresa's hand, running through the fields

and woods, forming his mind and person in the free air, beside a free

and cheerful foster-mother. Theresa had become far dearer to him since

he figured her in company with Felix. Even while sitting in the theatre,

he thought of her with smiles; he was almost in her own case: the stage

could now produce no more illusion in him.

Serlo and Melina were excessively polite to him, when they observed that

he was making no pretensions to his former place. A portion of the

public wished to see him act again: this he could not accede to; nor in

the company did any one desire it, saving Frau Melina.

Of this friend he now took leave; he was moved at parting with her: he

exclaimed, "Why do we presume to promise any thing depending on an

unknown future? The most slight engagement we have not power to keep,

far less a purpose of importance. I feel ashamed in recollecting what I

promised to you all, in that unhappy night, when we were lying

plundered, sick, and wounded, crammed into a miserable tavern. How did

misfortune elevate my courage! what a treasure did I think I had found

in my good wishes! And of all this not a jot has taken effect! I leave

you as your debtor; and my comfort is, that our people prized my promise

at its actual worth, and never more took notice of it."

"Be not unjust to yourself," said Frau Melina: "if no one acknowledges

what you have done for us, I at least will not forget it. Our whole

condition had been different, if you had not been with us. But it is

with our purposes as with our wishes. They seem no longer what they

were, when they have been accomplished, been fulfilled; and we think we

have done, have wished for, nothing."

"You shall not, by your friendly statement," answered Wilhelm, "put my

conscience to peace. I shall always look upon myself as in your debt."

"Nay, perhaps you are so," said Madam Melina, "but not in the manner you

suppose. We reckon it a shame to fail in the fulfilment of a promise we

have uttered with the voice. O my friend! a worthy person by his very

presence promises us much. The confidence he elicits, the inclination he

inspires, the hopes he awakens, are unbounded: he is and continues in

our debt, although he does not know it. Fare you well! If our external

circumstances have been happily repaired by your direction, in my mind

there is, by your departure, produced a void which will not be filled up

again so easily."

Before leaving the city, Wilhelm wrote a copious sheet to Werner. He had

before exchanged some letters; but, not being able to agree, they had at

length ceased to write. Now, however, Wilhelm had again approximated to

his brother: he was just about to do what Werner had so earnestly

desired. He could say, "I am abandoning the stage: I mean to join myself

with men whose intercourse, in every sense, must lead me to a sure and

suitable activity." He inquired about his property; and it now seemed

strange to him, that he had never, for so long a time, disturbed himself

about it. He knew not that it is the manner of all persons who attach

importance to their inward cultivation altogether to neglect their

outward circumstances. This had been Wilhelm's case: he now for the

first time seemed to notice, that, to work effectively, he stood in need

of outward means. He entered on his journey, this time, in a temper

altogether different from that of last; the prospects he had in view

were charming; he hoped to meet with something cheerful by the way.

CHAPTER IX.

On returning to Lothario's castle, Wilhelm found that changes had

occurred. Jarno met him with the tidings, that, Lothario's uncle being

dead, the baron had himself set out to take possession of the heritage.

"You come in time," said he, "to help the abbé and me. Lothario has

commissioned us to purchase some extensive properties of land in this

quarter: he has long contemplated the bargain, and we have now got cash

and credit just in season. The only point which made us hesitate was,

that a distant trading-house had also views upon the same estates: at

length we have determined to make common cause with it, as otherwise we

might outbid each other without need or reason. The trader seems to be a

prudent man. At present we are making estimates and calculations: we

must also settle economically how the lands are to be shared, so that

each of us may have a fine estate." The papers were submitted to our

friend: the fields, meadows, houses, were inspected; and, though Jarno

and the abbé seemed to understand the matter fully, Wilhelm could not

help desiring that Theresa had been with them.

In these labors several days were spent, and Wilhelm had scarcely time

to tell his friends of his adventures and his dubious fatherhood. This

incident, to him so interesting, they treated with indifference and

levity.

He had noticed, that they frequently in confidential conversation, while

at table or in walks, would suddenly stop short, and give their words

another application; thereby showing, at least, that they had on the

anvil many things which were concealed from him. He bethought him of

what Lydia had said; and he put the greater faith in it, as one entire

division of the castle had always been inaccessible to him. The way to

certain galleries, particularly to the ancient tower, with which

externally he was so well acquainted, he had often sought, and hitherto

in vain.

One evening Jarno said to him, "We can now consider you as ours, with

such security, that it were unjust if we did not introduce you deeper

into our mysteries. It is right that a man, when he first enters upon

life, should think highly of himself, should determine to attain many

eminent distinctions, should endeavor to make all things possible; but,

when his education has proceeded to a certain pitch, it is advantageous

for him, that he learn to lose himself among a mass of men, that he

learn to live for the sake of others, and to forget himself in an

activity prescribed by duty. It is then that he first becomes acquainted

with himself, for it is conduct alone that compares us with others. You

shall soon see what a curious little world is at your very hand, and how

well you are known in it. To-morrow morning before sunrise be dressed

and ready."

Jarno came at the appointed hour: he led our friend through certain

known and unknown chambers of the castle, then through several

galleries; till at last they reached a large old door, strongly framed

with iron. Jarno knocked: the door went up a little, so as to admit one

person. Jarno shoved in our friend, but did not follow him. Wilhelm

found himself in an obscure and narrow stand: all was dark around him;

and, when he tried to go a step forward, he found himself hemmed in. A

voice not altogether strange to him cried, "Enter!" and he now

discovered that the sides of the place where he was were merely hung

with tapestry, through which a feeble light glimmered in to him.

"Enter!" cried the voice again: he raised the tapestry, and entered.

The hall in which he now stood appeared to have at one time been a

chapel: instead of the altar, he observed a large table raised some

steps above the floor, and covered with a green cloth hanging over it.

On the top of this, a drawn curtain seemed as if it hid a picture; on

the sides were spaces beautifully worked, and covered in with fine

wire-netting, like the shelves of a library; only here, instead of

books, a multitude of rolls had been inserted. Nobody was in the hall:

the rising sun shone through the window, right on Wilhelm, and kindly

saluted him as he came in.

"Be seated!" cried a voice, which seemed to issue from the altar.

Wilhelm placed himself in a small arm-chair, which stood against the

tapestry where he had entered. There was no seat but this in the room:

Wilhelm had to be content with it, though the morning radiance dazzled

him; the chair stood fast, he could only keep his hand before his eyes.

But now the curtain, which hung down above the altar, went asunder with

a gentle rustling, and showed, within a picture-frame, a dark, empty

aperture. A man stepped forward at it, in a common dress, saluted the

astonished looker-on, and said to him, "Do you not recognize me? Among

the many things which you would like to know, do you feel no curiosity

to learn where your grandfather's collection of pictures and statues

are at present? Have you forgot the painting which you once so much

delighted in? Where, think you, is the sick king's son now languishing?"

Wilhelm, without difficulty, recognized the stranger, whom, in that

important night, he had conversed with at the inn. "Perhaps," continued

his interrogator, "we should now be less at variance in regard to

destiny and character."

Wilhelm was about to answer, when the curtain quickly flew together.

"Strange!" said Wilhelm to himself: "can chance occurrences have a

connection? Is what we call Destiny but Chance? Where _is_ my

grandfather's collection? and why am I reminded of it in these solemn

moments?"

He had not leisure to pursue his thoughts: the curtain once more parted;

and a person stood before him, whom he instantly perceived to be the

country clergyman that had attended him and his companions on that

pleasure-sail of theirs. He had a resemblance to the abbé, though he

seemed to be a different person. With a cheerful countenance, in a tone

of dignity, he said, "To guard from error is not the instructor's duty,

but to lead the erring pupil; nay, to let him quaff his error in deep,

satiating draughts, this is the instructor's wisdom. He who only tastes

his error, will long dwell with it, will take delight in it as in a

singular felicity; while he who drains it to the dregs will, if he be

not crazy, find it out." The curtain closed again, and Wilhelm had a

little time to think. "What error can he mean," said he within himself,

"but the error which has clung to me through my whole life,--that I

sought for cultivation where it was not to be found; that I fancied I

could form a talent in me, while without the smallest gift for it?"

The curtain dashed asunder faster than before: an officer advanced, and

said in passing, "Learn to know the men who may be trusted!" The curtain

closed; and Wilhelm did not long consider, till he found this officer to

be the one who had embraced him in the count's park, and had caused his

taking Jarno for a crimp. How that stranger had come hither, who he was,

were riddles to our friend. "If so many men," cried he, "took interest

in thee, know thy way of life, and how it should be carried on, why did

they not conduct thee with greater strictness, with greater seriousness?

Why did they favor thy silly sports, instead of drawing thee away from

them?"

"Dispute not with us!" cried a voice. "Thou art saved, thou art on the

way to the goal. None of thy follies wilt thou repent; none wilt thou

wish to repeat; no luckier destiny can be allotted to a man." The

curtain went asunder, and in full armor stood the old king of Denmark in

the space. "I am thy father's spirit," said the figure; "and I depart in

comfort since my wishes for thee are accomplished, in a higher sense

than I myself contemplated. Steep regions cannot be surmounted save by

winding paths: on the plain, straight roads conduct from place to place.

Farewell, and think of me when thou enjoyest what I have provided for

thee."

Wilhelm was exceedingly amazed and struck: he thought it was his

father's voice; and yet in truth it was not: the present and the past

alike confounded and perplexed him.

He had not meditated long when the abbé came to view, and placed himself

behind the green table. "Come hither!" cried he to his marvelling

friend. He went, and mounted up the steps. On the green cloth lay a

little roll. "Here is your indenture," said the abbé: "take it to heart;

it is of weighty import." Wilhelm lifted, opened it, and read:--

INDENTURE.

Art is long, life short, judgment difficult, opportunity transient. To

act is easy, to think is hard; to act according to our thought is

troublesome. Every beginning is cheerful: the threshold is the place of

expectation. The boy stands astonished, his impressions guide him: he

learns sportfully, seriousness comes on him by surprise. Imitation is

born with us: what should be imitated is not easy to discover. The

excellent is rarely found, more rarely valued. The height charms us, the

steps to it do not: with the summit in our eye, we love to walk along

the plain. It is but a part of art that can be taught: the artist needs

it all. Who knows it half, speaks much, and is always wrong: who knows

it wholly, inclines to act, and speaks seldom or late. The former have

no secrets and no force: the instruction they can give is like baked

bread, savory and satisfying for a single day; but flour cannot be sown,

and seed-corn ought not to be ground. Words are good, but they are not

the best. The best is not to be explained by words. The spirit in which

we act is the highest matter. Action can be understood and again

represented by the spirit alone. No one knows what he is doing while he

acts aright, but of what is wrong we are always conscious. Whoever

works with symbols only is a pedant, a hypocrite, or a bungler. There

are many such, and they like to be together. Their babbling detains the

scholar: their obstinate mediocrity vexes even the best. The instruction

which the true artist gives us opens the mind; for, where words fail

him, deeds speak. The true scholar learns from the known to unfold the

unknown, and approaches more and more to being a master.

"Enough!" cried the abbé: "the rest in due time. Now look round you

among these cases."

Wilhelm went, and read the titles of the rolls. With astonishment he

found, "Lothario's Apprenticeship," "Jarno's Apprenticeship," and his

own Apprenticeship placed there, with many others whose names he did not

know.

"May I hope to cast a look into these rolls?"

"In this chamber there is now nothing hid from you."

"May I put a question?"

"Without scruple; and you may expect a positive reply, if it concerns a

matter which is nearest your heart, and ought to be so."

"Good, then! Ye marvellous sages, whose sight has pierced so many

secrets, can you tell me whether Felix is in truth my son?"

"Hail to you for this question!" cried the abbé, clapping hands for joy.

"Felix is your son! By the holiest that lies hid among us, I swear to

you Felix is your son; nor, in our opinion, was the mother that is gone

unworthy of you. Receive the lovely child from our hands: turn round,

and venture to be happy."

Wilhelm heard a noise behind him: he turned round, and saw a child's

face peeping archly through the tapestry at the end of the room; it was

Felix. The boy playfully hid himself so soon as he was noticed. "Come

forward!" cried the abbé: he came running; his father rushed towards

him, took him in his arms, and pressed him to his heart. "Yes! I feel

it," cried he, "thou art mine! What a gift of Heaven have I to thank my

friends for! Whence or how comest thou, my child, at this important

moment?"

"Ask not," said the abbé. "Hail to thee, young man! Thy Apprenticeship

is done: Nature has pronounced thee free."

BURT'S HOME LIBRARY.

Comprising two hundred and fifty titles of standard works, embracing

fiction, essays, poetry, history, travel, etc., selected from the

world's best literature, written by authors of world-wide reputation.

Printed from large type, on good paper, and bound in handsome cloth

binding, uniform with this volume, Price, 75 cents per copy.

[Illustration]

=Adam Bede.= By George Eliot.

=Æsop's Fables.=

=Alhambra, The.= By Washington Irving.

=Alice Lorraine.= By R. D. Blackmore.

=All Sorts and Conditions of Men.= By Besant and Rice.

=Andersen's Fairy Tales.=

=Arabian Nights Entertainments.=

=Armadale.= By Wilkie Collins.

=Armorel of Lyonesse.= By Walter Besant.

=Auld Licht Idylls.= By James M. Barrie.

=Aunt Diana.= By Rosa N. Carey.

=Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin.=

=Averil.= By Rosa N. Carey.

=Bacon's Essays.= By Francis Bacon.

=Barbara Heathcote's Trial.= By Rosa N. Carey.

=Barnaby Rudge.= By Charles Dickens.

=Berber, The.= By W. S. Mayo.

=Betrothed, The.= By Allessandro Manzoni.

=Bleak House.= By Charles Dickens.

=Bondman, The.= By Hall Caine.

=Bride of the Nile, The.= By George Ebers.

=Burgomaster's Wife, The.= By George Ebers.

=Cast up by the Sea.= By Sir Samuel Baker.

=Caxtons, The.= By Bulwer-Lytton.

=Charles Auchester.= By E. Berger.

=Charles O'Malley.= By Charles Lever.

=Children of the Abbey.= By Regina Maria Roche.

=Children of Gibeon.= By Walter Besant.

=Child's History of England.= By Charles Dickens.

=Christmas Stories.= By Charles Dickens.

=Cloister and the Hearth.= By Charles Reade.

=Confessions of an Opium-Eater.= By Thomas De Quincey.

=Consuelo.= By George Sand.

=Corinne.= By Madame De Stael.

=Countess of Rudolstadt.= By George Sand.

=Cousin Pons.= By Honore de Balzac.

=Cranford.= By Mrs. Gaskell.

=Crown of Wild Olive, The.= By John Ruskin.

=Daniel Deronda.= By George Eliot.

=Daughter of an Empress, The.= By Louisa Muhlbach.

=Daughter of Heth, A.= By Wm. Black.

=David Copperfield.= By Charles Dickens.

=Deemster, The.= By Hall Caine.

=Deerslayer, The.= By James Fenimore Cooper.

=Dombey & Son.= By Charles Dickens.

=Donal Grant.= By George Macdonald.

=Donald Ross of Heimra.= By William Black.

=Donovan.= By Edna Lyall.

=Dream Life.= By Ik. Marvel.

=East Lynne.= By Mrs. Henry Wood.

=Egoist, The.= By George Meredith.

=Egyptian Princess, An.= By George Ebers.

=Eight Years Wandering in Ceylon.= By Sir Samuel Baker.

=Emerson's Essays.= By Ralph Waldo Emerson.

=Emperor, The.= By George Ebers.

=Essays of Elia.= By Charles Lamb.

=Esther.= By Rosa N. Carey.

=Far from the Madding Crowd.= By Thos. Hardy.

=Felix Holt.= By George Eliot.

=Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World.= By E. S. Creasy.

=File No. 113.= By Emile Gaboriau.

=First Violin.= By Jessie Fothergill.

=For Faith and Freedom.= By Walter Besant.

=Frederick the Great, and His Court.= By Louisa Muhlbach.

=French Revolution.= By Thomas Carlyle.

=From the Earth to the Moon.= By Jules Verne.

=Goethe and Schiller.= By Louisa Muhlbach.

=Gold Bug, The, and Other Tales.= By Edgar A. Poe.

=Gold Elsie.= By E. Marlitt.

=Great Expectations.= By Charles Dickens.

=Great Taboo, The.= By Grant Allen.

=Great Treason, A.= By Mary Hoppus.

=Green Mountain Boys, The.= By D. P. Thompson.

=Grimm's Household Tales.= By the Brothers Grimm.

=Grimm's Popular Tales.= By the Brothers Grimm.

=Gulliver's Travels.= By Dean Swift.

=Handy Andy.= By Samuel Lover.

=Hardy Norseman, A.= By Edna Lyall.

=Harold.= By Bulwer-Lytton.

=Harry Lorrequer.= By Charles Lever.

=Heir of Redclyffe.= By Charlotte M. Yonge.

=Henry Esmond.= By William M. Thackeray.

=Her Dearest Foe.= By Mrs. Alexander.

=Heriot's Choice.= By Rosa N. Carey.

=Heroes and Hero Worship.= By Thomas Carlyle.

=History of Pendennis.= By William M. Thackeray.

=House of the Seven Gables.= By Nathaniel Hawthorne.

=How to be Happy Though Married.=

=Hunchback of Notre Dame.= By Victor Hugo.

=Hypatia.= By Charles Kingsley.

=Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow.= By Jerome K. Jerome.

=In Far Lochaber.= By William Black.

=In the Golden Days.= By Edna Lyall.

=In the Heart of the Storm.= By Maxwell Grey.

=It is Never Too Late to Mend.= By Charles Reade.

=Ivanhoe.= By Sir Walter Scott.

=Jack's Courtship.= By W. Clark Russell.

=Jane Eyre.= By Charlotte Bronte.

=John Halifax, Gentleman.= By Miss Muloch.

=Kenilworth.= By Sir Walter Scott.

=Kit and Kitty.= By R. D. Blackmore.

=Kith and Kin.= By Jessie Fothergill.

=Knickerbocker's History of New York.= By Washington Irving.

=Knight Errant.= By Edna Lyall.

=L'Abbe Constantin.= By Ludovic-Halevy.

=Lamplighter, The.= By Maria S. Cummins.

=Last Days of Pompeii.= By Bulwer-Lytton.

=Last of the Barons.= By Bulwer-Lytton.

=Last of the Mohicans.= By James Fenimore Cooper.

=Light of Asia, The.= By Sir Edwin Arnold.

=Little Dorrit.= By Charles Dickens.

=Lorna Doone.= By R. D. Blackmore.

=Louise de la Valliere.= By Alexandre Dumas.

=Lover or Friend?= By Rosa N. Carey.

=Lucile.= By Owen Meredith.

=Maid of Sker.= By R. D. Blackmore.

=Man and Wife.= By Wilkie Collins.

=Man in the Iron Mask.= By Alexandre Dumas.

=Martin Chuzzlewit.= By Charles Dickens.

=Mary St. John.= By Rosa N. Carey.

=Master of Ballantrae, The.= By R. L. Stevenson.

=Master of the Ceremonies, The.= By G. M. Fenn.

=Masterman Ready.= By Captain Marryat.

=Merle's Crusade.= By Rosa N. Carey.

=Micah Clarke.= By A. Conan Doyle.

=Michael Strogoff.= By Jules Verne.

=Middlemarch.= By George Eliot.

=Midshipman Easy.= By Captain Marryat.

=Mill on the Floss.= By George Eliot.

=Molly Bawn.= By The Duchess.

=Moonstone, The.= By Wilkie Collins.

=Mosses from an Old Manse.= By Nathaniel Hawthorne.

=Mysterious Island, The.= By Jules Verne.

=Natural Law in the Spiritual World.= By Henry Drummond.

=Nellie's Memories.= By Rosa N. Carey.

=Newcomes, The.= By William M. Thackeray.

=Nicholas Nickleby.= By Charles Dickens.

=No Name.= By Wilkie Collins.

=Not Like Other Girls.= By Rosa N. Carey.

=Old Curiosity Shop.= By Charles Dickens.

=Old Ma'm'selle's Secret.= By E. Marlitt.

=Old Myddelton's Money.= By Mary Cecil Hay.

=Oliver Twist.= By Charles Dickens.

=Only the Governess.= By Rosa N. Carey.

=On the Heights.= By Berthold Auerbach.

=Our Bessie.= By Rosa N. Carey.

=Our Mutual Friend.= By Charles Dickens.

=Pair of Blue Eyes, A.= By Thomas Hardy.

=Past and Present.= By Thomas Carlyle.

=Pathfinder, The.= By James Fenimore Cooper.

=Pere Goriot.= By Honore de Balzac.

=Phantom Rickshaw, The.= By Rudyard Kipling.

=Phra, the Phoenician.= By Edwin L. Arnold.

=Picciola.= By X. B. Saintine.

=Pickwick Papers.= By Charles Dickens.

=Pilgrim's Progress.= By John Bunyan.

=Pilot, The.= By James Fenimore Cooper.

=Pioneers, The.= By James Fenimore Cooper.

=Prairie, The.= By James Fenimore Cooper.

=Pride and Prejudice.= By Jane Austen.

=Prime Minister, The.= By Anthony Trollope.

=Princess of Thule, A.= By Wm. Black.

=Professor, The.= By Charlotte Bronte.

=Put Yourself in His Place.= By Charles Reade.

=Queen Hortense.= By Louisa Muhlbach.

=Queenie's Whim.= By Rosa N. Carey.

=Ralph the Heir.= By Anthony Trollope.

=Red Rover.= By James Fenimore Cooper.

=Reproach of Annesley.= By Maxwell Grey.

=Reveries of a Bachelor.= By Ik. Marvel.

=Rhoda Fleming.= By George Meredith.

=Ride to Khiva, A.= By Captain Fred Burnaby.

=Rienzi.= By Bulwer-Lytton.

=Robinson Crusoe.= By Daniel Defoe.

=Rob Roy.= By Sir Walter Scott.

=Romance of a Poor Young Man.= By Octave Feuillet.

=Romance of Two Worlds.= By Marie Corelli.

=Romola.= By George Eliot.

=Rory O'More.= By Samuel Lover.

=Sartor Resartus.= By Thomas Carlyle.

=Scarlet Letter, The.= By Nathaniel Hawthorne.

=Scottish Chiefs.= By Jane Porter.

=Search for Basil Lyndhurst.= By Rosa N. Carey.

=Second Wife, The.= By E. Marlitt.

=Self-Help.= By Samuel Smiles.

=Sense and Sensibility.= By Jane Austen.

=Sesame and Lilies.= By John Ruskin.

=Shadow of the Sword.= By Robert Buchanan.

=Shirley.= By Charlotte Bronte.

=Silas Marner.= By George Eliot.

=Silence of Dean Maitland.= By Maxwell Grey.

=Sketch-Book, The.= By Washington Irving.

=Social Departure, A.= By Sara Jeannette Duncan.

=Soldiers Three, etc.= By Rudyard Kipling.

=Springhaven.= By R. D. Blackmore.

=Spy, The.= By James Fenimore Cooper.

=St. Katharine's by the Tower.= By Walter Besant.

=Story of an African Farm.= By Olive Schreiner.

=Swiss Family Robinson.= By Jean Rudolph Wyss.

=Tale of Two Cities.= By Charles Dickens.

=Talisman, The.= By Sir Walter Scott.

=Tartarin of Tarascon.= By Alphonse Daudet.

=Tempest Tossed.= By Theodore Tilton.

=Ten Years Later.= By Alexandre Dumas.

=Terrible Temptation, A.= By Charles Reade.

=Thaddeus of Warsaw.= By Jane Porter.

=Thelma.= By Marie Corelli.

=Three Guardsmen.= By Alexandre Dumas.

=Three Men in a Boat.= By Jerome K. Jerome.

=Tom Brown at Oxford.= By Thomas Hughes.

=Tom Brown's School Days.= By Thomas Hughes.

=Tom Burke of "Ours."= By Charles Lever.

=Tour of the World in Eighty Days, A.= By Jules Verne.

=Treasure Island.= By Robert Louis Stevenson.

=Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.= By Jules Verne.

=Twenty Years After.= By Alexandre Dumas.

=Twice Told Tales.= By Nathaniel Hawthorne.

=Two Admirals.= By James Fenimore Cooper.

=Two Chiefs of Dunboy.= By James A. Froude.

=Two on a Tower.= By Thomas Hardy.

=Two Years Before the Mast. By R. H. Dana, Jr.

=Uarda.= By George Ebers.

=Uncle Max.= By Rosa N. Carey.

=Uncle Tom's Cabin.= By Harriet Beecher Stowe.

=Undine and Other Tales.= By De la Motte Fouque.

=Vanity Fair.= By William M. Thackeray.

=Vicar of Wakefield.= By Oliver Goldsmith.

=Villette.= By Charlotte Bronte.

=Virginians, The.= By William M. Thackeray.

=Vicomte de Bragelonne.= By Alexandre Dumas.

=Vivian Grey.= By Benjamin Disraeli.

=Water Witch, The.= By James Fenimore Cooper.

=Waverly.= By Sir Walter Scott.

=Wee Wifie.= By Rosa N. Carey.

=Westward Ho!= By Charles Kingsley.

=We Two.= By Edna Lyall.

=What's Mine's Mine.= By George Macdonald.

=When a Man's Single.= By J. M. Barrie.

=White Company, The.= By A. Conan Doyle.

=Wide, Wide World.= By Susan Warner.

=Widow Lerouge, The.= By Emile Gaborlau.

=Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship.= By Goethe (Carlyle).

=Wing-and-Wing.= By James Fenimore Cooper.

=Woman in White, The.= By Wilkie Collins.

=Won by Waiting.= By Edna Lyall.

=Wooing O't.= By Mrs. Alexander.

=World Went Very Well Then, The.= By Walter Besant.

=Wormwood.= By Marie Corelli.

=Wreck of the Grosvenor, The.= By W. Clark Russell.

=Zenobia.= By William Ware.

_For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent post-paid on receipt of

price bythe publisher, =A. L. BURT, New York.=_

THE ALGER SERIES for BOYS

Uniform with This Volume.

This series affords wholesome reading for boys and girls, and all the

volumes are extremely interesting.--_Cincinnati Commercial-Gazette._

=JOE'S LUCK; or, A Brave Boy's Adventures in California.= By HORATIO

ALGER, JR.

=JULIAN MORTIMER; or, A Brave Boy's Struggles for Home and Fortune.= By

HARRY CASTLEMON.

=ADRIFT IN THE WILDS; or, The Adventures of Two Shiwrecked Boys.= By

EDWARD S. ELLIS.

=FRANK FOWLER, THE CASH BOY.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR.

=GUY HARRIS, THE RUNAWAY.= By HARRY CASTLEMON.

=THE SLATE-PICKER; A Story of a Boy's Life in the Coal Mines.= By HARRY

PRENTICE.

=TOM TEMPLE'S CAREER.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR.

=TOM, THE READY; or, Up from the Lowest.= By RANDOLPH HILL.

=THE CASTAWAYS; or, On the Florida Reefs.= By JAMES OTIS.

=CAPTAIN KIDD'S GOLD. The True Story of an Adventurous Sailor Boy.= By

JAMES FRANKLIN FITTS.

=TOM THATCHER'S FORTUNE.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR.

=LOST IN THE CANON. The Story of Sam Willett's Adventures on the Great

Colorado of the West.= By ALFRED R. CALHOUN.

=A YOUNG HERO; or, Fighting to Win.= By EDWARD S. ELLIS.

=THE ERRAND BOY; or, How Phil Brent Won Success.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR.

THE ISLAND TREASURE; OR, HARRY DARREL'S FORTUNE. By =Frank H. Converse=.

=A RUNAWAY BRIG; or, An Accidental Cruise.= By JAMES OTIS.

=A JAUNT THROUGH JAVA. The Story of a Journey to the Sacred Mountain by

Two American Boys.= By E. S. ELLIS.

=CAPTURED BY APES; or, How Philip Garland Became King of Apeland.= By

HARRY PRENTICE.

=TOM THE BOOT-BLACK; or, The Road to Success.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR.

=ROY GILBERT'S SEARCH. A Tale of the Great Lakes.= By WILLIAM P.

CHIPMAN.

=THE TREASURE-FINDERS. A Boy's Adventures in Nicarauga.= By JAMES OTIS.

=BUDD BOYD'S TRIUMPH; or, The Boy Firm of Fox Island.= By WILLIAM P.

CHIPMAN.

=TONY, THE HERO; or, A Brave Boy's Adventures with a Tramp.= By HORATIO

ALGER, JR.

=CAPTURED BY ZULUS. A Story of Trapping in Africa.= By HARRY PRENTICE.

=THE TRAIN BOY.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR.

=DAN THE NEWSBOY.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR.

=SEARCH FOR THE SILVER CITY. A Story of Adventure in Yucatan.= By JAMES

OTIS.

=THE BOY CRUISERS; or, Paddling in Florida.= By ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE.

=_The above stories are printed on extra paper, and bound in Handsome

Cloth Binding, in all respects uniform with this volume, at $1.00 per

copy._=

_For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent post-paid on receipt of

price, by the publisher, =A. L. BURT, 66 Reade St., New York.=_

THE FIRESIDE SERIES FOR GIRLS.

=Uniform Cloth Binding.=

[Illustration]

A carefully selected series of books for girls written by authors of

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=Esther.= By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY. Illustrated. Price, $1.00.

=A World of Girls: The Story of a School.= By L. T. MEADE. Illustrated.

Price, $1.00.

=The Heir of Redclyffe.= By CHARLOTTE M. YONGE. Illustrated. Price,

$1.00.

=The Story of a Short Life.= By JULIANA HORATIO EWING. Illustrated.

Price, $1.00.

=A Sweet Girl Graduate.= By L. T. MEADE. Illustrated. Price, $1.00.

=Our Bessie.= By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY. Illustrated. Price, $1.00.

=Six to Sixteen: A Story for Girls.= By JULIANA HORATIO EWING.

Illustrated. Price, $1.00.

=The Dove in the Eagle's Nest.= By CHARLOTTE M. YONGE. Illustrated.

Price, $1.00.

=Giannetta: A Girl's Story of Herself.= By ROSA MULHOLLAND. Illustrated.

Price, $1.00.

=Jan of the Windmill: A Story of the Plains.= By JULIANA HORATIO EWING.

Illustrated. Price, $1.00.

=Averil.= By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY. Illustrated. Price, $1.00.

=Alice in Wonderland and Alice Through a Looking Glass.= Two volumes in

one. By LEWIS CARROLL. Illustrated. Price, $1.00.

=Merle's Crusade.= By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY. Illustrated. Price, $1.00.

=Girl Neighbors; or, The Old Fashion and the New.= By SARAH TYTLER.

Illustrated. Price, $1.00.

=Polly: A New Fashioned Girl.= By L. T. MEADE. Illustrated. Price,

$1.00.

=Aunt Diana.= By ROSA N. CAREY. Illustrated. Price, $1.00.

=The Water Babies: A Fairy Tale for a Land-Baby.= By CHARLES KINGSLEY.

Illustrated. Price, $1.00.

=At the Back of the North Wind.= By GEORGE MACDONALD. Illustrated.

Price, $1.00.

=The Chaplet of Pearls; or, The White and Black Ribaumont.= By CHARLOTTE

M. YONGE. Illustrated. Price, $1.00.

=The Days of Bruce: A Story of Scottish History.= By GRACE AGUILAR.

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_For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent post-paid on receipt of

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* * * * *

Transcriber's note:

P. 243. The 4th paragraph of Book IV, Chapter XVIII. Changed

'Annunication' to 'Annunciation' as found in the bible reference.

P. 406. Added missing closing quotation mark.

P.413. The last paragraph of Book VII, Chapter VII. Transposed semicolon

to from 'answered; she' to 'answered she,'.