CHAPTER XVIII.

Lenardo, having freed himself from business for an hour, took dinner

with his friends; and at table he began to explain to them his family

circumstances. His eldest sister was married. A rich brother-in-law, to

the great satisfaction of the uncle, had undertaken the management of

all the estates; with him Valerina’s husband was stoutly co-operating:

they were laboring on the great scale, strengthening their enterprises

by connection with distant countries and places.

Here, likewise, our oldest friends once more make their appearance:

Lothario, Werner, the abbé, are on their side proceeding in the highest

diligence; while Jarno occupies himself with mining. A general insurance

has been instituted: we discern a vast property in land; and on this

depends the existence of a large wandering society, the individual

members of which, under the condition of the greatest possible

usefulness, are recommended to all the world, are forwarded in every

undertaking, and secured against all mischances: while they again, as

scattered colonists, may be supposed to re-act on their mother country

with favorable influences.

Throughout all this we observe Lenardo recognized as the wandering Bond:

in smaller and greater combinations, he, for most part, is elected; on

him is placed the most unrestricted confidence.

So far had the disclosure, partly from Lenardo, partly from Friedrich,

proceeded without let, when both of them on a sudden became silent; each

seeming to have scruples about communicating more. After a short pause,

Wilhelm addressed them, and cried, “What new secret again suddenly

overshadows the friendliest explanation? Will you again leave me in the

lurch?”

“Not at all!” exclaimed Friedrich. “Do but hear me! He has found the

nut-brown maid, and for her sake”--

“Not for her sake,” interrupted Lenardo.

“And just for her sake!” persisted Friedrich. “Do not deceive yourself:

for her sake you are changing yourself into a lawful vagabond; as some

others of us, not, in truth, for the most praiseworthy purposes, have,

in times past, changed ourselves into lawless vagrants.”

“Let us go along calmly,” said Lenardo: “our friend here must be made

acquainted with the state of our affairs; but, in the first place, let

him have a little touch of discipline for himself. You had found the

nut-brown maid, but to me you refused the knowledge of her abode. For

this I will not blame you, but what good did it do? To discover this

secret I was passionately incited; and, notwithstanding your sagacious

caution, I at length came upon the right trace. You have seen the good

maiden yourself: her circumstances you have accurately investigated, and

yet you did not judge them rightly. It is only the loving who feels and

discovers what the beloved wishes and wants: he can read it in her from

her deepest heart. Let this at present suffice: for explanation we have

no time left to-day. To-morrow I have the hottest press of business to

front: next day we part. But for your information, composure, and

participating interest, accept this copy of a week from my journal: it

is the best legacy which I can leave you. By reading it you will not,

indeed, become wiser than you are and than I am; but let this for the

present suffice. The nearest future, or a more remote one, will arrange

and direct: that is to say, in this case, as in so many others, we know

not what is to become of us.”

By way of dessert Lenardo received a packet, at the opening of which he,

with some tokens of surprise, handed a letter to Wilhelm. “What secrets,

what speedy concerns, can sister Hersilia have with our friend? ‘To be

delivered instantly and opened privately, without the presence of any

one, friend or stranger!’ Let us give him all possible convenience,

Friedrich: let us withdraw!” Wilhelm hastily broke open the sheet, and

read,--

_Hersilia to Wilhelm._

Wherever this letter may reach you, my noble friend, to a

certainty it will find you in some nook where you are striving

in vain to hide from yourself. By making you acquainted with my

two fair dames, I have done you a sorry service.

But wherever you may be lurking, and doubtless it will search

you out, my promise is, that if, after reading this letter, you

do not forthwith leap from your seat, and, like a pious pilgrim,

appear in my presence without delay, I must declare you to be

the manliest of all men; that is to say, the one most completely

void of the finest property belonging to our sex: I mean

curiosity, which at this moment is afflicting me in its sharpest

concentration.

In one word, then, your casket has now got its key: this,

however, none but you and I are to know. How it came into my

hands let me now tell you.

Some days ago our man of law gets despatches from a distant

tribunal; wherein he was asked if, at such and such a time,

there had not been a boy prowling about our neighborhood who had

played all manner of tricks, and at length, in a rash

enterprise, lost his jacket.

By the way this brat was described, no doubt remained with us

but he was Fitz,--the gay comrade whom Felix talked so much of,

and so often wished back to play with him.

Now, for the present, those authorities request that said

article of dress may be sent to them if it is still in

existence; as the boy, at last involved in judicial

examinations, refers to it. Of this demand our lawyer chances to

make mention: he shows us the little frock before sending it

off.

Some good or evil spirit whispers me to grope the breast-pocket:

a little, angular, prickly something comes into my hand; I, so

timorous, ticklish, and startlish as I usually am, clinch my

hand, clinch it, hold my peace; and the jerkin is sent away.

Directly, of all feelings, the strangest seizes me. At the first

stolen glance I saw, I guessed, that it was the key of your

little box. And now came wondrous scruples of conscience, and

all sorts of moral doubts. To discover, to give back my

windfall, was impossible; what have those long-wigged judges to

do with it when it may be so useful to my friend? And then,

again, all manner of questions about right and duty begin

lifting up their voices; but I would not let them outvote me.

From this you perceive into what a situation my friendship for

you has reduced me: a choice faculty develops itself all on a

sudden for your sake; what an occurrence! May it not be

something more than friendship that so holds the balance of my

conscience? Between guilt and curiosity I am wonderfully

discomposed; I have a hundred whims and stories about what may

follow: law and judgment will not be trifled with. Hersilia, the

careless, and, as occasion served, capricious Hersilia,

entangled in a criminal process; for this is the scope and

tendency of it! And what can I do but think of the friend for

whose sake I suffer all this? I thought of you before, yet with

pauses; but now I think of you incessantly: now when my heart

throbs, and I think of the eighth commandment, I must turn to

you as to the saint who has caused this sin, and will also

procure me an absolution; thus the opening of the casket is the

only thing that can compose me. My curiosity is growing stronger

and doubly strong: come, and bring the casket with you. To what

judgment-seat it properly belongs we will make out between us:

till then let it remain between us; no one must know of it, be

who he will.

But now, in conclusion, look here, my friend. And tell me, what

say you to this picture of the riddle? Does it not remind you of

arrows with barbs? God help us! But the box must first stand

unopened between you and me, and then, when opened, tell us

further what we have to do. I wish there were nothing whatever

in it; and who knows what all I wish, and what all I could tell?

but do you look at this, and hasten so much the faster to get

upon the road.

[Illustration: An elaborate drawing that looks something like a key.]

Friedrich returned more gay and lively than he had gone. “Good news!”

cried he: “good luck! Lenardo has received some pretty letters to

facilitate the parting: credit more than sufficient; and thou, too,

shalt have thy share in it. Fortune herself surely knows not what she is

about; for once in her time she has done wise, worthy fellows a favor.”

Hereupon he handed to his friend some clipped fragments of maps, with

directions where they were to be produced, and changed for hard cash or

bills, as he might choose. Wilhelm was obliged to accept them; though he

kept assuring his companion, that for the present he had no need of such

things. “Then, others will need them!” cried Friedrich: “constrain not

thy good feelings, and, wherever thou art, appear as a benefactor. But

now come along, let us have a look at this manuscript: it is long till

night; one tires of talking and listening, so I have begged some writing

for our entertainment. Every leaf in Lenardo’s archives is penned in the

spirit of the whole: in giving me this, he said, ‘Well, take it and read

it: our friend will acquire more confidence in our society and Bond, the

more good members he becomes acquainted with.’”

The two then retired to a cheerful spot; and Friedrich read, enlivening

with much natural energy and mirth, what he found set down for him.

WHO CAN THE TRAITOR BE?

“No, no!” exclaimed he, violently and hastily rushing into the chamber

allotted him, and setting down his candle,--“no! it is impossible! But

whither shall I turn? For the first time I think otherwise than he: for

the first time I feel, I wish, otherwise. O father! couldst thou but be

present invisibly, couldst thou but look through and through me, thou

wouldst see that I am still the same, still thy true, obedient,

affectionate son. Yet to say no! To contradict my father’s dearest,

long-cherished wish! How shall I disclose it? How shall I express it?

No: I cannot marry Julia! While I speak of it, I shudder. And how shall

I appear before him, tell him this, him, the good, kind father? He looks

at me with astonishment, without speaking: the prudent, clear-sighted,

gifted man can find no words. Woe is me! Ah! I know well to whom I would

confide this pain, this perplexity, who it is I would choose for my

advocate. Before all others, thou, Lucinda! And I would first tell thee

how I love thee, how I give myself to thee, and pressingly entreat thee

to speak for me, and if thou canst love me again, if thou wilt be mine,

to speak for us both.”

To explain this short, pithy monologue will require some details.

Professor N. of N. had an only boy of singular beauty, whom, till the

child’s eighth year, he had left entirely in charge of his wife. This

excellent woman had directed the hours and days of her son in living,

learning, and all good behavior. She died; and the father instantly

felt, that to prosecute this parental tutelage was impossible. In their

lifetime, all had been harmony between the parents: they had labored for

a common aim, had determined in concert what was next to be done; and

the mother had not wanted skill to execute wisely, by herself, what the

two had planned together. Double and treble was now the widower’s

anxiety; seeing, as he could not but daily see, that for the sons of

professors, even in universities, it was only by a sort of miracle that

a happy education could be expected.

In this strait he applied to his friend, the _Oberamtmann_ of R., with

whom he had already been treating of plans for a closer alliance between

their families. The _Oberamtmann_ gave him counsel and assistance: so

the son was established in one of those institutions which still

flourish in Germany, and where charge is taken of the whole man, and

body, soul, and spirit are trained with all attention.

The son was thus provided for: the father, however, felt himself very

lonely, robbed of his wife, shut out from the cheerful presence of the

boy, whom he had seen, without effort of his, growing up in such

desirable culture. But here, again, the friendship of the _Oberamtmann_

served him in good stead: the distance of their abodes vanished before

his affection, his desire for movement, for diversion of thought. In

this hospitable home the widowed man of letters found, in a family

circle, motherless like his own, two beautiful little daughters growing

up in diverse loveliness: a state of things which more and more

confirmed the fathers in their purpose, in their hope, of one day seeing

their families united in the most joyful bonds.

They lived under the sway of a mild, good prince: the meritorious

_Oberamtmann_ was certain of his post during life; and, in the

appointment of a successor, his recommendation was likely to go far. And

now, according to the wise family arrangement, sanctioned also by the

minister, Lucidor was to train himself for the important office of his

future father-in-law. This in consequence he did, from step to step.

Nothing was neglected in communicating to him all sorts of knowledge, in

developing in him all sorts of activity, which the state in any case

requires,--practice in rigorous judicial law, and also in the laxer

sort, where prudence and address find their proper field; foresight for

daily ways and means; not excluding higher and more comprehensive views,

yet all tending towards practical life, and so as with effect and

certainty to be employed in its concerns.

With such purposes had Lucidor spent his school years: by his father and

his patron he was now warned to make ready for the university. In all

departments he already showed the fairest talents; and to nature he was

further indebted for the singular happiness of inclining, out of love

for his father, out of respect for his friend, to turn his capabilities,

first from obedience, then from conviction, on that very object to which

he was directed. He was placed in a foreign university; and here, both

by his own account in his letters, and by the testimony of his teachers

and overseers, he continued walking in the path that led towards his

appointed goal. It was only objected to him, that in certain cases he

had been too impetuously brave. The father shook his head at this: the

_Oberamtmann_ nodded. Who would not have been proud of such a son?

Meanwhile the two daughters, Julia and Lucinda, were waxing in stature

and graces. Julia, the younger, waggish, lovely, unstable, highly

entertaining; the other difficult to portray, for in her sincerity and

purity she represented all that we prize most in woman. Visits were paid

and repaid: and, in the professor’s house, Julia found the most

inexhaustible amusement.

Geography, which he failed not to enliven by topography, belonged to his

province; and no sooner did Julia cast her eyes on any of the volumes,

of which a whole series from Homann’s warehouse were standing there,

than the cities, all and sundry, had to be mustered, judged, preferred,

or rejected: all havens especially obtained her favor; other towns, to

acquire even a slight approval from her, must stand forth well supplied

with steeples, domes, and minarets.

Julia’s father often left her for weeks to the care of his tried friend.

She was actually advancing in knowledge of her science; and already the

inhabited world, in its main features, in its chief points and places,

stood before her with some accuracy and distinctness. The garbs of

foreign nations attracted her peculiar attention; and often when her

foster-father asked her in jest, If among the many young, handsome men

who were passing to and fro before her window, there was not some one or

other whom she liked? she would answer, “Yes, indeed! if he do but look

odd enough.” And, as our young students are seldom behindhand in this

particular, she had often occasion to take notice of individuals among

them; they brought to her mind the costume of foreign nations: however,

she declared in the end, that, if she was to bestow her undivided

attention on any one, he must be at least a Greek, equipped in the

complete fashion of his country; on which account, also, she longed to

be at some Leipzig fair, where, as she understood, such persons were to

be seen walking the streets.

After his dry and often irksome labors, our teacher had now no happier

moments than those he spent in mirthfully instructing her; triumphing

withal, in secret, that a being so attractive, ever entertaining, ever

entertained, was in the end to be his own daughter. For the rest, the

two fathers had mutually agreed, that no hint of their purpose should be

communicated to the girls: from Lucidor, also, it was kept secret.

Thus had years passed away, as, indeed, they very lightly pass: Lucidor

presented himself completed, having stood all trials to the joy, even of

the superior overseers, who wished nothing more heartily than being

able, with a good conscience, to fulfil the hopes of old, worthy,

favored, and deserving servants.

And so the business had at length by quiet, regular steps come so far,

that Lucidor, after having demeaned himself in subordinate stations to

universal satisfaction, was now to be placed in a very advantageous

post, suitable to his wishes and merits, and lying just midway between

the university and the _Oberamtmann-ship_.

The father now spoke with his son about Julia, of whom he had hitherto

only hinted, as about his bride and wife, without any doubt or

condition; congratulating him on the happiness of having appropriated

such a jewel to himself. The professor saw in fancy his daughter-in-law

again from time to time in his house, occupied with charts, plans, and

views of cities: the son recalled to mind the gay and most lovely

creature, who, in times of childhood, had, by her rogueries as by her

kindliness, always delighted him. Lucidor was now to ride over to the

_Oberamtmann’s_, to take a closer view of the full-grown fair one, and,

for a few weeks, to surrender himself to the habitudes and familiarity

of her household. If the young people, as was to be hoped, should

speedily agree, the professor was forthwith to appear, that so a solemn

betrothment might forever secure the anticipated happiness.

Lucidor arrives, is received with the friendliest welcome: a chamber is

allotted him; he arranges himself there, and appears. And now he finds,

besides the members of the family already known to us, a grown-up

son,--misbred certainly, yet shrewd and good-natured; so that, if you

like to take him as the jesting counsellor of the party, he fitted not

ill with the rest. There belonged, moreover, to the house a very old,

but healthy and gay-hearted, man, quiet, wise, discreet; completing his

life, as it were, and here and there requiring a little help. Directly

after Lucidor, too, there had arrived another stranger, no longer young,

of an impressive aspect, dignified, thoroughly well-bred, and, by his

acquaintance with the most distant quarters of the world, extremely

entertaining. He was called Antoni.

Julia received her announced bridegroom in fit order, yet with an excess

rather than a defect of frankness: Lucinda, on the other hand, did the

honors of the house; as her sister did those of herself. So passed the

day, peculiarly agreeable to all, only to Lucidor not: he, at all times

silent, had been forced, that he might avoid sinking dumb entirely, to

employ himself in asking questions; and in this attitude no one appears

to advantage.

Throughout he had been absent-minded; for at the first glance he had

felt, not aversion or repugnance, yet estrangement, towards Julia:

Lucinda, on the contrary, attracted him; so that he trembled every time

she looked at him with her full, pure, peaceful eyes.

Thus hard bested, he reached his chamber the first night, and gave vent

to his heart in that soliloquy with which we began. But to explain this

sufficiently, to show how the violence of such an emphatic speech agrees

with what we know of him already, another little statement will be

necessary.

Lucidor was of a deep character, and for most part had something else in

his mind than what the present scene required: hence talk and social

conversation would never prosper rightly with him; he felt this, and was

wont to continue silent, except when the topic happened to be

particular, on some department which he had completely studied, and of

which, whatever he needed was at all times ready. Besides this, in his

early years at school, and later at the university, he had been deceived

in friends, and had wasted the effusions of his heart unhappily: hence

every communication of his feelings seemed to him a doubtful step, and

doubting destroys all such communication. With his father he was used to

speak only in unison: therefore his full heart poured itself out in

monologues, as soon as he was by himself.

Next morning he had summoned up his resolution; and yet he almost lost

heart and composure again, when Julia met him with still more

friendliness, gayety, and frankness than ever. She had much to

ask,--about his journey by land and journeys by water; how, when a

student, with his knapsack on his back, he had roamed and climbed

through Switzerland,--nay, crossed the Alps themselves. And now of those

fair islands on the great Southern Lake she had much to say: and then

backwards, the Rhine must be accompanied from his primary origin; at

first, through most undelicious regions, and so downwards through many

an alternation, till at length, between Maynz and Coblenz, you find it

still worth while respectfully to dismiss the old River from his last

confinement, into the wide world, into the sea.

Lucidor, in the course of this recital, felt much lightened in heart; he

narrated willingly and well: so that Julia at last exclaimed in rapture,

“It is thus that our other self should be!” At which phrase Lucidor

again felt startled and frightened, thinking he saw in it an allusion to

their future pilgrimage in common through life.

From his narrative duty, however, he was soon relieved; for the

stranger, Antoni, very speedily overshadowed all mountain streams, and

rocky banks, and rivers, whether hemmed in or left at liberty. Under his

guidance you now went forward to Genoa; Livorno lay at no great

distance; whatever was most interesting in the country you took with you

as fair spoil; Naples, too, was a place you should see before you died;

and then, in truth, remained Constantinople, which also was by no means

to be neglected. Antoni’s descriptions of the wide world carried the

imagination of every hearer along with him, though Antoni himself

introduced little fire into the subject. Julia, quite enraptured, was

still nowise satisfied: she longed for Alexandria, Cairo, and, above

all, for the pyramids; of which, by the lessons of her intended

father-in-law, she had gained some moderate knowledge.

Lucidor, next night (he had scarcely shut his door, the candle he had

not put down), exclaimed, “Now, bethink thee, then: it is growing

serious! Thou hast studied and meditated many serious things: what

avails thy law-learning if thou canst not act like a man of law? View

thyself as a delegate, forget thy own feelings, and do what it would

behoove thee to do for another. It thickens and closes round me

horribly! The stranger is plainly come for the sake of Lucinda; she

shows him the fairest, noblest social and hospitable attentions: that

little fool would run through the world with any one for any thing or

nothing. Besides, she is a wag: her interest in cities and countries is

a farce, by which she keeps us in silence. But why do I look at the

affair so perplexedly, so narrowly? Is not the _Oberamtmann_ himself the

most judicious, the clearest, the kindest mediator? Thou wilt tell him

how thou feelest and thinkest; and he will think with thee, if not

likewise feel. With thy father he has all influence. And is not the one

as well as the other his daughter? What would this Antoni the traveller

with Lucinda, who is born for home, to be happy and to make happy? Let

the wavering quicksilver fasten itself to the Wandering Jew: that will

be a right match.”

Next morning Lucidor came down with the firm purpose of speaking with

the father, and waiting on him expressly to that end, at the hour when

he knew him to be disengaged. How great was his vexation, his

perplexity, on learning that the _Oberamtmann_ had been called away on

business, and was not expected till the day after the morrow! Julia, on

this occasion, seemed to be expressly in her travelling-fit; she kept by

the world wanderer, and, with some sportive hits at domestic economy,

gave up Lucidor to Lucinda. If our friend, viewing this noble maiden

from a certain distance, and under one general impression, had already,

with his whole heart, loved her, he failed not now in this nearest

nearness to discover with double and treble vividness in detail all that

had before as a whole attracted him.

The good old friend of the family now brought himself forward in place

of the absent father: he, too, had lived, had loved, and was now, after

many hard buffetings and bruises of life, resting at last, refreshed and

cheerful, beside the friend of his youth. He enlivened the conversation,

and especially expatiated on perplexities in choice of wives; relating

several remarkable examples of explanations, both in time and too late.

Lucinda appeared in all her splendor. She admitted, that accident in all

departments of life, and so likewise in the business of marriage, often

produced the best result; yet that it was finer and prouder when one

could say he owed his happiness to himself, to the silent, calm

conviction of his heart, to a noble purpose and a quick determination.

Tears stood in Lucidor’s eyes as he applauded this sentiment: directly

afterwards the two ladies went out. The old president liked well to deal

in illustrative histories; and so the conversation expanded itself into

details of pleasant instances, which, however, touched our hero so

closely that none but a youth of as delicate manners as his could have

refrained from breaking out with his secret. He did break out so soon as

he was by himself.

“I have constrained myself!” exclaimed he: “with such perplexities I

will not vex my good father; I have forborne to speak, for I see in this

worthy old man the substitute of both fathers. To him will I speak, to

him disclose the whole: he will surely bring it about; he has already

almost spoken what I wish. Will he censure in the individual case what

he praises in general? To-morrow I visit him: I must give vent to this

oppression.”

At breakfast the old man was not present: last night he had spoken, it

appeared, too much, had sat too long, and likewise drunk a drop or two

of wine beyond his custom. Much was said in his praise: many anecdotes

were related, and precisely of such sayings and doings as brought

Lucidor to despair for not having forthwith applied to him. This

unpleasant feeling was but aggravated when he learned, that, in such

attacks of disorder, the good old man would often not make his

re-appearance for a week.

For social converse a country residence has many advantages, especially

when the owners of it have, for a course of years, been induced, as

thinking and feeling persons, to improve the natural capabilities of

their environs. Such had been the good fortune of this spot. The

_Oberamtmann_, at first unwedded, then in a long, happy marriage,

himself a man of fortune, and occupying a lucrative post, had, according

to his own judgment and perception, according to the taste of his

wife,--nay, at last according to the wishes and whims of his

children,--laid out and forwarded many larger and smaller decorations;

which, by degrees, being skilfully connected with plantations and paths,

afforded to the promenader a very beautiful, continually varying,

characteristic series of scenes. A pilgrimage through these our young

hosts now proposed to their guest; as in general we take pleasure in

showing our improvements to a stranger, that so what has become habitual

in our eyes may appear with the charm of novelty in his, and leave with

him, in permanent remembrance, its first favorable impression.

The nearest, as well as the most distant, part of the grounds was

peculiarly appropriate for modest decorations, and altogether rural

individualities. Fertile hills alternated with well-watered meadows, so

that the whole was visible from time to time without being flat; and, if

the land seemed chiefly devoted to purposes of utility, the graceful,

the attractive, was by no means excluded.

To the dwelling and office houses were united various gardens, orchards,

and green spaces; out of which you imperceptibly passed into a little

wood with a broad, clear carriage-road, winding up and down through the

midst of it. Here, in a central spot, on the most considerable

elevation, there had been a hall erected, with side-chambers entering

from it. On coming through the main door you saw, in a large mirror, the

most favorable prospect which the country afforded, and were sure to

turn round that instant, to recover yourself on the reality from the

effect of this its unexpected image; for the approach was artfully

enough contrived, and all that could excite surprise was carefully hid

till the last moment. No one entered but felt pleasurably tempted to

turn from the mirror to nature, and from nature to the mirror.

Once in motion in this fairest, brightest, longest day, our party made a

spiritual campaign of it, over and through the whole. Here the daughters

pointed out the evening-seat of their good mother, where a stately

box-tree had kept clear space all round it. A little farther on

Lucinda’s place of morning prayer was half-roguishly exhibited by Julia,

close to a little brook, between poplars and alders, with meadows

sloping down from it, and fields stretching upwards. It was

indescribably pretty. You thought you had seen such a spot everywhere,

but nowhere so impressive and so perfect in its simplicity. In return

for this the young master, also half against Julia’s will, pointed out

the tiny groves, and child’s gardens which, close by a snug-lying mill,

were now scarcely discernible: they dated from a time when Julia,

perhaps in her tenth year, had taken it into her head to become a

milleress; intending, after the decease of the two old occupants, to

assume the management herself, and choose some brave millman for her

husband.

“That was at a time,” cried Julia, “when I knew nothing of towns lying

on rivers, or even on the sea,--nothing of Genoa, of Naples, and the

like. Your worthy father, Lucidor, has converted me: of late I come

seldom hither.” She sat down with a roguish air, and on a little bench,

that was now scarcely large enough for her, under an elder-bough, which

had bent deeply towards the ground. “Fie on this cowering!” cried she,

then started up, and ran off with her gay brother.

The remaining pair kept up a rational conversation, and in these cases

reason approaches close to the borders of feeling. Wandering over

changeful, simple, natural objects, to contemplate at leisure how

cunning, scheming man contrives to gain some profit from them; how his

perception of what is laid before him, combining with the feeling of his

wants, does wonders, first in rendering the world inhabitable, then in

peopling it, and at last in over-peopling it,--all this could here be

talked of in detail. Lucinda gave account of every thing; and, modest as

she was, she could not hide that these pleasant and convenient

combinations of distant parts by roads had been her work, under the

proposal, direction, or favor of her revered mother.

But as the longest day at last bends down to evening, our party were at

last forced to think of returning: and, while devising some pleasant

circuit, the merry brother proposed that they should take the short

road; though it commanded no fine prospects, and was even in some places

more difficult to get over. “For,” cried he, “you have preached all day

about your decorations and reparations, and how you have improved and

beautified the scene for pictorial eyes and feeling hearts: let me,

also, have my turn.”

Accordingly, they now set forth over ploughed grounds, by coarse paths,

nay, sometimes picking their way by stepping-stones in boggy places;

till at last they perceived, at some distance, a pile of machinery

towering up in manifold combination. More closely examined, it turned

out to be a large apparatus for sport and games, arranged, not without

judgment, and in a certain popular spirit. Here, fixed at suitable

distances, stood a large swing-wheel, on which the ascending and the

descending riders might still sit horizontally and at their ease; other

seesaws, swing-ropes, leaping-poles, bowling and ninepins courses, and

whatever can be fancied for variedly and equally employing and diverting

a crowd of people gathered on a large common. “This,” cried he, “is my

invention, my decoration! And though my father found the money, and a

shrewd fellow the brain necessary for it, yet without me, whom you often

call a person of no judgment, money and brain would not have come

together.”

In this cheerful mood the whole four reached home by sunset. Antoni also

joined them; but the little Julia, not yet satisfied with this unresting

travel, ordered her coach, and set forth on a visit to a lady of her

friends, in utter despair at not having seen her for two days. The party

left behind began to feel embarrassed before they were aware: it was

even mentioned in words that the father’s absence distressed them. The

conversation was about to stagnate, when all at once the madcap sprang

from his seat, and in a few moments returned with a book, proposing to

read to the company. Lucinda forbore not to inquire how this notion had

occurred to him, now for the first time in a twelvemonth. “Every thing

occurs to me,” said he, “at the proper season: this is more than you can

say for yourself.” He read them a series of genuine antique tales, such

as lead man away from himself, flattering his wishes, and making him

forget all those restrictions between which, even in the happiest

moments, we are still hemmed in.

“What shall I do now?” cried Lucidor, when at last he saw himself alone.

“The hour presses on: in Antoni I have no trust; he is an utter

stranger; I know not who he is, how he comes to be here, nor what he

wants: Lucinda seems to be his object; and, if so, what can I expect of

him? Nothing remains for me but applying to Lucinda herself: she must

know of it, she before all others. This was my first feeling: why do we

stray into side-paths and subterfuges? My first thought shall be my

last, and I hope to reach my aim.”

On Saturday morning Lucidor, dressed at an early hour, was walking to

and fro in his chamber, thinking and conning over his projected address

to Lucinda, when he heard a sort of jestful contention before his door;

and the door itself directly afterwards went up. The mad younker was

shoving in a boy before him with coffee and baked ware for the guest: he

himself carried cold meats and wine. “Go thou foremost,” cried the

younker, “for the guest must be first served: I am used to serve myself.

My friend, to-day I am entering somewhat early and tumultuously: but let

us take our breakfast in peace; then we shall see what is to be done,

for of our company there is nothing to be hoped. The little one is not

yet back from her friend: they two have to pour out their hearts

together every fortnight, otherwise the poor, dear hearts would burst.

On Saturdays Lucinda is good for nothing: she balances her household

accounts for my father; she would have had me taking share in the

concern, but Heaven forbid! When I know the price of any thing, no

morsel of it can I relish. Guests are expected to-morrow; the old man

has not yet got refitted: Antoni is gone to hunt; we will do the same.”

Guns, pouches, and dogs were ready as our pair stepped down into the

court; and now they set forth over field and hill, shooting at best a

leveret or so, and perhaps here and there a poor, indifferent,

undeserving bird. Meanwhile they kept talking of domestic affairs, of

the household, and company at present assembled in it. Antoni was

mentioned, and Lucidor failed not to inquire more narrowly about him.

The gay younker, with some self-complaisance, asserted, that strange as

the man was, and much mystery as he made about himself, he, the gay

younker, had already seen through him and through him. “Without doubt,”

continued he, “Antoni is the son of a rich mercantile family, whose

large partnership concern fell to ruin at the very time when he, in the

full vigor of youth, was preparing to take a cheerful and active hand in

their great undertakings, and, withal, to share in their abundant

profits. Dashed down from the summit of his hopes, he gathered himself

together, and undertook to perform for strangers what he was no longer

in a case to perform for his relatives. And so he travelled through the

world, became thoroughly acquainted with it and its mutual traffickings;

in the mean while not forgetting his own advantage. Unwearied diligence

and tried fidelity obtained and secured for him unbounded confidence

from many. Thus in all places he acquired connections and friends: nay,

it is easy to see that his fortune is as widely scattered abroad as his

acquaintance; and, accordingly, his presence is from time to time

required in all quarters of the world.”

These things the merry younker told in a more circumstantial and simple

style, introducing many farcical observations, as if he meant to spin

out his story to full length.

“How long, for instance,” cried he, “has this Antoni been connected with

my father? They think I see nothing because I trouble myself about

nothing; but for this very reason I see it better, as I take no interest

in it. To my father he has intrusted large sums, who, again, has

deposited them securely and to advantage. It was but last night that he

gave our old dietetic friend a casket of jewels; a finer, simpler,

costlier piece of ware I never cast my eyes on: though I saw this only

with a single glance, for they make a secret of it. Most probably it is

to be consigned to the bride for her pleasure, satisfaction, and future

security. Antoni has set his heart on Lucinda! Yet, when I see them

together, I cannot think it a well-assorted match. The hop-skip would

have suited him better: I believe, too, she would take him sooner than

the elder would. Many a time I see her looking over to the old

curmudgeon, so gay and sympathetic, as if she could find in her heart to

spring into the coach with him, and fly off at full gallop.” Lucidor

collected himself; he knew not what to answer; all that he heard

obtained his internal approbation. The younker proceeded, “All along the

girl has had a perverted liking for old people: I believe, of a truth,

she would have skipped away and wedded your father as briskly as she

would his son.”

Lucidor followed his companion over stock and stone, as it pleased the

gay youth to lead him: both forgot the chase, which, at any rate, could

not be productive. They called at a farmhouse, where, being hospitably

received, the one friend entertained himself with eating, drinking, and

tattling; the other again plunged into meditations and projects for

turning this new discovery to his own profit.

From all these narrations and disclosures Lucidor had acquired so much

confidence in Antoni, that, immediately on their return, he asked for

him, and hastened into the garden where he was said to be. In vain! No

soul was to be seen anywhere. At last he entered the door of the great

hall: and strange enough the setting sun, reflected from the mirror, so

dazzled him that he could not recognize the two persons who were sitting

on the sofa; though he saw distinctly that it was a lady and a man,

which latter was that instant warmly kissing the hand of his companion.

How great, accordingly, was Lucidor’s astonishment when, on recovering

his clearness of vision, he beheld Antoni sitting by Lucinda. He was

like to sink through the ground; he stood, however, as if rooted to the

spot, till Lucinda, in the kindest, most unembarrassed manner, shifted a

little to a side, and invited him to take a seat on her right hand.

Unconsciously he obeyed her; and while she addressed him, inquiring

after his present day’s history, asking pardon for her absence on

domestic engagements, he could scarcely hear her voice. Antoni rose, and

took his leave: Lucinda, resting herself from her toil as the others

were doing, invited Lucidor to a short stroll. Walking by her side he

was silent and embarrassed: she, too, seemed ill at ease; and, had he

been in the slightest degree self-collected, her deep-drawn breathing

must have disclosed to him that she had heartfelt sighs to suppress. She

at last took her leave as they approached the house: he, on the other

hand, turned round at first slowly, then at a violent pace, to the open

country. The park was too narrow for him: he hastened through the

fields, listening only to the voice of his heart, and without eyes for

the beauties of this loveliest evening. When he found himself alone, and

his feelings were relieving their violence in a shower of tears, he

exclaimed,--

“Already in my life, but never with such fierceness, have I felt the

agony which now makes me altogether wretched,--to see the

long-wished-for happiness at length reach me, hand in hand and arm in

arm unite with me, and at the same moment announce its eternal

departure! I was sitting by her, I was walking by her, her fluttering

garment touched me; and I have lost her! Reckon it not over, torture not

thy heart with it, be silent and determine!”

He laid a prohibition on his lips: he held his peace, and planned and

meditated; stepping over field and meadow and bush, not always by the

smoothest paths. Late at night, on returning to his chamber, he gave

voice to his thoughts for a moment, and cried, “To-morrow morning I am

gone: another such day I will not front.”

And so, without undressing, he threw himself on the bed. Happy, healthy

season of youth! He was already asleep: the fatiguing motion of the day

had earned for him the sweetest rest. Out of bright morning dreams,

however, the earliest sun awoke him: this was the longest day in the

year, and for him it threatened to be too long. If the grace of the

peaceful evening star had passed over him unnoticed, he felt the

awakening beauty of the morning only to despair. The world was lying

here as glorious as ever; to his eyes it was still so, but his soul

contradicted it: all this belonged to him no longer; he had lost

Lucinda.

His travelling-bag was soon packed; this he was to leave behind him; he

left no letter with it: a verbal message in excuse of absence from

dinner, perhaps also from supper, might be left with the groom, whom, at

any rate, he must awaken. The groom, however, was awake already: Lucidor

found him in the yard, walking with large strides before the

stable-door. “You do not mean to ride?” cried the usually good-natured

man, with a tone of some spleen. “To you I may say it, but young master

is growing worse and worse. There was he driving about far and near

yesterday: you might have thought he would thank God for a Sunday to

rest in. And see if he does not come this morning before daybreak,

rummages about in the stable, and, while I am getting up, saddles and

bridles your horse, flings himself on it, and cries, ‘Do but consider

the good work I am doing! This beast keeps jogging on at a staid,

juridical trot: I must see and rouse him into a smart life-gallop.’ He

said something just so, and other strange speeches besides.”

Lucidor was doubly and trebly vexed: he liked the horse, as

corresponding to his own character, his own mode of life; it grieved him

to figure his good, sensible beast in the hands of a madcap. His plan,

too, was overturned,--his purpose of flying to a college friend with

whom he had lived in cheerful, cordial union, and in this crisis seeking

refuge beside him. His old confidence had been awakened, the intervening

miles were not counted: he had fancied himself already at the side of

his true-hearted and judicious friend, finding counsel and assuagement

from his words and looks. This prospect was now cut off, yet not

entirely, if he could venture with the fresh, pedestrian limbs which

still stood at his command to set forth towards the goal.

First of all, accordingly, he struck through the park; making for the

open country, and the road which was to lead him to his friend. Of his

direction he was not quite certain, when, looking to the left, his eye

fell upon the hermitage, which had hitherto been kept secret from

him,--a strange edifice, rising with grotesque joinery through bush and

tree; and here, to his extreme astonishment, he observed the good old

man, who for some days had been considered sick, standing in the gallery

under the Chinese roof, and looking blithely through the soft morning.

The friendliest salutation, the most pressing entreaties to come up,

Lucidor resisted with excuses and gestures of haste. Nothing but

sympathy with the good old man, who, hastening down with infirm step,

seemed every moment in danger of falling to the bottom, could induce him

to turn thither, and then suffer himself to be conducted up. With

surprise he entered the pretty little hall; it had only three windows,

turned towards the park,--a most graceful prospect: the other sides were

decorated, or, rather, covered, with hundreds of portraits, copper-plate

or painted, which were fixed in a certain order to the wall, and

separated by colored borders and interstices.

“I favor you, my friend, more than I do every one: this is the sanctuary

in which I peacefully spend my last days. Here I recover myself from all

the mistakes which society tempts me to commit: here my dietetic errors

are corrected, and my old being is again restored to equilibrium.”

Lucidor looked over the place; and, being well read in history, he

easily observed that an historical taste had presided in its

arrangement.

“Above, there, in the frieze,” said the old virtuoso, “you will find the

names of distinguished men in the primitive ages; then those of later

antiquity; yet still only their names, for how they looked would now be

difficult to discover. But here, in the main field, comes my own life

into play: here are the men whose names I used to hear mentioned in my

boyhood. For some fifty years or so the name of a distinguished man

continues in the remembrance of the people: then it vanishes, or becomes

fabulous. Though of German parentage, I was born in Holland; and, for

me, William of Orange, Stadtholder, and King of England, is the

patriarch of all common great men and heroes.

“Now, close by William, you observe Louis Fourteenth as the person

who”--How gladly would Lucidor have cut short the good old man, had it

but been permitted him, as it is to us the narrators: for the whole late

and latest history of the world seemed impending; as from the portraits

of Frederick the Great and his generals, towards which he was glancing,

was but too clearly to be gathered.

And though the kindly young man could not but respect his old friend’s

lively sympathy in these things, nor deny that some individual features

and views in this exhibitory discourse might be interesting; yet at

college he had heard the late and latest history of Europe already: and,

what a man has once heard, he fancies himself to know forever. Lucidor’s

thoughts were wandering far away: he heard not, he scarcely saw, and was

just on the point, in spite of all politeness, of flinging himself out,

and tumbling down the long, fatal stair, when a loud clapping of hands

was heard from below.

While Lucidor restrained his movement, the old man looked over through

the window; and a well-known voice resounded from beneath, “Come down,

for Heaven’s sake, out of your historic picture-gallery, old gentleman!

Conclude your fasts and humiliations, and help me to appease our young

friend, when he learns it. Lucidor’s horse I have ridden somewhat hard:

it has lost a shoe, and I was obliged to leave the beast behind me. What

will he say? He is too absurd, when one behaves absurdly.”

“Come up,” said the old man, and turned in to Lucidor. “Now what say

you?” Lucidor was silent, and the wild blade entered. The discussion of

the business lasted long: at length it was determined to despatch the

groom forthwith, that he might seek the horse, and take charge of it.

Leaving the old man, the two younkers hastened to the house; Lucidor,

not quite unwillingly, submitting to this arrangement. Come of it what

might, within these walls the sole wish of his heart was included. In

such desperate cases, we are, at any rate, cut off from the assistance

of our free will; and we feel ourselves relieved for a moment, when,

from any quarter, direction and constraint take hold of us. Yet, on

entering his chamber, he found himself in the strangest mood,--like a

man who, having just left an apartment of an inn, is forced to return to

it by the breaking of an axle.

The gay younker fell upon the travelling-bag, unpacking it all in due

order; especially selecting every article of holiday apparel, which,

though only on the travelling scale, was to be found there. He forced

Lucidor to put on fresh shoes and stockings: he dressed for him his

clustering brown locks, and decked him at all points with his best

skill. Then stepping back, and surveying our friend and his own

handiwork from head to foot, he exclaimed, “Now, then, my good fellow,

you do look like a man that has some pretensions to pretty damsels, and

serious enough, moreover, to spy about you for a bride! Wait one moment!

You shall see how I, too, can produce myself, when the hour strikes.

This knack I learned from your military officers, the girls are always

glancing at them: so I likewise have enrolled myself among a certain

soldiery; and now they look at me, too, and look again; and no soul of

them knows what to make of it. And so, from this looking and re-looking,

from this surprise and attention, a pretty enough result now and then

arises; which, though it were not lasting, is worth enjoying for the

moment.

“But come along, my friend, and do the like service for me. When you

have seen me case myself by piecemeal in my equipment, you will not say

that wit and invention have been denied me.” He now led his friend

through several long, spacious passages of the old castle. “I have quite

nestled myself here,” cried he. “Though I care not for hiding, I like to

be alone: you can do no good with other people.”

They were passing by the office-rooms just as a servant came out with a

patriarchal writing apparatus, black, massive, and complete: paper, too,

was not forgotten.

“I know what it is to be blotted here again,” cried the younker: “go thy

ways, and leave me the key. Take a look of the place, Lucidor: it will

amuse you till I am dressed. To a friend of justice, such a spot is not

odious, as to a tamer of horses.” And, with this, he pushed Lucidor into

the hall of judgment.

Lucidor felt himself directly in a well-known and friendly element: he

thought of the days when he, fixed down to business, had sat at such a

table, and, listening and writing, had trained himself to his art. Nor

did he fail to observe, that in this case an old, stately, domestic

chapel had, under the change of religious ideas, been converted to the

service of Themis. In the repositories he found some titles and acts

already familiar to him: in these very matters he had co-operated while

laboring in the capital. Opening a bundle of papers, there came into his

hands a rescript which he himself had dictated; another of which he had

been the originator. Handwriting and paper, signet and president’s

signature, every thing recalled to him that season of juridical effort,

of youthful hope. And here, when he looked round, and saw the

_Oberamtmann’s_ chair, appointed and intended for himself; so fair a

place, so dignified a circle of activity, which he was now like to cast

away and utterly lose,--all this oppressed him doubly and trebly, as the

form of Lucinda seemed to retire from him at the same time.

He turned to go out into the open air, but found himself a prisoner. His

gay friend, heedlessly or roguishly, had left the door locked. Lucidor,

however, did not long continue in this durance; for the other returned,

apologized for his oversight, and really called forth good-humor by his

singular appearance. A certain audacity of color and cut in his clothes

was softened by natural taste, as even to tattooed Indians we refuse not

a certain approbation. “To-day,” cried he, “the tedium of by-gone days

shall be made good to us. Worthy friends, merry friends, are come;

pretty girls, roguish and fond; and my father, to boot; and, wonder on

wonder! your father too. This will be a festival truly: they are all

assembled for breakfast in the parlor.”

With Lucidor, at this piece of information, it was as if he were looking

into deep fog: all the figures, known and unknown, which the words

announced to him, assumed a spectral aspect; yet his resolution, and the

consciousness of a pure heart, sustained him: and in a few seconds he

felt himself prepared for every thing. He followed his hastening friend

with a steady step, firmly determined to await the issue, be what it

might, and explain his own purposes, come what come might.

And yet, at the very threshold of the hall, he was struck with some

alarm. In a large half-circle, ranged round by the windows, he

immediately descried his father with the _Oberamtmann_, both splendidly

attired. The two sisters, Antoni, and others known and unknown, he

hurried over with a glance, which was threatening to grow dim. Half

wavering, he approached his father, who bade him welcome with the utmost

kindness, yet in a certain style of formality which scarcely invited any

trustful application. Standing before so many persons, he looked round

to find a place among them for a moment; he might have arranged himself

beside Lucinda: but Julia, contrary to the rigor of etiquette, made room

for him; so that he was forced to step to her side. Antoni continued by

Lucinda.

At this important moment Lucidor again felt as if he were a delegate;

and, steeled by his whole juridical science, he called up in his own

favor the fine maxim, That we should transact affairs delegated to us by

a stranger as if they were our own; why not our own, therefore, in the

same spirit? Well practised in official orations, he speedily ran over

what he had to say. But the company, ranged in a formal semi-circle,

seemed to outflank him. The purport of his speech he knew well: the

beginning of it he could not find. At this crisis he observed on a

table, in the corner, the large ink-glass, and several clerks sitting

round it: the _Oberamtmann_ made a movement as if to solicit attention

for a speech; Lucidor wished to anticipate him: and, at that very

moment, Julia pressed his hand. This threw him out of all

self-possession, convinced him that all was decided, all lost for him.

With the whole of these negotiations, these family alliances, with

social conventions, and rules of good manners, he had now nothing more

to do: he snatched his hand from Julia’s, and vanished so rapidly from

the room, that the company lost him unawares; and he out of doors could

not find himself again.

Shrinking from the light of day, which shone down upon him in its

highest splendor; avoiding the eyes of men; dreading search and

pursuit,--he hurried forwards, and reached the large garden-hall. Here

his knees were like to fail him: he rushed in, and threw himself,

utterly comfortless, upon the sofa beneath the mirror. Amid the polished

arrangements of society, to be caught in such unspeakable perplexity! It

dashed to and fro like waves about him and within him. His past

existence was struggling with his present: it was a frightful moment.

And so he lay for a time, with his face hid in the cushion on which last

night Lucinda’s arm had rested. Altogether sunk in his sorrow, he had

heard no footsteps approach: feeling some one touch him, he started up,

and perceived Lucinda standing by his side.

Fancying they had sent her to bring him back, had commissioned her to

lead him with fit, sisterly words into the assemblage to front his hated

doom, he exclaimed, “You they should not have sent, Lucinda; for it was

you that drove me away. I will not return. Give me, if you are capable

of any pity, procure me, convenience and means of flight. For, that you

yourself may testify how impossible it was to bring me back, listen to

the explanation of my conduct, which to you and all of them must seem

insane. Hear now the oath which I have sworn in my soul, and which I

incessantly repeat in words: with you only did I wish to live, with you

to enjoy, to employ my days, from youth to old age, in true, honorable

union. And let this be as firm and sure as aught ever sworn before the

altar,--this, which I now swear, now when I leave you, the most pitiable

of all men.”

He made a movement to glide past her, as she stood close before him; but

she caught him softly in her arms. “What is this?” exclaimed he.

“Lucidor!” cried she, “not pitiable as you think: you are mine, I am

yours; I hold you in my arms; delay not to throw your arms about me.

Your father has agreed to all: Antoni marries my sister.”

In astonishment he recoiled from her. “Can it be?” Lucinda smiled and

nodded: he drew back from her arms. “Let me view once more, at a

distance, what is to be mine so nearly, so inseparably!” He grasped her

hands: “Lucinda, are you mine?”

She answered, “Well, then, yes,” the sweetest tears in the truest eyes:

he clasped her to his breast, and threw his head behind hers; he hung

like a shipwrecked mariner on the cliffs of the coast; the ground still

shook under him. And now his enraptured eye, again opening, lighted on

the mirror. He saw her there in his arms, himself clasped in hers: he

looked down and again to the image. Such emotions accompany man

throughout his life. In the mirror, also, he beheld the landscape, which

last night had appeared to him so baleful and ominous, now lying fairer

and brighter than ever; and himself in such a posture, on such a

background! Abundant recompense for all sorrows!

“We are not alone,” said Lucinda; and scarcely had he recovered from his

rapture, when, all decked and garlanded, a company of girls and boys

came forward, carrying wreaths of flowers, and crowding the entrance of

the hall. “This is not the way,” cried Lucinda: “how prettily it was

arranged, and now it is all running into tumult!” A gay march sounded

from a distance, and the company were seen coming on by the large road

in stately procession. Lucidor hesitated to advance towards them: only

on her arm did he seem certain of his steps. She staid beside him;

expecting from moment to moment the solemn scene of meeting, of thanks

for pardon already given.

But by the capricious gods it was otherwise determined. The gay,

clanging sound of a postilion’s horn from the opposite side seemed to

throw the whole ceremony into rout. “Who can be coming?” cried Lucinda.

The thought of a strange presence was frightful to Lucidor, and the

carriage seemed entirely unknown to him. A double-seated, new,

spick-and-span new, travelling-chaise! It rolled up to the hall. A

well-dressed, handsome boy sprang down, opened the door; but no one

dismounted; the chaise was empty. The boy stepped into it: with a

dexterous touch or two he threw back the tilts; and there, in a

twinkling, stood the daintiest vehicle in readiness for the gayest

drive, before the eyes of the whole party, who were now advancing to the

spot. Antoni, outhastening the rest, led Julia to the carriage. “Try if

this machine,” said he, “will please you; if you can sit in it, and,

over the smoothest roads, roll through the world beside me: I will lead

you by no other but the smoothest; and, when a strait comes, we shall

know how to help ourselves. Over the mountains sumpters shall carry us,

and our coach also.”

“You are a dear creature!” cried Julia. The boy came forward, and, with

the quickness of a conjurer, exhibited all the conveniences, little

advantages, comforts, and celerities of the whole light edifice.

“On earth I have no thanks,” cried Julia; “but from this little moving

heaven, from this cloud, into which you raise me, I will heartily thank

you.” She had already bounded in, throwing him kind looks, and a kiss of

the hand. “For the present you come not hither; but there is another

whom I mean to take along with me in this proof-excursion,--he himself

has still a proof to undergo.” She called to Lucidor, who, just then

occupied in mute conversation with his father and father-in-law,

willingly took refuge in the light vehicle, feeling an irresistible

necessity to dissipate his thoughts in some way or other, though it were

but for a moment. He placed himself beside her: she directed the

postilion where he was to drive. Instantly they darted off, enveloped in

a cloud of dust, and vanished from the eyes of the amazed spectators.

Julia fixed herself in the corner as firmly and commodiously as she

could wish. “Now do you shift into that one, too, good brother; so that

we may look each other rightly in the face.”

_Lucidor._ You feel my confusion, my embarrassment. I am still as if in

a dream. Help me out of it.

_Julia._ Look at these gay peasants. How kindly they salute us! You have

never seen the Upper Hamlet yet, since you came hither. All good,

substantial people there, and all thoroughly devoted to me. No one of

them so rich that you cannot, by a time, do a little kind service to

him. This road, which we whirl along so smoothly, is my father’s

doing,--another of his benefits to the community.

_Lucidor._ I believe it, and willingly admit it; but what have these

external things to do with the perplexity of my internal feelings?

_Julia._ Patience a little! I will show you the riches of this world,

and the glory thereof. Here now we are at the top. Do but look how clear

the level country lies all round us, leaning against the mountains. All

these villages are much, much indebted to my father; to mother and

daughters too. The grounds of yon little hamlet are the border.

_Lucidor._ Surely you are in a very strange mood: you do not seem to be

saying what you meant to say.

_Julia._ But now look down to the left. How beautifully all this unfolds

itself! The church, with its high lindens; the _Amthaus_, with its

poplars, behind the village knoll. Here, too, are the garden and the

park.

The postilion drove faster.

_Julia._ The Hall up yonder you know. It looks almost as well here as

this scene does from it. Here, at the tree, we shall stop a moment. Now,

in this very spot our image is reflected in the large mirror: there they

see us full well, but we cannot see ourselves.--Go along, postilion!

There, some little while ago, two people, I believe, were reflected at a

shorter distance, and, if I am not exceedingly mistaken, to their great

mutual satisfaction.

Lucidor, in ill-humor, answered nothing. They went on for some time in

silence, driving very hard. “Here,” said Julia, “the bad road begins,--a

service left for you to do some day. Before we go lower, look down once

more. My mother’s box-tree rises with its royal summit over all the

rest. Thou wilt drive,” continued she, to the postilion, “down this

rough road: we shall take the footpath through the dale, and so be

sooner at the other side than thou.” In dismounting, she cried, “Well,

now, you will confess the Wandering Jew, this restless Antoni the

Traveller, can arrange his pilgrimages prettily enough for himself and

his companions. It is a very beautiful and commodious carriage.”

And with this she tripped away down hill. Lucidor followed her in deep

thought: she was sitting on a pleasant seat; it was Lucinda’s little

spot. She invited him to sit by her.

_Julia._ So now we are sitting here, and one is nothing to the other.

Thus it was destined to be. The little Quicksilver would not suit you.

Love it you could not: it was hateful to you.

Lucidor’s astonishment increased.

_Julia._ But Lucinda, indeed! She is the paragon of all perfections, and

the pretty sister was once for all cast out. I see it: the question

hovers on your lips, Who has told us all so accurately?

_Lucidor._ There is treachery in it!

_Julia._ Yes, truly! There has been a traitor at work in the matter.

_Lucidor._ Name him.

_Julia._ He is soon unmasked: You! You have the praiseworthy or

blameworthy custom of talking to yourself; and now, in the name of all,

I must confess that in turn we have overheard you.

_Lucidor_ (starting up). A sorry piece of hospitality, to lay snares for

a stranger in this way!

_Julia._ By no means. We thought not of watching you more than any

other. But you know your bed stands in the recess of the wall: on the

opposite side is another alcove, commonly employed for laying up

household articles. Hither, some days before, we had shifted our old

man’s bed, being anxious about him in his remote hermitage; and here,

the first night, you started some such passionate soliloquy, which he

next morning took his opportunity of rehearsing.

Lucidor had not the heart to interrupt her. He withdrew.

_Julia_ (rising and following him). What a service this discovery did us

all! For I will confess, if you were not positively disagreeable, the

situation which awaited me was not by any means to my mind. To be Frau

Oberamtmannin,--what a dreadful state! To have a brave, gallant husband,

who is to pass judgment on the people, and, for sheer judgment, cannot

get to justice; who can please neither high nor low, and, what is worst,

not even himself. I know what my poor mother suffered from the

incorruptibility, the inflexibility, of my father. At last, indeed, but

not till her death, a certain meekness took possession of him: he seemed

to suit himself to the world, to make a truce with those evils which

till then he had vainly striven to conquer.

_Lucidor_ (stopping short, extremely discontented with the incident,

vexed at this light mode of treating it). For the sport of an evening

this might pass, but to practise such a disgracing mystification day and

night against an unsuspicious stranger is not pardonable.

_Julia._ We are all equally deep in the crime, we all hearkened you; yet

I alone pay the penalty of eavesdropping.

_Lucidor._ All! So much the more unpardonable. And how could you look at

me, throughout the day, without blushing, whom at night you were so

contemptuously overreaching? But I see clearly with a glance that your

arrangements by day were planned to make mockery of me. A fine family!

And where was your father’s love of justice all this while?--And

Lucinda--

_Julia._ And Lucinda! What a tone was that! You meant to say, did not

you, how deeply it grieved your heart to think ill of Lucinda, to rank

her in a class with the rest of us?

_Lucidor._ I cannot understand Lucinda.

_Julia._ In other words, this pure, noble soul; this peacefully composed

nature, benevolence, goodness itself; this woman as she should

be,--unites with a light-minded company, with a freakish sister, a

spoiled brother, and certain mysterious persons. That is

incomprehensible!

_Lucidor._ Yes, indeed, it is incomprehensible!

_Julia._ Comprehend it, then! Lucinda, like the rest of us, had her

hands bound. Could you have seen her perplexity, how fain she would have

told you all, how often she was on the very eve of doing it, you would

now love her doubly and trebly, if, indeed, true love were not always

tenfold and hundred-fold of itself. I can assure you, moreover, that all

of us at length thought the joke too long.

_Lucidor._ Why did you not end it, then?

_Julia._ That, too, I must explain. No sooner had my father got

intelligence of your first monologue, and seen, as was easy to do, that

none of his children would object to such an exchange, than he

determined on visiting your father. The importance of the business gave

him much anxiety. A father alone can feel the respect which is due to a

father. “He must be informed of it in the first place,” said mine, “that

he may not in the end, when we are all agreed, be reduced to give a

forced and displeased consent. I know him well: I know how any thought,

any wish, any purpose, cleaves to him; and I have my own fears about the

issue. Julia, his maps and pictures, he has long viewed as one thing; he

has it in his eye to transport all this hither, when the young pair are

once settled here, and his old pupil cannot change her abode so readily:

on us he is to bestow his holidays; and who knows what other kind,

friendly things he has projected? He must forthwith be informed what a

trick Nature has played us, while yet nothing is declared, nothing is

determined.” And, with this, he exacted from us all the most solemn

promise that we should observe you, and, come what might, retain you

here till his return. How this return has been protracted; what art,

toil, and perseverance it has cost to gain your father’s consent,--he

himself will inform you. In short, the business is adjusted: Lucinda is

yours.

And thus had the two promenaders, sharply removing from their first

resting-place, then pausing by the way, then speaking, and walking

slowly through the green fields, at last reached the height, where

another well-levelled road received them. The carriage came whirling up:

Julia in the mean while turned her friend’s attention to a strange

sight. The whole machinery, of which her gay brother had bragged so

much, was now alive and in motion: the wheels were already heaving up

and down a multitude of people; the seesaws were flying; maypoles had

their climbers; and many a bold, artful swing and spring over the heads

of an innumerable multitude you might see ventured. The younker had set

all a-going, that so the guests, after dinner, might have a gay

spectacle awaiting them. “Thou wilt drive through the Nether Hamlet,”

cried Julia: “the people wish me well, and they shall see how well I am

off.”

The hamlet was empty: the young people had all run to the swings and

seesaws; old men and women, roused by the driver’s horn, appeared at

doors and windows; every one gave salutations and blessings, exclaiming,

“Oh, what a lovely pair!”

_Julia._ There, do you hear? We should have suited well enough together

after all: you may rue it yet.

_Lucidor._ But now, dear sister--

_Julia._ Ha! Now dear, when you are rid of me!

_Lucidor._ One single word. On you rests a heavy accusation: what did

you mean by that squeeze of the hand, when you knew and felt my dreadful

situation? A thing so radically wicked I have never met with in my life

before.

_Julia._ Thank Heaven, we are now quits; now all is pardoned: I had no

mind for _you_, that is certain; but that you had utterly and absolutely

no mind for me, this was a thing which no young woman could forgive: and

the squeeze of the hand, observe you, was for the rogue. I do confess it

was almost too roguish: and I forgive myself, because I forgive you; and

so let all be forgotten and forgiven! Here is my hand.

He took it: she cried, “Here we are again! In our park again; and so, in

a trice, we whirl through the wide world, and back too: we shall meet

again.”

They had reached the garden-hall; it seemed empty: the company, tired of

waiting, had gone out to walk. Antoni, however, and Lucinda, came forth.

Julia, stepping from the carriage, flew to her friend: she thanked him

in a cordial embrace, and restrained not the most joyful tears. The

brave man’s cheeks reddened, his features looked forth unfolded; his eye

glanced moist; and a fair, imposing youth shone through the veil.

And so both pairs moved off to join the company, with feelings which the

finest dream could not have given them.

---------------------------------------

CHAPTER LAST.

“Thus, my friends,” said Lenardo, after a short preamble, “if we survey

the most populous provinces and kingdoms of the firm earth, we observe

on all sides, that wherever an available soil appears, it is cultivated,

planted, shaped, beautified, and, in the same proportion, coveted, taken

into possession, fortified, and defended. Hereby we bring home to our

conceptions the high worth of property in land, and are obliged to

consider it as the first and best acquirement that can be allotted to

man. And if, on closer inspection, we find parental and filial love, the

union of countrymen and townsmen, and therefore the universal feeling of

patriotism, founded immediately on this same interest in the soil, we

cannot but regard that seizing and retaining of space, in the great or

the small scale, as a thing still more important and venerable. Yes,

Nature herself has so ordered it! A man born on the glebe comes by habit

to belong to it: the two grow together, and the fairest ties are spun

from their union. Who is there, then, that would spitefully disturb this

foundation-stone of all existence; that would blindly deny the worth and

dignity of such precious and peculiar gifts of Heaven?

“And yet we may assert, that if what man possesses is of great worth,

what he does and accomplishes must be of still greater. In a wide view

of things, therefore, we must look on property in land as one small part

of the possessions that have been given us. Of these the greatest and

the most precious part consists especially in what is movable, and in

what is gained by a moving life.

“Towards this quarter we younger men are peculiarly constrained to turn;

for, though we had inherited from our fathers the desire of abiding and

continuing, we find ourselves called by a thousand causes nowise to shut

our eyes against a wider out-look and survey. Let us hasten, then, to

the shore of the ocean, and convince ourselves what boundless spaces are

still lying open to activity, and confess, that, by the bare thought of

this, we are roused to new vigor.

“Yet, not to lose ourselves in these vast expanses, let us direct our

attention to the long and large surface of so many countries and

kingdoms combined together on the face of the earth. Here we behold

great tracts of land tenanted by Nomades, whose towns are movable, whose

life-supporting household goods can be transferred from place to place.

We see them in the middle of the deserts, on wide green pasturages,

lying, as it were, at anchor in their desired haven. Such movement, such

wandering, becomes a habit with them, a necessity: in the end they grow

to regard the surface of the world as if it were not bulwarked by

mountains, were not cut asunder by streams. Have we not seen the

North-east flow towards the South-west; one people driving another

before it, and lordship and property altogether changed?

“From over-populous countries, a similar calamity may again, in the

great circle of vicissitudes, occur more than once. What we have to

dread from foreigners, it may be difficult to say; but it is curious

enough, that, by our own over-population, we ourselves are thronging one

another in our own domains, and, without waiting to be driven, are

driving one another forth, passing sentence of banishment each against

his fellow.

“Here now is the place and season for giving scope in our bosoms,

without spleen or anger, to a love of movement; for unfettering that

impatient wish which excites us to change our abode. Yet whatever we may

purpose and intend, let it be accomplished, not from passion, or from

any other influence of force, but from a conviction corresponding to the

wisest judgment and deliberation.

“It has been said, and over again said, Where I am well is my country!

But this consolatory saw were better worded, Where I am useful is my

country! At home you may be useless, and the fact not instantly

observed: abroad in the world, the useless man is speedily convicted.

And now, if I say, Let each endeavor everywhere to be of use to himself

and others, this is not a precept or a counsel, but the utterance of

life itself.

“Cast a glance over the terrestrial ball, and for the present leave the

ocean out of sight: let not its hurrying fleets distract your thoughts,

but fix your eye on the firm earth, and be amazed to see how it is

overflowed with a swarming ant-tribe, jostling and crossing, and running

to and fro forever! So was it ordained of the Lord himself, when,

obstructing the Tower of Babel, he scattered the human race abroad into

all the world. Let us praise his name on this account, for the blessing

has extended to all generations.

“Observe now, and cheerfully, how the young, on every side, instantly

get into movement. As instruction is not offered them within doors, and

knocks not at their gates, they hasten forthwith to those countries and

cities whither the call of science and wisdom allures them. Here, no

sooner have they gained a rapid and scanty training, than they feel

themselves impelled to look round in the world, whether here and there

some profitable experience, applicable to their objects, may not be met

with and appropriated. Let these try their fortune! We turn from them to

those completed and distinguished men, those noble inquirers into

nature, who wittingly encounter every difficulty, every peril, that to

the world they may lay the world open, and, through the most impassable,

pave easy roads.

“But observe also, on beaten highways, how dust on dust, in long, cloudy

trains, mounts up, betokening the track of commodious, top-laden

carriages, in which the rich, the noble, and so many others, are whirled

along; whose varying purposes and dispositions Yorick has most daintily

explained to us.

“These the stout craftsman, on foot, may cheerily gaze after; for whom

his country has made it a duty to appropriate foreign skill, and not,

till this has been accomplished, to revisit his paternal hearth. In

still greater numbers do traffickers and dealers meet us on our road:

the little trader must not neglect, from time to time, to forsake his

shop, that he may visit fairs and markets, may approach the great

merchant, and increase his own small profit, by example and

participation of the boundless. But yet more restlessly do we descry

cruising on horseback, singly, on all high and by ways, that multitude

of persons whose business it is, in lawful wise, to make forcible

pretension to our purses. Samples of all sorts, prize catalogues,

invitations to purchase, pursue us into town-houses and country-houses,

and wherever we may seek refuge: diligently they assault us and surprise

us; themselves offering the opportunity, which it would have entered no

man’s mind to seek. And what shall I say of that people which, before

all others, arrogates to itself the blessing of perpetual wandering,

and, by its movable activity, contrives to overreach the resting and to

overstep the walking? Of them we must say neither ill nor good,--no

good, because our League stands on its guard against them; no ill,

because the wanderer, mindful of reciprocal advantage, is bound to treat

with friendliness whomsoever he may meet.

“But now, above all, we must mention with peculiar affection the whole

race of artists; for they, too, are thoroughly involved in this

universal movement. Does not the painter wander, with palette and easel,

from face to face? and are not his kindred laborers summoned now this

way, now that, because in all places there is something to be built and

to be fashioned? More briskly, however, paces the musician on his way:

for he peculiarly it is that for a new ear has provided new surprise,

for a fresh mind fresh astonishment. Players, too, though they now

despise the cart of Thespis, still rove about in little choirs; and

their moving world, wherever they appear, is speedily enough built up.

So likewise, individually, renouncing serious, profitable engagements,

these men delight to change place with place, according as rising

talents, combined with rising wants, furnish pretext and occasion. For

this success they commonly prepare themselves by leaving no important

stage in their native land untrodden.

“Nor let us forget to cast a glance over the professorial class: these,

too, you find in continual motion, occupying and forsaking one chair

after the other, to scatter richly abroad on every side the seeds of a

hasty culture. More assiduous, however, and of wider aim, are those

pious souls who disperse themselves through all quarters of the world to

bring salvation to their brethren. Others, on the contrary, are

pilgriming to seek salvation for themselves: they march in hosts to

consecrated, wonder-working places, there to ask and receive what was

denied their souls at home.

“And if all these sorts of men surprise us less by their wandering, as,

for most part, without wandering, the business of their life were

impossible, of those, again, who dedicate their diligence to the soil,

we should certainly expect that they, at least, were fixed. By no means!

Even without possession, occupation is conceivable; and we behold the

eager farmer forsaking the ground which for years had yielded him profit

and enjoyment: impatiently he searches after similar or greater profit,

be it far or near. Nay, the owner himself will abandon his new-grubbed

clearage so soon as, by his cultivation, he has rendered it commodious

for a less enterprising husbandman: once more he presses into the

wilderness, again makes space for himself in the forests,--in recompense

of that first toiling a double and treble space; on which also, it may

be, he thinks not to continue.

“There we shall leave him, bickering with bears and other monsters, and

turn back into the polished world, where we find the state of things no

whit more stationary. Do but view any great and regulated kingdom: the

ablest man is also the man who moves the oftenest; at the beck of his

prince, at the order of his minister, the Serviceable is transferred

from place to place. To him also our precept will apply, Everywhere

endeavor to be useful, everywhere you are at home. Yet if we observe

important statesmen leaving, though reluctantly, their high stations, we

have reason to deplore their fate; for we can neither recognize them as

emigrators, nor as migrators,--not as emigrators, because they forego a

covetable situation without any prospect of a better even seeming to

open; not as migrators, because to be useful in other places is a

fortune seldom granted them.

“For the soldier, again, a life of peculiar wandering is appointed: even

in peace, now this, now that, post is intrusted to him; to fight, at

hand or afar off, for his native country, he must keep himself

perpetually in motion, or readiness to move; and not for immediate

defence alone, but also to fulfil the remote purposes of nations and

rulers, he turns his steps towards all quarters of the world; and to few

of his craft is it given to find any resting-place. And as in the

soldier courage is his first and highest quality, so this must always be

considered as united with fidelity; and, accordingly, we find certain

nations famous for trustworthiness, called forth from their home, and

serving spiritual or temporal regents as body-guards.

“Another class of persons indispensable to governments, and also of

extreme mobility, we see in those negotiators who, despatched from court

to court, beleaguer princes and ministers, and overnet the whole

inhabited world with their invisible threads. Of these men, also, no one

is certain of his place for a moment. In peace, the ablest of them are

sent from country to country; in war, they march behind the army when

victorious, prepare the way for it when fugitive: and thus are they

appointed still to be changing place for place; on which account,

indeed, they at all times carry with them a stock of farewell cards.

“If hitherto at every step we have contrived to do ourselves some honor,

declaring, as we have done, the most distinguished portion of active men

to be our mates and fellows in destiny, there now remains for you, my

beloved friends, by way of termination, a glory higher than all the

rest, seeing you find yourselves united in brotherhood with princes,

kings, and emperors. Think first, with blessings and reverence, of the

imperial wanderer Hadrian, who on foot, at the head of his army, paced

out the circle of the world which was subject to him, and thus in very

deed took possession of it. Think then with horror of the Conqueror,

that armed wanderer, against whom no resistance availed, no wall or

bulwark could shelter armed nations. In fine, accompany with honest

sympathy those hapless exiled princes who, descending from the summit of

the height, cannot even be received into the modest guild of active

wanderers.

“And now, while we call forth and illustrate all this to one another, no

narrow despondency, no passionate perversion, can rule over us. The time

is past when people rushed forth at random into the wide world: by the

labors of scientific travellers, describing wisely and copying like

artists, we have become sufficiently acquainted with the earth to know

moderately well what is to be looked for everywhere.

“Yet, for obtaining perfect information, an individual will not suffice.

Our society is founded on the principle that each in his degree, for his

purposes, be thoroughly informed. Has any one of us some country in his

eye, towards which his wishes are tending, we endeavor to make clear to

him, in special detail, what was hovering before his imagination as a

whole: to afford each other a survey of the inhabited and inhabitable

world is a most pleasant and most profitable kind of conversation.

“Under this aspect we can look upon ourselves as members of a Union

belonging to the world. Simple and grand is the thought, easy is its

execution by understanding and strength. Unity is all-powerful; no

division, therefore, no contention, among us! Let a man learn, we say,

to figure himself as without permanent external relation: let him seek

consistency and sequence, not in circumstances, but in himself; there

will he find it; there let him cherish and nourish it. He who devotes

himself to the most needful will, in all cases, advance to his purpose

with greatest certainty: others, again, aiming at the higher, the more

delicate, require greater prudence even, in the choice of their path.

But let a man be attempting or treating what he will, he is not, as an

individual, sufficient for himself; and, to an honest mind, society

remains the highest want. All serviceable persons ought to be related

with each other; as the building proprietor looks out for an architect,

and the architect for masons and carpenters.

“How and on what principle this Union of ours has been fixed and founded

is known to all. There is no man among us who at any moment could not to

proper purpose employ his faculty of action, who is not assured that in

all places whither chance, inclination, or even passion may conduct him,

he will be received, employed, assisted,--nay, in adverse accidents, as

far as possible, refitted and indemnified.

“Two duties we have most rigorously undertaken,--first, to honor every

species of religious worship; for all of them are comprehended more or

less directly in the Creed: secondly, in like manner to respect all

forms of government, and, since every one of them induces and promotes a

calculated activity, to labor according to the wish and will of

constituted authorities, in whatever place it may be our lot to sojourn,

and for whatever time. Finally, we reckon it our duty, without pedantry

or rigor, to practise and forward decorum of manners and morals, as

required by that reverence for ourselves which arises from the three

reverences, whereto we universally profess our adherence; having all had

the joy and good fortune, some of us from youth upwards, to be initiated

likewise in the higher general wisdom taught in certain cases by those

venerable men. All this, in the solemn hour of parting, we have thought

good once more to recount, to unfold, to hear and acknowledge, as also

to seal with a trustful farewell.

“Keep not standing, fixed and rooted,

Briskly venture, briskly roam:

Head and hand, where’er thou foot it,

And stout heart, are still at home.

In each land the sun does visit:

We are gay whate’er betide.

To give space for wand’ring is it

That the world was made so wide.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE RECREATIONS

OF

THE GERMAN EMIGRANTS.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE RECREATIONS OF THE GERMAN EMIGRANTS.

---------------------------------------

At that unhappy period, so fruitful in disasters to Germany, to Europe,

and, indeed, to the whole world, when the French army overran the

Continent, a family of distinction was compelled to forsake their

property on the first invasion, and to flee across the Rhine. They

sought to escape those calamities to which persons of noble birth were

inevitably exposed, in whom it was considered criminal to be descended

from an honorable line of ancestors, and to inherit those privileges and

possessions which the virtues or the valor of their forefathers had

bequeathed to them.

The Baroness of C----, a widow lady of middle age, distinguished for

every domestic virtue which could promote the comfort or independence of

her family, evinced, upon the occasion of this unforeseen calamity, the

most noble spirit of activity and resolute determination. Brought up

amidst a wide circle of acquaintances, and, to some extent, already

experienced in the reverses of life, she was considered perfect in her

private and domestic character, and was remarkable for the real delight

she ever felt in the active employment of her faculties. Indeed, the

great purpose of her life seemed to consist in rendering services to

others; and it is easy to suppose that her numerous friends never failed

to provide her with employment. She was summoned, at the time we speak

of, to take the lead of a little band of emigrants. Even for this duty

she was prepared; and the same solicitous though cheerful temper, which

had invariably distinguished her at home, did not forsake her in this

hour of general terror and distress. But cheerfulness was not an entire

stranger to our band of fugitives: many an unexpected incident and

strange event afforded occasion for the indulgence of mirth and

laughter, of which their easily excited minds readily took advantage.

The very flight itself was a circumstance well calculated to call out

each individual’s peculiar character in a remarkable manner. The mind of

one, for instance, was distracted by vain fear and terror; another fell

a prey to idle apprehensions; and the extravagances and deficiencies,

the weakness, irresolution, or impetuosity, which were displayed on all

sides, produced so many instances of vexation and bad temper, that the

real trouble of the whole party afforded more mirth than an actual

pleasure trip could possibly have occasioned.

As we may sometimes preserve our composure, even during the performance

of a farce, without smiling at the most positive drolleries; though we

find it impossible to restrain our laughter when any thing absurd occurs

in the representation of a tragedy,--so in this real world, the

generality of accidents of a serious nature are accompanied by

circumstances either ridiculous at the moment, or infallibly productive

of subsequent mirth.

We must observe that the baroness’s eldest daughter, Louisa, a cheerful,

lively, and, at the time of their prosperity, an imperious young lady,

had to endure an unusual degree of suffering. She is said to have been

quite overwhelmed with terror at the first alarm, and, in her

distraction and absence of mind, to have packed together the most

useless things with the greatest seriousness, and actually to have made

an offer of marriage to one of the old servants of the establishment.

She defended herself for this step with much obstinacy, and would not

allow her intended to be made a subject of ridicule. In her opinion she

suffered enough from her daily fear of the allied army, and from the

apprehension that her wished-for marriage might be delayed, or even

frustrated, by a general engagement.

Her elder brother, Frederick, who was a youth of decisive character,

executed his mother’s orders with precision and exactitude, accompanied

the procession on horseback, and discharged at times the various duties

of courier, conductor, and guide. The tutor of the baroness’s younger

son, who was a well-educated young man, accompanied her in her carriage;

whilst uncle Charles, and an elderly clergyman, who had long been an

indispensable friend of the family, followed in another vehicle, which

was also occupied by two female relations, one young, the other somewhat

advanced in years. The servants followed in an open carriage; and the

procession was closed by a heavily packed wagon, which occasionally

loitered behind.

The whole party, as may easily be supposed, had abandoned their

dwellings with great reluctance; but uncle Charles had forsaken his

residence on this side of the Rhine even more unwillingly than the

others, not that he had left his mistress behind, as one might, perhaps,

have conjectured from his youth, his figure, and the warmth of his

nature: he had rather been seduced by the brilliant phantom, which,

under the denomination of freedom, had secured so many adherents, first

in secret, then in public, and which, notwithstanding that she was to

some a harsh mistress, was all the more devotedly honored by the others.

Just as lovers are generally blinded by their passion, it did happen in

the case of uncle Charles. They pant for the possession of a single

happiness, and fancy that for this they can endure the privation of

every other blessing. Position, fortune, and all advantages, vanish into

nothing, compared with the one benefit which is to supply their place.

Parents, relatives, and friends are now looked upon as strangers. One

desire fills and absorbs their whole being, to which every thing else is

to give way.

Uncle Charles abandoned himself to the intensity of his passion, and did

not conceal it in his conversation. He thought he might express his

conviction the more freely, because he was of noble birth, and, although

the second son, yet the presumptive heir to a noble fortune. Even this

fortune, which was to be his future inheritance, was at present in the

enemy’s hands, by whom it had been shamefully wasted. But, in spite of

all this, Charles could not hate a nation which promised such advantages

to the world at large, and whose principles he approved, according to

his own admission, and the evidence of some of his associates. He

constantly disturbed the peace of the little community (seldom as they

enjoyed such a blessing) by an indiscriminate praise of every thing,

good or bad, which happened amongst the French, and by his noisy delight

at their success. By this means he irritated his companions, who felt

their own grievances doubly aggravated by the malicious triumphs of

their friend and relation.

Frederick had already been engaged in frequent disputes with him, and

latterly they had ceased to hold communication with each other. But the

baroness, by her prudent management, had secured his moderation, at

least for a time. Louisa gave him the greatest trouble, for she often

used the most unfair methods to cast a slur upon his character and

judgment. The tutor silently pronounced him right, the clergyman

silently pronounced him wrong: and the female attendants, who were

charmed with his figure and with his liberality, heard him with delight;

because, whilst they listened to his lectures, they could honorably fix

on him those loving eyes, which, until that time, had ever been modestly

bent upon the ground.

Their daily necessities, the obstacles of the journey, and their

disagreeable quarters, generally led the whole company to a

consideration of their immediate interests; and the great number of

French and German fugitives whom they constantly met, and whose conduct

and fortunes were various, often made them consider how much occasion

existed at such times for the practice of every virtue, but particularly

of liberality and forbearance.

The baroness, on one occasion, observed aloud, that nothing could show

more clearly the deficiencies of men in these virtues than the

opportunity afforded for their exercise, by occasions of general

confusion and distress. Our whole constitution, she maintained,

resembled a ship chartered in a season of tempest, to convey a countless

crowd of men, old and young, healthy and infirm, across a stormy sea;

but only in the hour of shipwreck could the capabilities of the crew be

displayed,--an emergency when even the good swimmer often perished.

Fugitives, for the most part, carry their faults and ridiculous

peculiarities along with them; and we wonder at this circumstance. But

as the English traveller never leaves his teakettle behind in any

quarter of the globe; so are the generality of mankind invariably

accompanied by their stock of proud pretensions, vanity, intolerance,

impatience, obstinacy, prejudices, and envy. Thus, the thoughtless

enjoyed this flight as they would have enjoyed a party of pleasure; and

the discontented required, even now in their moments of abject poverty,

that their every want should be supplied. How rare is the display of

that pure virtue which incites us to live and sacrifice ourselves for

others!

In the mean time, whilst numerous acquaintances were formed, which gave

occasion to reflections of this nature, the season of winter was brought

to a close. Fortune once more smiled on the German arms, the French were

again driven across the Rhine, Frankfort was relieved, and Mainz was

invested.

Trusting to the farther advance of our victorious troops, and anxious to

take possession of a part of their recovered property, the family we

speak of set out for an estate situated in one of the most beautiful

parts of the country, on the right bank of the Rhine. We can ill

describe the rapture with which they once more beheld the silver stream

flowing beneath their windows, the joy with which they took possession

of every part of their house, and hailed the sight of their well-known

furniture, their old family pictures, and of every trifle they had long

given up as totally lost; and they indulged the fondest anticipations of

finding every thing flourishing as heretofore on their side of the

Rhine.

The arrival of the baroness had scarcely been announced in the village,

when all her former acquaintances, friends, and dependants hastened to

welcome her, to recount the various vicissitudes of the last few months,

and, in more than one instance, to implore her advice and assistance.

In the midst of these interviews, she was most agreeably surprised by a

visit from the Privy Councillor S. and his family, a man who, from his

earliest youth, had followed business as a pursuit of pleasure, and who

had both merited and acquired the confidence of his sovereign. His

principles were firm, and he indulged his own peculiar notions upon many

subjects. He was precise, both in his conversation and conduct, and

required others to be so too. A dignified deportment was, in his

opinion, the highest virtue a man could possess.

His sovereign, his country, and himself had suffered much from the

invasion of the French. He had experienced the despotic character of

that nation who were perpetually boasting of justice, and had felt the

tyranny of men who always had the cry of freedom on their lips. We had

observed, however, the general consistency of character which prevailed,

and had marked how many persons witnessed, with feelings of angry

disappointment, the substitution of mere words for practice, and of

empty appearance for reality. The consequences to be expected from an

unfortunate campaign did not escape his acute penetration any more than

the results of the general maxims and opinions we have quoted, though it

must be admitted his views upon all subjects were neither cheerful nor

dispassionate.

His wife, who had been an early friend of the baroness, after the

experience of so much adversity found a perfect paradise in the arms of

her former companion. They had grown up together, had been educated

together, and had always shared each other’s confidence. The early

inclinations of their youth, their more important matrimonial interests,

their joys and cares and domestic anxieties, had always been

communicated, either personally or by correspondence, as they had for

years maintained an uninterrupted intimacy with each other; but this was

at length broken by the general troubles of the eventful times. Their

present intercourse was, for this reason, the more affectionate, and

their interviews the more frequent; and the baroness observed with

pleasure, that the intimacy of Louisa with the daughters of her friend

was daily increasing.

Unfortunately the complete enjoyment of that delightful part of the

country was often disturbed by the roar of cannon, which was heard in

the distance, sometimes loudly and sometimes indistinctly, according to

the point of the wind. Moreover, it was impossible to avoid

conversations upon political subjects, which were introduced by the

perpetual rumors of the day, and which generally disturbed the temporary

tranquillity of society; as the various ideas and opinions of all

parties were usually propounded without reserve.

And as intemperate men seldom refrain from wine or injurious food on

account of their experience of the evil consequences which such

enjoyments occasion; so, in this instance, the several members of the

society we speak of, in place of imposing restraint upon their

conversation, abandoned themselves to the irresistible impulse of vexing

each other, and thus eventually opened a channel of most disagreeable

reflections.

We can readily suppose that the privy councillor adopted the opinions of

those who advocated the old _régime_, and that Charles took the opposite

side, in expectation that the approaching changes would heal and

re-animate the old, shattered constitution of the country.

The conversation was carried on at first with some degree of moderation,

particularly as the baroness sought, by her well-timed and graceful

interruptions, to maintain the balance equal between both parties; but

when the important crisis of the conversation arrived, and the

investment of Mainz was about to change to an actual siege, and the

fears of all increased for that beautiful city and its abandoned

inhabitants, both sides asserted their opinions with unrestrained

violence.

The members of the clubs who had remained in the town were particularly

discussed; and each expressed his hope of their liberation or

punishment, according as he approved or condemned their conduct.

Amongst the latter class was the privy councillor, whose observations

were especially displeasing to Charles; as he assailed the sound

judgment of those people, and charged them with a thorough ignorance of

the world and of themselves.

“What blind dolts they must be!” he exclaimed one afternoon when the

discussion became warm, “to think that a great nation, employed in an

effort to suppress its own internal commotions, and which, in sober

moments, has no other object than its own prosperity, can look down upon

them with any sort of sympathy. Used as temporary tools, they will at

last be thrown away or utterly neglected. How grossly they err in

thinking that they will ever be admitted into the ranks of the French

nation!

“Nothing seems more ridiculous to the strong and powerful than weakness

and inefficiency setting up its pretensions to equality, wrapped in the

obscurity of its own fancies, and in the ignorance of itself, its

powers, and its qualities. And can you suppose that the great nation,

with that good fortune with which it has been hitherto favored, will be

less haughty and overbearing than any other royal conqueror?

“Many a person, who now struts about in his municipal robes and gaudy

attire, will heartily curse the masquerade when, after having helped to

oppress his countrymen, by a new and disadvantageous change of things he

finds himself at last, in his new character, despised by those in whom

he wholly confided. Indeed, it is my firm opinion, that upon the

surrender of the town, which must soon take place, those people will be

abandoned or given up to us. I hope they will then receive their reward

in that punishment they so richly deserve, according to my opinion,

which is as unprejudiced as possible.”

“Unprejudiced!” exclaimed Charles with vehemence: “I beg I may never

hear that word again. How can we so unequivocally condemn these men?

Have they not actually devoted their whole lives to the old pursuit of

serving the more favored classes of mankind? Have they not occupied the

few habitable rooms of the old mansion, and toiled diligently therein?

or, rather, have they not felt the inconvenience of the deserted part of

your state palace, by the obligation of living there in a state of

misery and oppression? Uncorrupted by frivolous pursuits, they do not

consider their own occupation to be alone noble; but in silence they

deplore the prejudice, the irregularity, the indolence and ignorance

upon which your statesmen build their foolish claims to reverence, and

in silence they pray for a more equal division of labor and enjoyment.

And who can deny that their ranks contain at least some such men of

intelligence and virtue, who, if they cannot now realize universal good,

can fortunately aid in modifying evil and in preparing for a happy

future? and, if there be such noble beings amongst them, should we not

deplore the approach of that evil hour which must destroy, perhaps

forever, their fondest anticipations?”

The privy councillor, upon this, sneered with some degree of bitterness

at certain youths who were in the habit of idealizing upon practical

subjects; whilst Charles was equally severe upon men whose thoughts were

merely formed upon antiquated precedents, and who never adopted any but

compulsory reforms.

By reciprocal contradictions of this nature, the dispute became

gradually more violent; and every topic was introduced which has for so

many years tended to dismember society. In vain did the baroness

endeavor to establish a truce, if not to make peace, between the

contending parties; and the wife of the privy councillor, who from her

estimable qualities had acquired some influence over Charles’s

disposition, interposed also to no effect, more particularly as her

husband continued to launch his poisoned shafts against youth and

inexperience, and enlarged upon the especial aptitude of children to

play with fire, a dangerous element which they were wholly unable to

control.

Charles, forgetting prudence in his anger, now declared openly that he

wished every success to the French arms, and called upon all his

countrymen to aid in putting an end to their general slavery; expressing

his conviction that their so-called enemies would protect every noble

German who should join them, would regard them and treat them as their

own countrymen, and crown them with honors, fortune, and rewards, in

place of sacrificing or leaving them in misery.

But the councillor maintained it was ridiculous to suppose that the

French would bestow a thought upon them, whether they capitulated or

not; that they would probably fall into the hands of the allies, by whom

he hoped they would all be hanged.

Charles was provoked by this speech, and expressed his wish that the

guillotine might find a rich harvest in Germany, and that no guilty head

might escape. He added some cutting observations which were aimed at the

councillor personally, and were in every sense offensive.

“I shall take leave of a society,” interrupted the latter, “in which

every thing is now slighted which once seemed worthy of respect. I

lament that I should be for the second time expelled, and now by a

fellow-countryman; but I am well aware that less pity may be expected

from this new foe than from the French themselves: and I find here a

confirmation of the old proverb, that it is better to fall into the

hands of the Turks than of renegades.”

So saying, he rose, and left the apartment. He was followed by his wife,

and a general silence ensued. The baroness expressed her displeasure in

a few words of strong import. Charles walked up and down the room. The

councillor’s wife returned in tears, and stated that her husband had

given directions for leaving, and had actually ordered the carriage. The

baroness went to pacify him; whilst the young ladies wept, and kissed

each other, distressed beyond measure that they were compelled so

suddenly and so unexpectedly to separate. The baroness returned without

succeeding in her wishes. Gradually all those troubles approached which

it is ever the lot of strangers to encounter. The sad moments of

separation and departure were bitter beyond expression. Hope vanished

with the appearance of the post-horses, and the general sorrow was

redoubled.

The carriage drove off. The baroness followed it with her eyes full of

tears. She left the window, and sat down to her embroidery-frame. The

silence, and even despair, was universal. Charles showed his sorrow by

sitting in a corner, and intently turning over the leaves of a book,

directing at intervals a melancholy look towards his aunt. At length he

rose, and took his hat, as if about to depart, but turned round on

reaching the door, and approaching his aunt he exclaimed, with a

countenance truly noble, “I have offended you, my dear aunt, I have

distressed you; but pardon my thoughtlessness: I acknowledge my fault,

and am deeply sensible of its sad consequences.”

“I forgive you,” replied the baroness: “I entertain no ill-feeling

towards you,--you are a good and noble being, but you can never repair

the injury you have done. Your error has deprived me of a friend to

whom, after a long separation, I had been restored by the accident of

our joint misfortunes, and in whose society I have forgotten much of the

misery which has pursued and threatens us. She herself, driven from her

home under most painful circumstances, and long a fugitive, after a

short repose in the society of old and beloved friends, in this

delightful spot and comfortable dwelling, is again compelled to wander

forth; and we lose the company of her husband, who, in spite of some

peculiarities, is a man of noble integrity, possessing an inexhaustible

knowledge of society and of the world, of facts and experiences which he

is ever ready to communicate with the most cheerful and delightful

willingness. Of all these enjoyments we have been deprived by your

fault, and how can you restore what we have lost?”

_Charles._ Spare me, my dear aunt. I feel deeply the weight of my fault:

cease to explain to me its evident consequences.

_Baroness._ Rather contemplate them as closely as possible. Talk not of

sparing you: only inquire how your mind may be corrected. It is not the

first time you have thus erred, nor will it be the last. Ye inexplicable

men! Cannot even misery, which brings you together under one roof, and

confines you in one narrow dwelling, induce you to practise forbearance

towards each other? Do you need any additional calamities besides those

which are perpetually bursting upon you? Consider your condition, and

act sensibly and justly towards those who, in truth, would deprive you

of nothing. Restrain your tempers from working and fermenting blindly,

like some storm or other natural phenomenon which disturbs the world.

Charles made no reply. The tutor advanced from the window, where he had

been standing, towards the baroness, and said his pupil would improve;

that this event would act as a warning, that he should test his progress

daily, that he would remember the distress the baroness had endured, and

would afford convincing evidence of the self-restraint he could

practice.

_Baroness._ How easily men deceive themselves, especially in this

particular. Authority is so delightful a word, and it sounds so noble to

promise to control ourselves. Men speak of it with pleasure, and would

persuade us that they can seriously practise the virtue. I wish I had

ever known a man capable of subduing himself in the smallest particular.

In indifferent matters they affect resolution, as if the loss occasioned

actual suffering; whilst their real desires are considered as supremely

essential, unavoidable, and indispensable. I have never known a man

capable of enduring the smallest privation.

_Tutor._ You are seldom unjust, and I have never seen you so overpowered

by anger and disappointment as at present.

_Baroness._ Well, I need not be ashamed of my anger. When I think of my

friend, who is now pursuing her journey in discomfort, weeping,

probably, at the recollection of our inhospitality, my heart burns with

indignation.

_Tutor._ In your greatest trouble, I have never seen you so agitated and

exasperated as now.

_Baroness._ A small evil, which follows closely upon a greater, can fill

the cup; though, in truth, it is no small evil to lose a friend.

_Tutor._ Be comforted, and rely upon our improvement, and that we will

do all in our power to content you.

_Baroness._ No: I shall rely upon none of you. But, for the future, I

will demand obedience from all. I will command in my own house.

“Command, certainly!” exclaimed Charles; “and you shall not have to

complain of our disobedience.”

“My severity will scarcely be very harsh,” rejoined the baroness, with a

smile, as she recovered herself: “I am not fond of commanding,

particularly democrats; but I will give you some advice, and make one

request.”

_Tutor._ Both shall we consider as laws to be strictly observed.

_Baroness._ It would be ridiculous, if I thought to impair the interest

you all take in the great events of the world,--events, the victims of

which we ourselves have become. I cannot change the opinions which exist

and are established in the mind of each of you, according to his

peculiar disposition; and it would be no less harsh than foolish to

require of you to suppress them. But I can demand this, at least, from

the circle in which I live, that those of similar sentiments shall

associate peaceably together, and converse in harmony. In your private

apartments, during your walks, and wherever else you meet, you may

communicate together at will, support your respective opinions, and

enjoy the gratification of an ardent conviction. But, my dear friends,

let us not forget how much we were accustomed to sacrifice of our own

individual opinions, for the sake of general harmony, long before these

new topics became the fashion; and, as long as the world lasts, we must

all, for the general benefit, practise some outward self-control. It is

not, therefore, for the sake of virtue, but in the name of common

politeness, that I implore you now to concede to me a favor which I

think I may safely say you have always granted to the veriest stranger.

It seems to me strange, continued the baroness, that we should have so

far forgotten ourselves. What has become of our politeness? It used to

be the custom in society to avoid topics disagreeable to others.

Protestants, in the company of Catholics, never asserted that church

ceremonies were ridiculous; and the most bigoted Catholic never

maintained, before a Protestant, that the old religion afforded the only

chance of salvation. In the presence of a mother who had lost her son,

no one displayed the deep delight he took in his children; and an

inappropriate word occasioned general embarrassment. It seemed the duty

of each to repair the accidental evil, but now the very reverse of all

this seems to be the rule. We appear to seek the opportunity of

introducing subjects calculated to give pain. Oh, my dear friends, let

us try and restore the old system! We have much to endure already; and

who knows how soon the smoke of the day, or the flames of the night, may

announce the destruction of our dwellings and of our most valued

possessions? Let us, at least, forbear to announce this intelligence

with triumph: let us cease, by our own bitter observations, to impress

our souls with calamities which it is painful enough to endure in

silence.

When your father died, was it your habit to renew my grief upon every

opportunity by a reference to the sad subject? Did you not rather avoid

all improper allusion to his memory, and seek by your love, your silent

sympathy, and your incessant attentions, to soften my sorrow and relieve

my pain? Should not we now practise the same kind forbearance, which

often brings more consolation than the offices of active friendship,

more particularly at this time, when ours is not the grief of an

individual in the midst of a happy multitude, where sorrow disappears

amid the general content, but the grief of thousands, where but few

indeed are capable of experiencing an accidental or artificial

consolation?

_Charles._ My dear aunt, you have sufficiently humiliated us: may we

take your hand in token of reconciliation?

_Baroness._ Here it is, on condition that you will obey its guidance. We

proclaim a general amnesty, which it is now barely possible to resolve

upon with sufficient speed.

The young ladies, who had all been dissolved in tears since the event we

have related, now made their appearance, but could not be persuaded to

be reconciled to Charles.

“You are welcome, children,” said the baroness, addressing them. “We

have just had a serious conversation, which, I trust, will establish

peace and harmony amongst us: perhaps it was never more important that

we should be friends, and enjoy even one brief portion of the day. Let

us make this resolution, to banish from our conversation all reference

to the mere events of the time. How long have we been deprived of all

instruction and entertaining intercourse! How long it seems, dear

Charles, since you have amused us with accounts of distant lands, with

whose productions, inhabitants, manners, and customs, you are so well

acquainted! And you,” continued the baroness, addressing the tutor, “you

have not lately instructed us in history, ancient or modern, in the

comparison of centuries or of remarkable men. And you, young ladies!

where are the pretty poems you used to bring forth from their

hiding-places for the delight of your friends? what has become of all

your free philosophic observations? Have you no more ambition to

surprise us with some wonderful mineral specimen, some unknown plant, or

remarkable insect, brought home from your walks, and affording occasion

for pleasing speculations on the mysterious connection of all the

productions of nature? Let us restore all those charming amusements by

an agreement, a resolution, a rule, to be useful, instructive, and,

above all things, companionable, towards each other; for all these

advantages we can enjoy, even in the most extreme adversity. You

promise, children.”

They promised eagerly. “And now I dismiss you,” added the baroness: “the

evening is fine, amuse yourselves as you please; and at supper-time let

us enjoy a friendly communion together, after so long an interruption.”

The company separated. Louisa alone remained with her mother. She could

not so easily forget the misfortune of losing her companion, and allowed

Charles, whom she had invited to accompany her upon a walk, to set out

alone. For some time the baroness and her daughter remained together,

when the clergyman entered, after a long absence, entirely ignorant of

what had, in the mean time, happened. Laying by his hat and stick, he

took a seat, and was about to narrate something, when Louisa, pretending

to continue a conversation with her mother, cut short his intention with

the following observations:--

“Some of our company will, I think, find the arrangement we have come to

rather disagreeable. When we lived in the country, it is true, we were

sometimes at a loss for conversation; for it did not happen so often, as

in town, that a girl could be slandered, or a young man traduced: but

still we had an alternative in describing the follies of two great

nations, in finding the Germans as absurd as the French, and in

representing first one, and then the other, as Jacobins and Radicals.

But, if these topics are forbidden, some of our society will be rendered

stupid.”

“Is this attack aimed at me, young lady?” asked the old clergyman with a

smile. “You know how ready I am to be sacrificed for the benefit of the

company. For though upon all occasions you do credit to your

instructors, and every one finds your society both amiable and

delightful, yet there is a certain little malicious spirit within you,

which, notwithstanding all your efforts, you cannot entirely subdue, and

which prompts you to take your revenge at my expense. Tell me, gracious

lady,” he continued, turning towards the baroness, “what has occurred

during my absence, and what topics have been excluded from our society?”

The baroness informed him of all that had taken place. He listened

attentively, and then observed that “this regulation would probably

enable many persons to entertain the company better than others.”

“We shall be able to endure it,” said Louisa.

“Such an arrangement,” he added, “will not be grievous to those who have

been accustomed to rely upon their own resources: on the contrary, they

will find it pleasant; since they can amuse the company with such

pursuits as they have followed in private. And do not be offended, young

lady, if I attribute to society the very existence of all newsmongers,

spies, and slanderers. For my part, I never see persons so lively and so

animated, either at a learned meeting or at a public lecture convened

for general instruction, as in a society where some piece of scandal is

introduced which reflects on the character of a neighbor. Ask yourself,

or ask others, what invests a piece of news with its greatest charm? Not

its importance, nor its influence, but its mere novelty. Nothing old is

cared for: novelty by itself excites our surprise, awakens the

imagination, gently agitates the feelings, and requires no exertion of

the reasoning powers. Every man can take the most lively interest in a

piece of news with the least trouble to himself: indeed, since a

succession of new events carries us rapidly from one circumstance to

another, nothing is more welcome to the generality of mankind than this

inducement to constant diversion, and this opportunity of venting their

spleen and malice in an agreeable and varied manner.”

“Well!” exclaimed Louisa, “you show some skill at explanation: just now

you censured individuals, at present you condemn mankind in general.”

“I do not require,” he answered, “that you should render me justice: but

this I must say, we who depend upon society must act according to its

rules; and it would be safer to provoke its resentment than its _ennui_,

by requiring it to think or reflect. We must avoid every thing that

would tend to this result, and pursue by ourselves in private whatever

would prove unpalatable to the public.”

“By yourselves in private,” said Louisa, “many a bottle of wine will, I

suppose, be drunk, and many a nap taken in the daytime.”

“I have never,” continued the old clergyman, “set much value upon my own

actions; for I know how little I have done for others: I am, however, in

possession of something which may, perhaps, afford agreeable relaxation

to this society, circumstanced as it is at present.”

“To what do you allude?” inquired the baroness.

“Rely upon it,” interrupted Louisa, “he has made some marvellous

collection of scandals.”

“You are mistaken,” replied the clergyman.

“We shall see,” answered Louisa.

“Let him continue, my dear,” said the baroness: “and do not accustom

yourself to act in a hard and unfriendly manner towards others, even in

jest; as they may take it ill. We have no need to increase our evil

habits by practising them for entertainment. Tell me, my dear friend, of

what does your collection consist? Will it conduce to our amusement?

Have you been long employed about it? Why have you never mentioned it

before?”

“I will give you an account of the whole matter,” rejoined the old

clergyman. “I have lived long in the world, and have paid much attention

to public occurrences. I have neither talent nor inclination for

chronicling great actions, and worldly affairs in general are

troublesome to me; but amongst the many private histories, true and

false, which sometimes happen in public or are related in private, there

are some which possess a greater attraction than the charm of mere

novelty, some which are calculated to improve us by their moral

application, some which display at a glance the secret springs of human

nature, and others, again, whose very absurdities are amusing. Amongst

the multitude of occurrences which attract our attention and our malice

in ordinary life, and which are as common as the individuals to whom

they relate, I have noted down a few on account of their peculiar

character, because they engaged and excited my attention and feelings;

and the very recollection of them has never failed to produce a

momentary sensation of pure and tranquil pleasure.”

“I am curious to hear,” said the baroness, “the nature of your

anecdotes, and to learn their peculiar character.”

“You may easily suppose,” replied the clergyman, “that they are not

about disputes or family matters. Such things have little interest

except for those who are engaged in them.”

_Louisa._ And what are yours about?

_Clergyman._ Why, for the most part, they treat of those emotions by

which friends become attached or disunited, happy or miserable, and by

which they are more frequently entangled than improved.

_Louisa._ Indeed! I suppose you will produce a collection of merry

adventures for our instruction and improvement. Excuse me for making

this observation, dear mamma; it seems so evident: and it is, of course,

allowable to speak the truth.

_Clergyman._ I suspect that you will not find any thing in the whole

collection which may be styled merry.

_Louisa._--And what would you consider of that description?

_Clergyman._ Scandalous dialogues or situations are my abhorrence. I

object equally that common adventures, which are unworthy of engaging

our attention, should be told with exaggerated importance: they excite

our expectations unduly, in place of giving real pleasure to the mind.

They make a mystery of that which should be wholly unveiled, or from

which we should altogether turn our eyes.

_Louisa._ I do not understand you. You will, however, relate your

stories with some degree of elegance. I hope our ears will not be

offended by any coarse adventures. You must consider us in the light of

a ladies’ seminary, and look for our thanks as your recompense.

_Clergyman._ Nothing of the sort. But, in truth, you will hear nothing

new, particularly as I have, for some time back, observed that you never

miss the perusal of certain criticisms in some of the learned reviews.

_Louisa._ You are really too bad.