Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship and Travels

Jarno and Wilhelm were sitting one day by Natalia. “You are thoughtful, Jarno,” said the lady: “I have seen it in your looks for some time.” “I am so,” answered Jarno: “a weighty business is before me, which we have for years been meditating, and must now begin to execute. You already know the outline of it: I may speak of it before our friend; for it will depend on himself whether he, too, shall not share in it. You are going to get rid of me before long: I mean to take a voyage to America.” “To America?” said Wilhelm, smiling: “such an adventure I did not anticipate from you, still less that you would have selected me for a companion.” “When you rightly understand our plan,” said Jarno, “you will give it a more honorable name, and, perhaps, yourself be tempted to embark in it. Listen to me. It requires but a slight acquaintance with the business of the world to see that mighty changes are at hand, that property is almost nowhere quite secure.” “Of the business of the world I have no clear notion,” interrupted Wilhelm; “and it is but of late that I ever thought about my property. Perhaps I had done well to drive it out of my head still longer: the care of securing it appears to give us hypochondria.”

“Hear me out,” said Jarno. “Care beseems ripe age, that youth may live, for a time, free from care; in the conduct of poor mortals, equilibrium cannot be restored except by contraries. As matters go, it is any thing but prudent to have property in only one place, to commit your money to a single spot; and yet it is difficult to guide it well in many. We have, therefore, thought of something else. From our old tower there is a society to issue, which must spread itself through every quarter of the world, and to which members from every quarter of the world shall be admissible. We shall insure a competent subsistence to each other, in the single case of a revolution happening, which might drive any part of us entirely from their possessions. I am now proceeding to America to profit by the good connections which our friend established while he staid there. The abbé means to go to Russia: if you like to join us, you shall have the choice of continuing in Germany to help Lothario, or of accompanying me. I conjecture you will choose the latter: to take a distant journey is extremely serviceable to a young man.”

Wilhelm thought a moment, and replied, “The offer well deserves consideration; for erelong the word with me must be, The farther off, the better. You will let me know your plan, I hope, more perfectly. It is, perhaps, my ignorance of life that makes me think so; but such a combination seems to me to be attended with insuperable difficulties.” “The most of which, till now, have been avoided,” answered Jarno, “by the circumstance that we have been but few in number, honorable, discreet, determined people, animated by a certain general feeling, out of which alone the feeling proper for societies can spring.” - “And if you speak me fair,” said Friedrich, who hitherto had only listened, “I, too, will go along with you.” Jarno shook his head. “Well, what objections can you make?” cried Friedrich. “In a new colony, young colonists will be required; these I bring with me: merry colonists will also be required; of these I make you certain. Besides, I recollect a certain damsel, who is out of place on this side of the water, - the fair, soft-hearted Lydia. What is the poor thing to do with her sorrow and mourning, unless she get an opportunity to throw it to the bottom of the sea, unless some brave fellow take her by the hand? You, my benefactor,” said he, turning towards Wilhelm, “you have a taste for comforting forsaken persons: what withholds you now? Each of us might take his girl under his arm, and trudge with Jarno.”

This proposal struck Wilhelm offensively. He answered with affected calmness, “I know not whether she is unengaged; and, as in general I seem to be unfortunate in courtship, I shall hardly think of making the attempt.” “Brother Friedrich,” said Natalia, “though thy own conduct is so full of levity, it does not follow that such sentiments will answer others. Our friend deserves a heart that shall belong to him alone, that shall not, at his side, be moved by recollections of some previous attachment. It was only with a character as pure and reasonable as Theresa’s that such a venture could be risked.” “Risk!” cried Friedrich: “in love it is all risk. In the grove or at the altar, with a clasp of the arms or a golden ring, by the chirping of the cricket or the sound of trumpets and kettle-drums, it is all but a risk: chance does it all.” “I have often noticed,” said Natalia, “that our principles are just a supplement to our peculiar manner of existence. We delight to clothe our errors in the garb of universal laws, to attribute them to irresistibly appointed causes. Do but think by what a path thy dear will lead thee, now that she has drawn thee towards her, and holds thee fast there.”

“She herself is on a very pretty path,” said Friedrich, - “on the path to saintship. A by-path, it is true, and somewhat roundabout, but the pleasanter and surer for that. Maria of Magdala travelled it, and who can say how many more? But, on the whole, sister, when the point in hand is love, thou shouldst not mingle in it. In my opinion, thou wilt never marry, till a bride is lacking somewhere: in that case, thou wilt give thyself, with thy habitual charity, to be the supplement of some peculiar manner of existence, not otherwise. So let us strike a bargain with this soul-broker, and agree about our travelling-company.” “You come too late with your proposals,” answered Jarno: “Lydia is disposed of.” “And how?” cried Friedrich. “I myself have offered her my hand,” said Jarno. “Old gentleman,” said Friedrich, “you have done a feat to which, if we regard it as a substantive, various adjectives might be appended; various predicates, if we regard it as a subject.” “I must honestly confess,” replied Natalia, “it appears a dangerous experiment to make a helpmate of a woman, at the very moment when her love for another man is like to drive her to despair.”

“I have ventured,” answered Jarno: “under a certain stipulation she is to be mine. And, believe me, there is nothing in the world more precious than a heart susceptible of love and passion. Whether it has loved, whether it still loves, are points which I regard not. The love of which another is the object charms me almost more than that which is directed to myself. I see the strength, the force, of a tender soul; and my self-love does not trouble the delightful vision.” “Have you, then, talked with Lydia of late?” inquired Natalia. Jarno smiled and nodded: Natalia shook her head, and said as he rose, “I really know not what to make of you; but me you shall not mystify, I promise you.” She was about retiring, when the abbé entered with a letter in his hand. “Stay, if you please,” said he to her: “I have a proposal here, respecting which your counsel will be welcome. The marchese, your late uncle’s friend, whom for some time we have been expecting, will be here in a day or two. He writes to me, that German is not so familiar to him as he had supposed; that he needs a person who possesses this and other languages, to travel with him; that, as he wishes to connect himself with scientific rather than political society, he cannot do without some such interpreter. I can think of no one better suited for the post than our young friend here. He knows the language, is acquainted with many things beside; and, for himself, it cannot but be advantageous to travel over Germany in such society and such circumstances. Till we have seen our native country, we have no scale to judge of other countries by. What say you, my friend? What say you, Natalia?”

Nobody objected to the scheme: Jarno seemed to think his transatlantic project would not be a hinderance, as he did not mean to sail directly. Natalia did not speak, and Friedrich uttered various saws about the uses of travel. This new project so provoked our friend, that he could hardly conceal his irritation. He saw in this proposal a concerted plan for getting rid of him as soon as possible; and, what was worse, they went so openly to work, and seemed so utterly regardless of his feelings. The suspicions Lydia had excited in him, all that he himself had witnessed, rose again upon his mind: the simple manner in which every thing had been explained by Jarno now appeared to him another piece of artifice. He constrained himself, and answered, “At all events, the offer will require mature deliberation.” “A quick decision may, perhaps, be necessary,” said the abbé. “For that I am not prepared,” answered Wilhelm. “We can wait till the marchese comes, and then observe if we agree together. One condition must, however, be conceded first of all, - that I take Felix with me.” “This is a condition,” said the abbé, “which will scarcely be conceded.” “And I do not see,” cried Wilhelm, “why I should let any man prescribe conditions to me, or why, if I choose to view my native country, I must go in company with an Italian.”

“Because a young man,” said the abbé, with a certain imposing earnestness, “is always called upon to form connections.” Wilhelm, feeling that he could not long retain his self-command, as it was Natalia’s presence only which, in some degree, assuaged his indignation, hastily made answer, “Give me a little while to think. I imagine it will not be very hard to settle whether I am called upon to form additional connections; or ordered irresistibly, by heart and head, to free myself from such a multiplicity of bonds, which seem to threaten me with a perpetual, miserable thraldom.” Thus he spoke, with a deeply agitated mind. A glance at Natalia somewhat calmed him: her form and dignity, in this impassioned moment, stamped themselves more deeply on his mind than ever. “Yes,” said he, so soon as he was by himself, “confess it, thou lovest her: thou once more feelest what it means to love with thy whole soul. Thus did I love Mariana, and deceive myself so dreadfully; I loved Philina, and could not help despising her; Aurelia I respected, and could not love; Theresa I reverenced, and paternal tenderness assumed the form of an affection for her. And now, when all the feelings that can make a mortal happy meet within my heart, now I am compelled to flee! Ah! why should these feelings and convictions be combined with an insuperable longing? Why, without the hope of its fulfilment, should they utterly subvert all other happiness?

Shall the sun and the world, society or any other gift of fortune, ever henceforth yield me pleasure? Wilt thou not forever say, Natalia is not here? And yet, alas! Natalia will be always present to thee! If thou closest thy eyes, she will appear to thee: if thou openest them, her form will flit before all outward things, like the image which a dazzling object leaves behind it in the eye. Did not the swiftly passing figure of the Amazon dwell continually in thy imagination? And yet thou hadst but seen her, thou didst not know her. Now when thou knowest her, when thou hast been so long beside her, when she has shown such care about thee, - now are her qualities impressed as deeply upon thy soul as her form was then upon thy fancy. It is painful to be always seeking, but far more painful to have found, and to be forced to leave. What now shall I ask for further in the world? What now shall I look for further? Is there a country, a city, that contains a treasure such as this? And I must travel on, and ever find inferiority? Is life, then, like a race-course, where a man must rapidly return when he has reached the utmost end? Does the good, the excellent, stand before us like a firm, unmoving goal, from which, with fleet horses, we are forced away the instant we appeared to have attained it? Happier are they who strive for earthly wares! They find what they are seeking in its proper climate, or they buy it in the fair.

“Come, my darling boy!” cried he to Felix, who now ran frisking towards him: “be thou and remain thou all to me! Thou wert given me as a compensation for thy loved mother; thou wert to replace the second mother whom I meant for thee; and now thou hast a loss still greater to make good. Occupy my heart, occupy my spirit, with thy beauty, thy loveliness, thy capabilities, and thy desire to use them!” The boy was busied with a new plaything: his father tried to put it in a better state for him; just as he succeeded, Felix had lost all pleasure in it. “Thou art a true son of Adam!” cried Wilhelm. “Come, my child! Come, my brother! let us wander, playing without object, through the world, as we best may.” His resolution to remove, to take the boy along with him, and recreate his mind by looking at the world, had now assumed a settled form. He wrote to Werner for the necessary cash and letters of credit; sending Friedrich’s courier on the message, with the strictest charges to return immediately. Much as the conduct of his other friends had grieved him, his relation to Natalia remained serene and clear as ever.

He confided to her his intention. She took it as a settled thing that he would go; and, if this seeming carelessness in her chagrined him, her kindly manner and her presence made him calm. She counselled him to visit various towns, that he might get acquainted with certain of her friends. The courier returned, and brought the letter which our friend required; though Werner did not seem content with this new whim. “My hope that thou wert growing reasonable,” so the letter ran, “is now again deferred. Where are you all gadding? And where lingers the lady who thou saidst was to assist us in arranging these affairs? Thy other friends are also absent. They have thrown the whole concern upon the shoulders of the lawyer and myself. Happy that he is as expert a jurist as I am a financier, and that both of us are used to business. Fare thee well! Thy aberrations shall be pardoned thee, since but for them our situation here could not have been so favorable.” So far as outward matters were concerned, Wilhelm might now have entered on his journey; but there were still for his heart two hinderances that held him fast. In the first place, they flatly refused to show him Mignon’s body till the funeral the abbé meant to celebrate; and, for this solemnity, the preparations were not ready. There had also been a curious letter from the country clergyman, in consequence of which the doctor had gone off. It related to the harper, of whose fate Wilhelm wanted to have further information.

In these circumstances, day or night he found no rest for mind or body. When all were asleep, he wandered up and down the house. The presence of the pictures and statues, which he knew so well of old, alternately attracted and repelled him. Nothing that surrounded him could he lay hold of or let go; all things reminded him of all: the whole ring of his existence lay before him; but it was broken into fragments, and seemed as if it would never unite again. These works of art, which his father had sold, appeared to him an omen that he himself was destined never to obtain a lasting, calm possession of any thing desirable in life, or always to be robbed of it so soon as gained, by his own or other people’s blame. He waded so deep in these strange and dreary meditations, that often he almost thought himself a disembodied spirit; and, even when he felt and handled things without him, he could scarcely keep himself from doubting whether he was really there and alive. Nothing but the piercing grief which often seized him, but the tears he shed at being forced, by causes frivolous as they were irresistible, to leave the good which he had found, and found after having lost it, restored him to the feeling of his earthly life. It was in vain to call before his mind his happy state in other respects. “All is nothing, then,” exclaimed he, “if the one blessing, which appears to us worth all the rest, is wanting!”

The abbé told the company that the marchese was arrived. “You have determined, it appears,” said he to Wilhelm, “to set out upon your travels with your boy alone. Get acquainted with this nobleman, however: he will be useful to you if you meet him by the way.” The marchese entered. He was a person not yet very far advanced in years, - a fine, handsome, pleasing, Lombard figure. In his youth, while in the army and afterwards in public business, he had known Lothario’s uncle; they had subsequently travelled through the greater part of Italy together: and many of the works of art, which the marchese now again fell in with, had been purchased in his presence, and under various happy circumstances, which he still distinctly recollected. The Italians have in general a deeper feeling for the high dignity of art than any other nation. In Italy, whoever follows the employment tries to pass at once for artist, master, and professor; by which pretensions he acknowledges at least that it is not sufficient merely to lay hold of some transmitted excellency, or to acquire by practice some dexterity, but that a man who aims at art should have the power to think of what he does, to lay down principles, and make apparent to himself and others how and wherefore he proceeds in this way or in that.

The stranger was affected at again beholding these productions when the owner of them was no more, and cheered to see the spirit of his friend surviving in the gifted persons left behind him. They discussed a series of works: they found a lively satisfaction in the harmony of their ideas. The marchese and the abbé were the speakers; Natalia felt herself again transported to the presence of her uncle, and could enter without difficulty into their opinions and criticisms; Wilhelm could not understand them, except as he translated their technology into dramatic language. Friedrich’s facetious vein was sometimes rather difficult to keep in check. Jarno was seldom there. It being observed that excellent works of art were very rare in latter times, it was remarked by the marchese, “We can hardly think or estimate how many circumstances must combine in favor of the artist: with the greatest genius, with the most decisive talent, the demands which he must make upon himself are infinite, the diligence required in cultivating his endowments is unspeakable. Now, if circumstances are not in his favor, if he observe that the world is very easy to be satisfied, requiring but a slight, pleasing, transitory show, it were matter of surprise if indolence and selfishness did not keep him fixed at mediocrity: it were strange if he did not rather think of bartering modish wares for gold and praises than of entering on the proper path, which could not fail in some degree to lead him to a sort of painful martyrdom.

Accordingly, the artists of our time are always offering and never giving. They always aim at charming, and they never satisfy: every thing is merely indicated; you can nowhere find foundation or completion. Those for whom they labor, it is true, are little better. If you wait a while in any gallery of pictures, and observe what works attract the many, what are praised and what neglected, you have little pleasure in the present, little hope in the future.”

“Yes,” replied the abbé: “and thus it is that artists and their judges mutually form each other. The latter ask for nothing but a general, vague enjoyment; a work of art is to delight them almost as a work of nature; they imagine that the organs for enjoying works of art may be cultivated altogether of themselves, like the tongue and the palate; they try a picture or a poem as they do an article of food. They do not understand how very different a species of culture it requires to raise one to the true enjoyment of art. The hardest part of it, in my opinion, is that sort of separation which a man that aims at perfect culture must accomplish in himself. It is on this account that we observe so many people partially cultivated, and yet every one of them attempting to pronounce upon the general whole.” “Your last remark is not quite clear to me,” said Jarno, who came in just then. “It would be difficult,” replied the abbé, “to explain it fully without a long detail. Thus much I may say: When any man pretends to mix in manifold activity or manifold enjoyment, he must also be enabled, as it were, to make his organs manifold, and independent of each other. Whoever aims at doing or enjoying all and every thing with his entire nature, whoever tries to link together all that is without him by such a species of enjoyment, will only lose his time in efforts that can never be successful.

How difficult, though it seems so easy, is it to contemplate a noble disposition, a fine picture, simply in and for itself; to watch the music for the music’s sake; to admire the actor in the actor; to take pleasure in a building for its own peculiar harmony and durability. Most men are wont to treat a work of art, though fixed and done, as if it were a piece of soft clay. The hard and polished marble is again to mould itself, the firm-walled edifice is to contract or to expand itself, according as their inclinations, sentiments, and whims may dictate: the picture is to be instructive, the play to make us better, - every thing is to do all. The reason is, that most men are themselves uninformed, they cannot give themselves and their being any certain shape; and thus they strive to take from other things their proper shape, that all they have to do with may be loose and wavering like themselves. Every thing is, in the long-run, reduced by them to what they call effect: every thing is relative, say they; and so, indeed, it is: every thing with them grows relative, except absurdity and platitude, which truly are absolute enough.”

“I understand you,” answered Jarno; “or, rather, I perceive how what you have been saying follows from the principles you hold so fast by. Yet with men, poor devils, we should not go to quest so strictly. I know enow of them in truth, who, beside the greatest works of art and nature, forthwith recollect their own most paltry insufficiency; who take their conscience and their morals with them to the opera; who bethink them of their loves and hatreds in contemplating a colonnade. The best and greatest that can be presented to them from without, they must first, as far as possible, diminish in their way of representing it, that they may in any measure be enabled to combine it with their own sorry nature.”

The abbé called them in the evening to attend the exequies of Mignon. The company proceeded to the Hall of the Past: they found it magnificently ornamented and illuminated. The walls were hung with azure tapestry almost from ceiling to floor, so that nothing but the friezes and socles, above and below, were visible. On the four candelabras in the corner large wax-lights were burning: smaller lights were in the four smaller candelabras placed by the sarcophagus in the middle. Near this stood four boys, dressed in azure with silver: they had broad fans of ostrich-feathers, which they waved above a figure that was resting upon the sarcophagus. The company sat down: two invisible choruses began in a soft, musical recitative to ask, “Whom bring ye us to the still dwelling?” The four boys replied with lovely voices, “’Tis a tired playmate whom we bring you: let her rest in your still dwelling, till the songs of her heavenly sisters once more awaken her.” “Firstling of youth in our circle, we welcome thee! With sadness welcome thee! May no boy, no maiden, follow! Let age only, willing and composed, approach the silent hall, and in the solemn company, repose this one dear child!

Ah, reluctantly we brought her hither! Ah, and she is to remain here! Let us, too, remain: let us weep, let us weep upon her bier! Yet look at the strong wings; look at the light, clear robe. How glitters the golden band upon her head! Look at the beautiful, the noble, repose. Ah! the wings do not raise her; in the frolic game, her robe flutters to and fro no more; when we bound her head with roses, her looks on us were kind and friendly. Cast forward the eye of the spirit. Awake in your souls the imaginative power, which carries forth what is fairest, what is highest, life, away beyond the stars. But, ah! We find her not here; in the garden she wanders not; the flowers of the meadow she plucks no longer. Let us weep, we are leaving her here! Let us weep, and remain with her! Children, turn back into life! Your tears let the fresh air dry, which plays upon the rushing water. Flee from Night! Day and Pleasure and Continuance are the lot of the living. Up! Turn back into life! Let the day give us labor and pleasure, till the evening brings us rest, and the nightly sleep refreshes us.

Children! Hasten into life! In the pure garments of beauty, may Love meet you with heavenly looks and with the wreath of immortality!” The boys had retired: the abbé rose from his seat, and went behind the bier. “It is the appointment,” said he, “of the man who prepared this silent abode, that each new tenant of it shall be introduced with a solemnity. After him, the builder of this mansion, the founder of this establishment, we have next brought a young stranger hither; and thus already does this little space contain two altogether different victims of the rigorous, arbitrary, and inexorable Death-goddess. By appointed laws we enter into life: the days are numbered which make us ripe to see the light, but for the duration of our life there is no law. The weakest thread will spin itself to unexpected length; and the strongest is cut suddenly asunder by the scissors of the Fates, delighting, as it seems, in contradictions. Of the child whom we have here committed to her final rest, we can say but little. It is still uncertain whence she came; her parents we know not; the years of her life we can only conjecture. Her deep and closely shrouded soul allowed us scarce to guess at its interior movements: there was nothing clear in her, nothing open but her affection for the man who had snatched her from the hands of a barbarian. This impassioned tenderness, this vivid gratitude, appeared to be the flame which consumed the oil of her life:

the skill of the physician could not save that fair life, the most anxious friendship could not lengthen it. But, if art could not stay the departing spirit, it has done its utmost to preserve the body, and withdraw it from decay. A balsamic substance has been forced through all the veins, and now tinges, in place of blood, these cheeks too early faded. Come near, my friends, and view this wonder of art and care!”

He raised the veil: the child was lying in her angel’s dress, as if asleep, in the most soft and graceful posture. They approached, and admired this show of life. Wilhelm alone continued sitting in his place; he was not able to compose himself: what he felt he durst not think, and every thought seemed ready to destroy his feeling. For the sake of the marchese, the speech had been pronounced in French. That nobleman came forward with the rest, and viewed the figure with attention. The abbé thus proceeded. “With a holy confidence, this kind heart, shut up to men, was continually turned to its God. Humility, nay, an inclination to abase herself externally, seemed natural to her. She clave with zeal to the Catholic religion, in which she had been born and educated. Often she expressed a still wish to sleep on consecrated ground; and, according to the usage of the Church, we have, therefore, consecrated this marble coffin, and the little earth which is hidden in the cushion that supports her head. With what ardor did she, in her last moments, kiss the image of the Crucified, which stood beautifully figured on her tender arm, with many hundred points!” So saying, he stripped up her right sleeve; and a crucifix, with marks and letters round it, showed itself in blue upon the white skin.

The marchese looked at this with eagerness, stooping down to view it more intensely. “O God!” cried he, as he stood upright, and raised his hands to heaven. “Poor child! Unhappy niece! Do I meet thee here? What a painful joy to find thee, whom we had long lost hope of; to find this dear frame, which we had long believed the prey of fishes in the ocean, here preserved, though lifeless! I assist at thy funeral, splendid in its external circumstances, still more splendid from the noble persons who attend thee to thy place of rest. And to these,” added he, with a faltering voice, “so soon as I can speak, I will express my thanks.” Tears hindered him from saying more. By the pressure of a spring, the abbé sank the body into the cavity of the marble. Four youths, dressed as the boys had been, came out from behind the tapestry, and lifting the heavy, beautifully ornamented lid upon the coffin, thus began their song. “Well is the treasure now laid up, - the fair image of the Past! Here sleeps it in the marble, undecaying: in your hearts, too, it lives, it works. Travel, travel back into life! Take along with you this holy earnestness, for earnestness alone makes life eternity.”

The invisible chorus joined in with the last words, but no one heard the strengthening sentiment: all were too much busied with themselves, and the emotions which these wonderful disclosures had excited. The abbé and Natalia conducted the marchese out: Theresa and Lothario walked by Wilhelm. It was not till the music had altogether died away, that their sorrows, thoughts, meditations, curiosity, again fell on them with all their force, and made them long to be transported back into that exalting scene.

The marchese avoided speaking of the matter, but had long, secret conversations with the abbé. When the company was met, he often asked for music, - a request to which they willingly assented, as each was glad to be delivered from the charge of talking. Thus they lived for some time, till it was observed that he was making preparations for departure. One day he said to Wilhelm, “I wish not to disturb the remains of this beloved child; let her rest in the place where she loved and suffered: but her friends must promise to visit me in her native country, in the scene where she was born and bred; they must see the pillars and statues, of which a dim idea remained with her. I will lead you to the bays where she liked so well to roam, and gather pebbles. You, at least, young friend, shall not escape the gratitude of a family that stands so deeply indebted to you. To-morrow I set out on my journey. The abbé is acquainted with the whole history of this matter: he will tell it you again. He could pardon me when grief interrupted my recital: as a third party, he will be enabled to narrate the incidents with more connection. If, as the abbé had proposed, you like to follow me in travelling over Germany, you shall be heartily welcome. Leave not your boy behind: at every little inconvenience which he causes us, we will again remember your attentive care of my poor niece.”

The same evening our party was surprised by the arrival of the countess. Wilhelm trembled in every joint as she entered: she herself, though forewarned, kept close by her sister, who speedily reached her a chair. How singularly simple was her attire, how altered was her form! Wilhelm scarcely dared to look at her: she saluted him with a kindly air; a few general words addressed to him did not conceal her sentiments and feelings. The marchese had retired betimes; and, as the company were not disposed to part so early, the abbé now produced a manuscript. “The singular narrative which was intrusted to me,” said he, “I forthwith put on paper. The case where pen and ink should least of all be spared, is in recording the particular circumstances of remarkable events.” They informed the countess of the matter; and the abbé read as follows, in the name of the marchese: - “Many men as I have seen, I still regard my father as a very extraordinary person. His character was noble and upright; his ideas were enlarged, I may even say great; to himself he was severe: in all his plans there was a rigid order, in all operations an unbroken perseverance. In one sense, therefore, it was easy to transact and live with him: yet, owing to the very qualities which made it so, he never could accommodate himself to life; for he required from the state, from his neighbors, from his children, and his servants, the observance of all the laws which he had laid upon himself.

His most moderate demands became exorbitant by his rigor; and he never could attain to enjoyment, for nothing ever was completed as he had forecast it. At the moment when he was erecting a palace, laying out a garden, or acquiring a large estate in the highest cultivation, I have seen him inwardly convinced, with the sternest ire, that Fate had doomed him to do nothing but abstain and suffer. In his exterior he maintained the greatest dignity: if he jested, it was but displaying the preponderancy of his understanding. Censure was intolerable to him: the only time I ever saw him quite transported with rage was once when he heard that one of his establishments was spoken of as something ludicrous. In the same spirit he had settled the disposal of his children and his fortune. My eldest brother was educated as a person that had large estates to look for. I was to embrace the clerical profession: the youngest was to be a soldier. I was of a lively temper, fiery, active, quick, apt for corporeal exercises: the youngest rather seemed inclined to an enthusiastic quietism, - devoted to the sciences, to music, and poetry. It was not till after the hardest struggle, the maturest conviction of the impossibility of his project, that our father, still reluctantly, agreed to let us change vocations; and, although he saw us both contented, he could never suit himself to this arrangement, but declared that nothing good would come of it.

The older he grew, the more isolated did he feel from all society. At last he came to live almost entirely alone. One old friend, who had served in the German armies, who had lost his wife in the campaign, and brought a daughter of about ten years of age along with him, remained his only visitor. This person bought a fine little property beside us: he used to come and see my father on stated days of the week, and at stated hours; his little daughter often came along with him. He was never heard to contradict my father, who at length grew perfectly habituated to him, and endured him as the only tolerable company he had. After our father’s death, we easily observed that this old gentleman had not been visiting for naught, - that his compliances had been rewarded by an ample settlement. He enlarged his estates: his daughter might expect a handsome portion. The girl grew up, and was extremely beautiful: my elder brother often joked with me about her, saying I should go and court her.

“Meanwhile brother Augustin, in the seclusion of his cloister, had been spending his years in the strangest state of mind. He abandoned himself wholly to the feeling of a holy enthusiasm, to those half-spiritual, half-physical emotions which, as they for a time exalted him to the third heaven, erelong sank him down to an abyss of powerlessness and vacant misery. While my father lived, no change could be contemplated: what, indeed, could we have asked for or proposed? After the old man’s death, our brother visited us frequently: his situation, which at first afflicted us, in time became much more tolerable; for his reason had at length prevailed. But, the more confidently reason promised him complete recovery and contentment on the pure path of nature, the more vehemently did he require of us to free him from his vows. His thoughts, he let us know, were turned upon Sperata, our fair neighbor. “My elder brother had experienced too much suffering from the harshness of our father to look on the condition of the youngest without sympathy. He spoke with the family confessor, a worthy old man: we signified to him the double purpose of our brother, and requested him to introduce and expedite the business. Contrary to custom he delayed; and at last, when Augustin pressed us, and we recommended the affair more keenly to the clergyman, he had nothing left but to impart the strange secret to us.

“Sperata was our sister, and that by both her parents. Our mother had declared herself with child at a time when both she and our father were advanced in years: a similar occurrence had shortly before been made the subject of some merriment in our neighborhood; and our father, to avoid such ridicule, determined to conceal this late lawful fruit of love as carefully as people use to conceal its earlier accidental fruits. Our mother was delivered secretly: the child was carried to the country; and the old friend of the family, who, with the confessor, had alone been trusted with the secret, easily engaged to give her out for his daughter. The confessor had reserved the right of disclosing the secret in case of extremity. The supposed father was now dead: Sperata was living with an old lady; we were aware that a love of song and music had already led our brother to her; and on his again requiring us to undo his former bond, that he might engage himself by a new one, it was necessary that we should, as soon as possible, apprise him of the danger he stood in. “He viewed us with a wild, contemptuous look. ‘Spare your idle tales,’ cried he, ‘for children and credulous fools: from me, from my heart, they shall not tear Sperata; she is mine. Recall, I pray you, instantly, your frightful spectre, which would but harass me in vain.

Sperata is not my sister: she is my wife!’ He described to us, in rapturous terms, how this heavenly girl had drawn him out of his unnatural state of separation from his fellow-creatures into true life; how their spirits accorded like their voices; how he blessed his sufferings and errors, since they had kept clear of him women, till the moment when he wholly and forever gave himself to this most amiable being. We were shocked at the discovery, we deplored his situation, but we knew not how to help ourselves; for he declared, with violence, that Sperata was with a child by him. Our confessor did whatever duty could suggest to him, but by this means he only made the evil worse. The demands of nature and religion, moral rights and civil laws, were vehemently attacked and spurned at by our brother. He considered nothing holy but his relation to Sperata, nothing dignified but the names of father and wife. ‘These alone,’ cried he, ‘are suitable to nature: all else is caprice and opinion. Were there not noble nations which admitted marriage with a sister? Name not your gods! You never name them but when you wish to befool us, to lead us from the paths of nature, and, by scandalous constraint, to transform the noblest inclinations into crimes. Unspeakable are the perplexities, abominable the abuses, into which you force the victims whom you bury alive.

“‘I may speak, for I have suffered like no other, - from the highest, sweetest feeling of enthusiasm, to the frightful deserts of utter powerlessness, vacancy, annihilation, and despair; from the loftiest aspirations of preternatural existence, to the most entire unbelief, - unbelief in myself. All these horrid grounds of the cup, so flattering at the brim, I have drained; and my whole being was poisoned to its core. And now, when kind Nature, by her greatest gift, by love, has healed me; now, when in the arms of a heavenly creature I again feel that I am, that she is, that out of this living union a third shall arise and smile in our faces, - now ye open up the flames of your hell, of your purgatory, which can only singe a sick imagination: ye oppose them to the vivid, true, indestructible enjoyment of pure love. Meet us under these cypresses, which turn their solemn tops to heaven; visit us among those espaliers where the citrons and pomegranates bloom beside us, where the graceful myrtle stretches out its tender flowers to us, - and then venture to disturb us with your dreary, paltry nets which men have spun!’ “Thus for a long time he persisted in a stubborn disbelief of our story; and when we assured him of its truth, when the confessor himself asseverated it, he did not let it drive him from his point. ‘Ask not the echoes of your cloisters, not your mouldering parchments, not your narrow whims and ordinances!

Ask Nature and your heart: she will teach you what you should recoil from; she will point out to you with the strictest finger over what she has pronounced her everlasting curse. Look at the lilies: do not husband and wife shoot forth on the same stalk? Does not the flower which bore them hold them both? And is not the lily the type of innocence? Is not their sisterly union fruitful? When Nature abhors, she speaks it aloud; the creature that shall not be, is not produced; the creature that lives with a false life, is soon destroyed. Unfruitfulness, painful existence, early destruction, these are her curses, the marks of her displeasure. It is only by immediate consequences that she punishes. Look around you; and what is prohibited, what is accursed, will force itself upon your notice. In the silence of the convent, in the tumult of the world, a thousand practices are consecrated and revered, while her curse rests on them. On stagnant idleness as on overstrained toil, on caprice and superfluity as on constraint and want, she looks down with mournful eyes; her call is to moderation; true are all her commandments, peaceful all her influences. The man who has suffered as I have done, has a right to be free. Sperata is mine: death alone shall take her from me. How I shall retain her, how I may be happy, these are your cares. This instant I go to her, and part from her no more.’

“He was for proceeding to the boat, and crossing over to her: we restrained him, entreating that he would not take a step which might produce the most tremendous consequences. He should recollect, we told him, that he was not living in the free world of his own thoughts and ideas, but in a constitution of affairs, the ordinances and conditions of which had become as inflexible as laws of nature. The confessor made us promise not to let him leave our sight, still less our house: after this he went away, engaging to return erelong. What we had foreseen took place: reason had made our brother strong, but his heart was weak; the earlier impressions of religion rose on him, and dreadful doubts along with them. He passed two fearful nights and days: the confessor came again to his assistance, but in vain. His enfranchised understanding acquitted him: his feelings, religion, all his usual ideas, declared him guilty. “One morning we found his chamber empty: on the table lay a note, in which he signified, that, as we kept him prisoner by force, he felt himself entitled to provide for his freedom; that he meant to go directly to Sperata; he expected to escape with her, and was prepared for the most terrible extremities should any separation be attempted.

“The news, of course, affrighted us exceedingly; but the confessor bade us be at rest. Our poor brother had been narrowly enough observed: the boatman, in place of taking him across, proceeded with him to his cloister. Fatigued with watching for the space of four and twenty hours, he fell asleep, as the skiff began to rock him in the moonshine; and he did not awake till he saw himself in the hands of his spiritual brethren: he did not recover from his amazement till he heard the doors of the convent bolting behind him. “Sharply touched at the fate of our brother, we reproached the confessor for his cruelty; but he soon silenced or convinced us by the surgeon’s reason, that our pity was destructive to the patient. He let us know that he was not acting on his own authority, but by order of the bishop and his chapter; that by this proceeding they intended to avoid all public scandal, and to shroud the sad occurrence under the veil of a secret course of discipline prescribed by the Church. Our sister they would spare: she was not to be told that her lover was her brother. The charge of her was given to a priest, to whom she had before disclosed her situation. They contrived to hide her pregnancy and her delivery. As a mother she felt altogether happy in her little one. Like most of our women, she could neither write, nor read writing: she gave the priest many verbal messages to carry to her lover. The latter, thinking that he owed this pious fraud to a suckling mother, often brought pretended tidings from our brother, whom he never saw; recommending her, in his name, to be at peace; begging of her to be careful of herself and of her child, and for the rest to trust in God.

“Sperata was inclined by nature to religious feelings. Her situation, her solitude, increased this tendency: the clergyman encouraged it, in order to prepare her by degrees for an eternal separation. Scarcely was her child weaned, scarcely did he think her body strong enough for suffering agony of mind, when he began to paint her fault to her in most terrific colors, to treat the crime of being connected with a priest as a sort of sin against nature, as a sort of incest. For he had taken up the strange thought of making her repentance equal in intensity to what it would have been had she known the true circumstances of her error. He thereby produced so much anxiety and sorrow in her mind; he so exalted the idea of the Church and of its head before her; showed her the awful consequences, for the weal of all men’s souls, should indulgence in a case like this be granted, and the guilty pair rewarded by a lawful union; signifying, too, how wholesome it was to expiate such sins in time, and thereby gain the crown of immortality, - that at last, like a poor criminal, she willingly held out her neck to the axe, and earnestly entreated that she might forever be divided from our brother. Having gained so much, the clergy left her the liberty (reserving to themselves a certain distant oversight) to live at one time in a convent, at another in her house, according as she afterwards thought good.

“Her little girl, meanwhile, was growing: from her earliest years she had displayed an extraordinary disposition. When still very young, she could run and move with wonderful dexterity: she sang beautifully, and learned to play upon the cithern almost of herself. With words, however, she could not express herself; and the impediment seemed rather to proceed from her mode of thought than from her organs of speech. The feelings of the poor mother to her, in the mean time, were of the most painful kind: the expostulations of the priest had so perplexed her mind, that, though she was not quite deranged, her state was far from being sane. She daily thought her crime more terrible and punishable: the clergyman’s comparison of incest, frequently repeated, had impressed itself so deeply, that her horror was not less than if the actual circumstances had been known to her. The priest took no small credit for his ingenuity, with which he had contrived to tear asunder a luckless creature’s heart. It was miserable to behold maternal love, ready to expand itself in joy at the existence of her child, contending with the frightful feeling that this child should not exist. The two emotions warred with each other in her soul: love was often weaker than aversion.

“The child had long ago been taken from her, and committed to a worthy family residing on the seashore. In the greater freedom which the little creature enjoyed here, she soon displayed her singular delight in climbing. To mount the highest peaks, to run along the edges of the ships, to imitate in all their strangest feats the rope-dancers whom she often saw in the place, seemed a natural tendency in her. “To practise these things with the greater ease, she liked to change clothes with boys; and, though her foster-parents thought this highly blamable and unbecoming, we bade them indulge her as much as possible. Her wild walks and leapings often led her to a distance: she would lose her way, and be long from home, but she always came back. In general, as she returned, she used to set herself beneath the columns in the portal of a country house in the neighborhood: her people now had ceased to look for her; they waited for her. She would there lie resting on the steps, then run up and down the large hall, looking at the statues; after which, if nothing specially detained her, she used to hasten home.

“But at last our confidence was balked, and our indulgence punished. The child went out, and did not come again: her little hat was found swimming on the water near the spot where a torrent rushes down into the sea. It was conjectured, that, in clambering among the rocks, her foot had slipped: all our searching could not find the body. “The thoughtless tattle of her housemates soon communicated the occurrence to Sperata: she seemed calm and cheerful when she heard it; hinting not obscurely at her satisfaction that God had pleased to take her poor child to himself, and thus preserved it from suffering, or causing some more dreadful misery. “On this occasion all the fables which are told about our waters came to be the common talk. The sea, it was said, required every year an innocent child: yet it would endure no corpse, but sooner or later throw it to the shore; nay, the last joint, though sunk to the lowest bottom, must again come forth. They told the story of a mother, inconsolable because her child had perished in the sea, who prayed to God and his saints to grant her at least the bones for burial. The first storm threw ashore the skull, the next the spine; and, after all was gathered, she wrapped the bones in a cloth, and took them to the church: but, oh! miraculous to tell! as she crossed the threshold of the temple, the packet grew heavier and heavier; and at last, when she laid it on the steps of the altar, the child began to cry, and issued living from the cloth. One joint of the right-hand little finger was alone wanting: this, too, the mother anxiously sought and found; and, in memory of the event, it was preserved among the other relics of the church.

“On poor Sperata these recitals made a deep impression: her imagination took a new flight, and favored the emotion of her heart. She supposed that now the child had expiated, by its death, both its own sins and the sins of its parents; that the curse and penalty which hitherto had overhung them all was at length wholly removed; that nothing more was necessary could she only find the child’s bones, that she might carry them to Rome, where, upon the steps of the great altar in St. Peter’s, her little girl, again covered with its fair, fresh skin, would stand up alive before the people. With its own eyes it would once more look on father and mother; and the pope, convinced that God and his saints commanded it, would, amid the acclamations of the people, remit the parents their sins, acquit them of their oaths, and join their hands in wedlock. “Her looks and her anxiety were henceforth constantly directed to the sea and the beach. When at night, in the moonshine, the waves were tossing to and fro, she thought every glittering sheet of foam was bringing out her child; and some one about her had to run off, as if to take it up when it should reach the shore.

“By day she walked unweariedly along the places where the pebbly beach shelved slowly to the water: she gathered in a little basket all the bones she could find. None durst tell her that they were the bones of animals: the larger ones she buried, the little ones she took along with her. In this employment she incessantly persisted. The clergyman, who, by so unremittingly discharging what he thought his duty, had reduced her to this condition, now stood up for her with all his might. By his influence the people in the neighborhood were made to look upon her, not as a distracted person, but as one entranced: they stood in reverent attitudes as she walked by, and the children ran to kiss her hand. “To the old woman, her attendant and faithful friend, the secret of Sperata’s guilt was at length imparted by the priest, on her solemnly engaging to watch over the unhappy creature, with untiring care, through all her life. And she kept this engagement to the last, with admirable conscientiousness and patience. “Meanwhile we had always had an eye upon our brother. Neither the physicians nor the clergy of his convent would allow us to be seen by him; but, in order to convince us of his being well in some sort, we had leave to look at him as often as we liked in the garden, the passages, or even through a window in the roof of his apartment.

“After many terrible and singular changes, which I shall omit, he had passed into a strange state of mental rest and bodily unrest. He never sat but when he took his harp and played upon it, and then he usually accompanied it with singing. At other times he kept continually in motion; and in all things he was grown extremely guidable and pliant, for all his passions seemed to have resolved themselves into the single fear of death. You could persuade him to do any thing by threatening him with dangerous sickness or with death. “Besides this singularity of walking constantly about the cloister, a practice which he hinted it were better to exchange for wandering over hill and dale, he talked about an apparition which perpetually tormented him. He declared, that, on awakening at whatever hour of the night, he saw a beautiful boy standing at the foot of his bed, with a bare knife, and threatening to destroy him. They shifted him to various other chambers of the convent, but he still asserted that the boy pursued him. His wandering to and fro became more unrestful: the people afterwards remembered, too, that at this time they had often seen him stand at the window, and look out upon the sea.

“Our poor sister, on the other hand, seemed gradually wasting under the consuming influence of her single thought, of her narrow occupation. It was at last proposed by the physician, that, among the bones she had gathered, the fragments of a child’s skeleton should by degrees be introduced, and so the hapless mother’s hopes kept up. The experiment was dubious; but this at least seemed likely to be gained by it, that, when all the parts were got together, she would cease her weary search, and might be entertained with hopes of going to Rome. “It was accordingly resolved on. Her attendant changed, by imperceptible degrees, the small remains committed to her with the bones Sperata found. An inconceivable delight arose in the poor, sick woman’s heart, when the parts began to fit each other, and the shape of those still wanting could be marked. She had fastened every fragment in its proper place with threads and ribbons; filling up the vacant spaces with embroidery and silk, as is usually done with the relics of saints. “In this way nearly all the bones had been collected: none but a few of the extremities were wanting. One morning, while she was asleep, the physician having come to ask for her, the old attendant, with a view to show him how his patient occupied herself, took away these dear remains from the little chest where they lay in poor Sperata’s bedroom. A few minutes afterwards they heard her spring upon the floor:

she lifted up the cloth, and found the chest empty. She threw herself upon her knees: they came, and listened to her joyful, ardent prayer. ‘Yes,’ exclaimed she, ‘it is true! it was no dream, it is real! Rejoice with me, my friends! I have seen my own beautiful, good little girl again alive. She arose, and threw the veil from off her; her splendor enlightened all the room; her beauty was transfigured to celestial loveliness; she could not tread the ground, although she wished it. Lightly was she borne aloft: she had not even time to stretch her hand to me. “There!” cried she to me, and pointed to the road where I am soon to go. Yes, I will follow her, - soon follow her: my heart is light to think of it. My sorrows are already vanished: the sight of my risen little one has given me a foretaste of the heavenly joys.’

“From that time her soul was wholly occupied with prospects of the brightest kind; she gave no further heed to any earthly object; she took but little food; her spirit by degrees cast off the fetters of the body. At last this imperceptible gradation reached its head unexpectedly: her attendants found her pale and motionless; she opened not her eyes; she was what we call dead. “The report of her vision quickly spread abroad among the people; and the reverential feeling, which she had excited in her lifetime, soon changed, at her death, to the thought that she should be regarded as in bliss, - nay, as in sanctity. “When we were bearing her to be interred, a crowd of persons pressed with boundless violence about the bier: they would touch her hand, they would touch her garment. In this impassioned elevation, various sick persons ceased to feel the pains by which at other times they were tormented: they looked upon themselves as healed; they declared it; they praised God and his new saint. The clergy were obliged to lay the body in a neighboring chapel: the people called for opportunity to offer their devotion. The concourse was incredible: the mountaineers, at all times prone to lively and religious feelings, crowded forward from their valleys; the reverence, the wonder, the adoration, daily spread, and gathered strength. The ordinances of the bishop, which were meant to limit, and in time abolish, this new worship, could not be put in execution:

every show of opposition raised the people into tumults; every unbeliever they were ready to assail with personal violence. ‘Did not Saint Borromæus,’ cried they, ‘dwell among our forefathers? Did not his mother live to taste the joy of his canonization? Was not that great figure on the rocks at Arona meant to represent to us, by a sensible symbol, his spiritual greatness? Do not the descendants of his kindred live among us to this hour? And has not God promised ever to renew his miracles among a people that believe?’

“As the body, after several days, exhibited no marks of putrefaction, but grew whiter, and, as it were, translucent, the general faith rose higher and higher. Among the multitude were several cures which even the sceptical observer was unable to account for, or ascribe entirely to fraud. The whole country was in motion: those who did not go to see it, heard at least no other topic talked of. “The convent where my brother lived resounded, like the land at large, with the noise of these wonders; and the people felt the less restraint in speaking of them in his presence, as in general he seemed to pay no heed to any thing, and his connection with the circumstance was known to none of them. But on this occasion it appeared he had listened with attention. He conducted his escape with such dexterity and cunning, that the manner of it still remains a mystery. We learned afterwards, that he had crossed the water with a number of travellers, and charged the boatmen, who observed no other singularity about him, above all to have a care lest their vessel overset. Late in the night he reached the chapel, where his hapless loved one was resting from her woes. Only a few devotees were kneeling in the corners of the place: her old friend was sitting at the head of the corpse; he walked up to her, saluted her, and asked how her mistress was. ‘You see it,’ answered she, with some embarrassment. He looked at the corpse with a sidelong glance. After some delay he took its hand. Frightened by its coldness, he in the instant let it go: he looked unrestfully around him; then, turning to the old attendant, ‘I cannot stay with her at present,’ said he: ‘I have a long, long way to travel; but at the proper time I shall be back: tell her so when she awakens.’

“With this he went away. It was a while before we got intelligence of these occurrences: we searched, but all our efforts to discover him were vain. How he worked his way across the mountains none can say. A long time after he was gone we came upon a trace of him among the Grisons, but we were too late: it quickly vanished. We supposed that he was gone to Germany, but his weak footprints had been speedily obliterated by the war.”

The abbé ceased to read. No one had listened without tears. The countess scarcely ever took her handkerchief from her eyes: at last she rose, and, with Natalia, left the room. The rest were silent, till the abbé thus began: “The question now arises, whether we shall let the good marchese leave us without telling him our secret. For who can doubt a moment that our harper and his brother Augustin are one? Let us consider what is to be done, both for the sake of that unhappy man himself and of his family. My advice is, not to hurry, but to wait till we have heard what news the doctor, who has gone to see him, brings us back.” All were of the same opinion; and the abbé thus proceeded: “Another question, which perhaps may be disposed of sooner, still remains. The marchese is affected to the bottom of his heart at the kindness which his poor niece experienced here, particularly from our young friend. He made me tell him again and again every circumstance connected with her, and he shows the liveliest gratitude. ‘Her young benefactor,’ he said, ‘refused to travel with me, while he knew not the connection that subsists between us. I am not now a stranger, of whose manner of existence, of whose humors, he might be uncertain: I am his associate, his relation; and, as his unwillingness to leave his boy behind was the impediment which kept him from accompanying me, let this child now become a fairer bond to join us still more closely.

Beyond the obligations he has already placed me under, let him be of service to me on my present journey; let him, then, return along with me; my elder brother will receive him as he ought. And let him not despise the heritage of his unhappy foster-child; for, by a secret stipulation of our father with his military friend, the fortune which he gave Sperata has returned to us: and certainly we will not cheat our niece’s benefactor of the recompense he has merited so well.’”

Theresa, taking Wilhelm by the hand, now said to him, “We have here another beautiful example that disinterested well-doing yields the highest and best return. Follow the call which so strangely comes to you, and, while you lay a double load of gratitude on the marchese, hasten to a fair land, which has already often drawn your heart and your imagination towards it.” “I leave myself entirely to the guidance of my friends and you,” said Wilhelm: “it is vain to think, in this world, of adhering to our individual will. What I purposed to hold fast, I must let go; and benefits which I have not deserved descend upon me of their own accord.” Pressing Theresa’s hand, Wilhelm took his own away. “I give you full permission,” said he to the abbé, “to decide about me as you please. Since I shall not need to leave my Felix, I am ready to go anywhither, and to undertake whatever you think good.” Thus authorized, the abbé forthwith sketched out his plan. The marchese, he proposed, should be allowed to depart: Wilhelm was to wait for tidings from the doctor; he might then, when they had settled what was to be done, set off with Felix. Accordingly, under the pretence that Wilhelm’s preparations for his journey would detain him, he advised the stranger to employ the mean while in examining the curiosities of the city, which he meant to visit. The marchese did in consequence depart, and not without renewed and strong expressions of his gratitude; of which indeed the presents left by him, including jewels, precious stones, embroidered stuffs, afforded a sufficient proof.

Wilhelm, too, was at length in readiness for travelling; and his friends began to be distressed that the doctor sent them no news. They feared some mischief had befallen the poor old harper, at the very moment when they were in hopes of radically improving his condition. They sent the courier off; but he was scarcely gone, when the doctor in the evening entered with a stranger, whose form and aspect were expressive, earnest, striking, and whom no one knew. Both stood silent for a space: the stranger at length went up to Wilhelm, and, holding out his hand, said, “Do you no longer know your old friend?” It was the harper’s voice, but of his form there seemed to remain no vestige. He was in the common garb of a traveller, cleanly and genteelly equipped; his beard had vanished; his hair was dressed with some attention to the mode; and what particularly made him quite irrecognizable was, that in his countenance the look of age was no longer visible. Wilhelm embraced him with the liveliest joy: he was presented to the rest, and behaved with great propriety, not knowing that the party had a little while before become so well acquainted with him. “You will have patience with a man,” continued he, with great composure, “who, grown up as he appears, is entering on the world, after long sorrows, inexperienced as a child. To this skilful gentleman I stand indebted for the privilege of again appearing in the company of my fellow-men.”

They bade him welcome: the doctor motioned for a walk, to interrupt the conversation, and lead it to indifferent topics. In private the doctor gave the following explanation: “It was by the strangest chance that we succeeded in the cure of this man. We had long treated him, morally and physically, as our best consideration dictated: in some degree the plan was efficacious; but the fear of death continued powerful in him, and he would not lay aside his beard and cloak. For the rest, however, he appeared to take more interest in external things than formerly; and both his songs and his conceptions seemed to be approaching nearer life. A strange letter from the clergyman, as you already know, called me from you. I arrived: I found our patient altogether changed; he had voluntarily given up his beard; he had let his locks be cut into a customary form; he asked for common clothes; he seemed to have all at once become another man. Though curious to penetrate the reason of this sudden alteration, we did not risk inquiring of himself: at last we accidentally discovered it. A glass of laudanum was missing from the parson’s private laboratory: we thought it right to institute a strict inquiry; every one endeavored to ward off suspicion, and the sharpest quarrels rose among the inmates of the house. At last this man appeared before us, and admitted that he had the laudanum:

we asked if he had swallowed any of it. ‘No,’ said he, ‘but it is to this that I owe the recovery of my reason. It is at your choice to take the vial from me, and to drive me back, inevitably, to my former state. The feeling, that it was desirable to see the pains of life terminated by death, first put me on the way of cure: before long the thought of terminating them by voluntary death arose in me, and with this intention I took the glass of poison. The possibility of casting off my load of griefs forever gave me strength to bear them; and thus have I, ever since this talisman came into my possession, forced myself back into life by a contiguity with death. Be not anxious lest I use the drug, but resolve, as men acquainted with the human heart, by granting me an independence of life, to make me properly and wholesomely dependent on it.’ After mature consideration, we determined not to meddle further with him; and he now carries with him, in a firm little ground-glass vial, this poison, of which he has so strangely made an antidote.”

The doctor was informed of all that had become known in the mean time: towards Augustin it was determined that they should observe the deepest silence in regard to it. The abbé undertook to keep beside him, and to lead him forward on the healthful path he had entered. Meanwhile Wilhelm was to set about his journey over Germany with the marchese. If it should appear that Augustin could be again excited to affection for his native country, the circumstances were to be communicated to his friends, and Wilhelm might conduct him thither. Wilhelm had at last made every preparation for his journey. At first the abbé thought it strange that Augustin rejoiced in hearing of his friend and benefactor’s purpose to depart, but he soon discovered the foundation of this curious movement. Augustin could not subdue his fear of Felix; and he longed, as soon as possible, to see the boy removed. By degrees so many people had assembled, that the castle and adjoining buildings could scarcely accommodate them all, and the less, as such a multitude of guests had not originally been anticipated. They breakfasted, they dined, together: each endeavored to persuade himself that they were living in a comfortable harmony; but each, in secret, longed in some degree to be away. Theresa frequently rode out, attended by Lothario, and oftener alone: she had already got acquainted with all the landladies and landlords in the district; for she held it as a principle of her economy, in which, perhaps, she was not far mistaken, that it is essential to be in good acceptance with one’s neighbors, male and female, and to maintain with them a constant interchange of civilities.

Of an intended marriage with Lothario, she appeared to have no thought. Natalia and the countess often talked with one another; the abbé seemed to covet the society of Augustin; Jarno had frequent conversations with the doctor; Friedrich held by Wilhelm; Felix ran about wherever he could meet with most amusement. It was thus, too, that in general they paired themselves in walking when the company broke up: when it was obliged to be together, recourse was quickly had to music, to unite them all by giving each back to himself.

Unexpectedly the count increased the party; intending to remove his lady, and, as it appeared, to take a solemn farewell of his worldly friends. Jarno hastened to the coach to meet him: the count inquired what guests they had; to which the other answered, in a fit of wild humor that would often seize him, “We have all the nobility in nature, - marcheses, marquises, milords, and barons: we wanted nothing but a count.” They came up-stairs: Wilhelm was the first who met them in the ante-chamber. “Milord,” said the count to him in French, after looking at him for a moment, “I rejoice very much in the unexpected pleasure of renewing my acquaintance with your lordship: I am very much mistaken if I did not see you at my castle in the prince’s suite.” “I had the happiness of waiting on your Excellence at that time,” answered Wilhelm; “but you do me too much honor when you take me for an Englishman, and that of the first quality. I am a German, and” - “And a fine young fellow,” interrupted Jarno. The count looked at Wilhelm with a smile, and was about to make some reply, when the rest of the party entered, and saluted him with many a friendly welcome. They excused themselves for being unable at the moment to show him to a proper chamber, promising without delay to make the necessary room for him.

“Ay, ay!” said he, smiling: “we have left Chance, I see, to act as our purveyor. Yet with prudence and arrangement, how much is possible! For the present I entreat you not to stir a slipper from its place: the disorder, I perceive, would otherwise be great. Every one would be uncomfortably lodged; and this no one shall be on my account, if possible, not even for an hour. You can testify,” said he to Jarno, “and you, too, Meister,” turning to Wilhelm, “how many people I commodiously stowed that time in my castle. Let me have the list of persons and servants; let me see how they are lodged at present: I will make a plan of dislocation, such that, with the very smallest inconvenience, every one shall find a suitable apartment; and there shall be room enough to hold another guest if one should accidentally arrive.” Jarno at once offered the count his assistance, procured him all the necessary information; taking great delight, as usual, if he could now and then contrive to lead him astray, and leave him in awkward difficulties. The old gentleman at last, however, gained a signal triumph. The arrangement was completed: he caused the names to be written on their several doors, himself attending; and it could not be denied, that, by a very few changes and substitutions, the object had been fully gained. Jarno, among other things, had also managed, that the persons who at present took an interest in each other should be lodged together.

“Will you help me,” said the count to Jarno, after every thing was settled, “to clear up my recollections of the young man there, whom you call Meister, and who you tell me is a German?” Jarno was silent; for he knew very well that the count was one of those people who, in asking questions, merely wish to show their knowledge. The count, accordingly, continued, without waiting for an answer, “You, I recollect, presented him to me, and warmly recommended him in the prince’s name. If his mother was a German woman, I’ll be bound for it his father is an Englishman, and one of rank too: who can calculate the English blood that has been flowing these last thirty years in German veins! I will not insist on knowing more: I know you have always family secrets of that kind, but in such cases it is in vain to think of cheating me.” He then proceeded to detail a great variety of things as having taken place with Wilhelm at the castle, to the whole of which Jarno, as before, made no reply; though the count was altogether in the wrong, confounding Wilhelm more than once with a young Englishman of the prince’s suite. The truth was, the good old gentleman had in former years possessed a very excellent memory, and was still proud of being able to remember the minutest circumstances of his youth; but, in regard to late occurrences, he used to settle in his mind as true, and utter with the greatest certainty, whatever fables and fantastic combinations, in the growing weakness of his powers, imagination might present to him.

For the rest, he was become extremely mild and courteous: his presence had a very favorable influence upon the company. He would call on them to read some useful book together; nay, he often gave them little games, which, without participating in them, he directed with the greatest care. If they wondered at his condescension, he would reply, that it became a man who differed from the world in weighty matters to conform to it the more anxiously in matters of indifference.

In these games our friend had, more than once, an angry and unquiet feeling to endure. Friedrich, with his usual levity, took frequent opportunity of giving hints that Wilhelm entertained a secret passion for Natalia. How could he have found it out? What entitled him to say so? And would not his friends think, that, as they two were often together, Wilhelm must have made a disclosure to him, - so thoughtless and unlucky a disclosure? One day, while they were merrier than common at some such joke, Augustin, dashing up the door, rushed in with a frightful look; his countenance was pale, his eyes were wild; he seemed about to speak, but his tongue refused its office. The party were astounded: Lothario and Jarno, supposing that his madness had returned, sprang up and seized him. With a choked and faltering voice, then loudly and violently, he spoke, and cried, “Not me! Haste! Help! Save the child! Felix is poisoned!” They let him go; he hastened through the door: all followed him in consternation. They called the doctor; Augustin made for the abbé’s chamber; they found the child, who seemed amazed and frightened, when they called to him from a distance, “What hast thou been doing?”

“Dear papa!” cried Felix, “I did not drink from the bottle, I drank from the glass: I was very thirsty.” Augustin struck his hands together: “He is lost!” cried he, then pressed through the by-standers, and hastened away. They found a glass of almond-milk upon the table, with a bottle near it more than half empty. The doctor came, was told what they had seen and heard: with horror he observed the well-known laudanum-vial lying empty on the table. He called for vinegar: he summoned all his art to his assistance. Natalia had the little patient taken to a room: she busied herself with painful care about him. The abbé had run out to seek Augustin, and draw some explanation from him. The unhappy father had been out upon the same endeavor, but in vain: he returned, to find anxiety and fear on every face. The doctor, in the mean time, had been examining the almond-milk in the glass; he found it to contain a powerful mixture of opium: the child was lying on the sofa, seeming very sick; he begged his father “not to let them pour more stuff into him, not to let them plague him any more.” Lothario had sent his people, and had ridden off himself, endeavoring to find some trace of Augustin. Natalia sat beside the child; he took refuge in her lap, and entreated earnestly for her protection, earnestly for a little piece of sugar:

the vinegar, he said, was biting sour. The doctor granted his request; the child was in a frightful agitation; they were obliged to let him have a moment’s rest. The doctor said that every means had been adopted: he would continue to do his utmost. The count came near, with an air of displeasure; his look was earnest, even solemn; he laid his hands upon the child, turned his eyes to heaven, and remained some moments in that attitude. Wilhelm, who was lying inconsolable on a seat, sprang up, and, casting a despairing look at Natalia, left the room. Shortly afterwards the count, too, left it.

“I cannot understand,” said the doctor, having paused a little, “how it comes that there is not the smallest trace of danger visible about the child. At a single gulp he must have swallowed an immense dose of opium; yet I find no movement in his pulse but what may be ascribed to our remedies, and to the terror we have put him into.” In a few minutes Jarno entered, with intelligence that Augustin had been discovered in the upper story, lying in his blood: a razor had been found beside him; to all appearance he had cut his throat. The doctor hastened out: he met the people carrying down the body. The unhappy man was laid upon a bed, and accurately examined: the cut had gone across the windpipe; a copious loss of blood had been succeeded by a swoon; yet it was easy to observe that life, that hope, was still there. The doctor put the body in a proper posture, joined the edges of the wound, and bandaged it. The night passed sleepless and full of care to all. Felix would not quit Natalia; Wilhelm sat before her on a stool; he had the boy’s feet upon his lap; the head and breast were lying upon hers. Thus did they divide the pleasing burden and the painful anxiety, and continue, till the day broke, in their uncomfortable, sad position. Natalia had given her hand to Wilhelm; they did not speak a word; they looked at the child, and then at one another. Lothario and Jarno were sitting at the other end of the room, and carrying on a most important conversation, - which, did not the pressure of events forbid us, we would gladly lay before our readers. The boy slept softly: he awoke quite cheerful early in the morning, and demanded a piece of bread and butter.

So soon as Augustin had in some degree recovered, they endeavored to obtain some explanation from him. They learned with difficulty, and by slow degrees, that having, by the count’s unlucky shifting, been appointed to the same chamber with the abbé, he had found the manuscript in which his story was recorded. Struck with horror on perusing it, he felt that it was now impossible for him to live, on which he had recourse, as usual, to the laudanum: this he poured into a glass of almond-milk, and raised it to his mouth; but he shuddered when it reached his lips: he set it down untasted, went out to walk once more across the garden, and behold the face of nature; and, on his return, he found the child employed in filling up the glass out of which it had been drinking. They entreated the unhappy creature to be calm: he seized Wilhelm by the hand with a spasmodic grasp, and cried, “Ah! why did I not leave thee long ago? I knew well that I should kill the boy, and he me.” - “The boy lives!” said Wilhelm. The doctor, who had listened with attention, now inquired of Augustin if all the drink was poisoned. “No,” replied he, “nothing but the glass.” - “By the luckiest chance, then,” cried the doctor, “the boy has drunk from the bottle! A benignant genius has guided his hand, that he did not catch at death, which stood so near and ready for him.” - “No, no!” cried Wilhelm, with a groan, and clapping both his hands upon his eyes.

“How dreadful are the words! Felix said expressly that he drank, not from the bottle, but the glass. His health is but a show: he will die among our hands.” Wilhelm hastened out: the doctor went below, and taking Felix up, with much caressing, asked, “Now, did not you, my pretty boy? You drank from the bottle, not the glass?” The child began to cry. The doctor secretly informed Natalia how the matter stood: she also strove in vain to get the truth from Felix, who but cried the more, - cried till he fell asleep.

Wilhelm watched by him: the night went peacefully away. Next morning Augustin was found lying dead in bed: he had cheated his attendants by a seeming rest, had silently loosened the bandages, and bled to death. Natalia went to walk with Felix: he was sportful as in his happiest days. “You are always good to me,” said Felix, “you never scold, you never beat, me: I will tell you the truth, I did drink from the bottle. Mamma Aurelia used to rap me over the fingers every time I touched the bottle: father looked so sour, I thought he would beat me.” With winged steps Natalia hastened to the castle: Wilhelm came, still overwhelmed with care, to meet her. “Happy father!” cried she, lifting up the child, and throwing it into his arms: “there is thy son again! He drank from the bottle: his naughtiness has saved him.” They told the count the happy issue; but he listened with a smiling, silent, modest air of knowingness, like one tolerating the error of worthy men. Jarno, attentive to all, could not explain this lofty self-complacency, till, after many windings, he at last discovered it to be his lordship’s firm belief, that the child had really taken poison, and that he himself, by prayer and the laying on of hands, had miraculously counteracted the effects of it. After such a feat, his lordship now determined on departing. Every thing, as usual with him, was made ready in a moment: the fair countess, when about to go, took Wilhelm’s hand before parting with her sister’s; she then pressed both their hands between her own, turned quickly round, and stepped into the carriage.

So many terrible and strange events, crowding one upon the back of another, inducing an unusual mode of life, and putting every thing into disorder and perplexity, had brought a sort of feverish movement into all departments of the house. The hours of sleep and waking, of eating, drinking, and social conversation, were inverted. Except Theresa, none of them had kept in their accustomed course. The men endeavored, by increased potations, to recover their good-humor; and, thus communicating to themselves an artificial vivacity, they drove away that natural vivacity which alone imparts to us true cheerfulness, and strength for action. Wilhelm, in particular, was moved and agitated by the keenest feelings. Those unexpected, frightful incidents had thrown him out of all condition to resist a passion which had so forcibly seized his heart. Felix was restored to him, yet still it seemed that he had nothing: Werner’s letters, the directions for his journey, were in readiness; there was nothing wanting but the resolution to remove. Every thing conspired to hasten him. He could not but conjecture that Lothario and Theresa were awaiting his departure, that they might be wedded. Jarno was unusually silent: you would have said that he had lost a portion of his customary cheerfulness. Happily the doctor helped our friend, in some degree, from this embarrassment: he declared him sick, and set about administering medicine to him.

The company assembled always in the evening: Friedrich, the wild madcap, who usually drank more wine than was meet, took possession of the talk, and by a thousand frolicsome citations, fantasies, and waggish allusions, often kept the party laughing, often, also, threw them into awkward difficulties, by the liberty he took to think aloud. In the sickness of his friend he seemed to have little faith. Once, when they were all together, “Pray, doctor,” cried he, “how is it you call the malady our friend is laboring under? Will none of the three thousand names with which you decorate your ignorance apply to it? The disease at least is not without examples. There is one such case,” continued he, with an emphatic tone, “in the Egyptian or Babylonian history.” The company looked at one another, and smiled. “What call you the king?” - cried he, and stopped short a moment. “Well, if you will not help me, I must help myself.” He threw the door-leaves up, and pointed to the large picture in the ante-chamber. “What call you the goat-beard there, with the crown on, who is standing at the foot of the bed, making such a rueful face about his sick son? How call you the beauty who enters, and in her modest, roguish eyes, at once brings poison and antidote? How call you the quack of a doctor, who at this moment catches a glimpse of the reality, and, for the first time in his life, takes occasion to prescribe a reasonable recipe, to give a drug which cures to the very heart, and is at once salutiferous and savory?”

In this manner he continued babbling. The company took it with as good a face as might be, hiding their embarrassment behind a forced laugh. A slight blush overspread Natalia’s cheeks, and betrayed the movements of her heart. By good fortune she was walking up and down with Jarno: on coming to the door, with a cunning motion she slipped out, walked once or twice across the ante-chamber, and retired to her room. The company were silent: Friedrich began to dance and sing, - “Wonders will ye see anon! Whatsoever’s done is done, Said’s whatever’s said: straightway, E’er’t be day, Wonders will be shown.” - Editor’s version. Theresa had gone out to find Natalia: Friedrich pulled the doctor forward to the picture, pronounced a ridiculous eulogium on medicine, and glided from the room. Lothario had been standing all the while in the recess of a window: he was looking, without motion, down into the garden. Wilhelm was in the most dreadful state. Left alone with his friend, he still kept silence for a time; he ran with a hurried glance over all his history, and at last, with shuddering, surveyed his present situation: he started up, and cried, “If I am to blame for what is happening, for what you and I are suffering, punish me. In addition to my other miseries, deprive me of your friendship, and let me wander, without comfort, forth into the wide world, in which I should have mingled, and withdrawn myself from notice, long ago.

But if you see in me the victim of a cruel entanglement of chance, out of which I could not thread my way, then give me the assurance of your love, of your friendship, on a journey which I dare not now postpone. A time will come when I may tell you what has passed of late within me. Perhaps this is but a punishment which I am suffering, because I did not soon enough disclose myself to you, because I hesitated to display myself entirely as I was: you would have assisted me, you would have helped me out in proper season. Again and again have my eyes been opened to my conduct; but it was ever too late, it was ever in vain! How richly do I merit Jarno’s censure! I imagined I had seized it: how firmly did I purpose to employ it, to commence another life! Could I, might I, have done so? It avails not for mortals to complain of fate or of themselves. We are wretched, and appointed for wretchedness; and what does it matter whether blame of ours, higher influence or chance, virtue or vice, wisdom or folly, plunge us into ruin? Farewell! I will not stay another moment in a house where I have so fearfully violated the rights of hospitality. Your brother’s indiscretion is unpardonable: it aggravates my suffering to the highest pitch, it drives me to despair.”

“And what,” replied Lothario, taking Wilhelm by the hand, “what if your alliance with my sister were the secret article on which depended my alliance with Theresa? This amends that noble maiden has appointed for you: she has vowed that these two pairs should appear together at the altar. ‘His reason has made choice of me,’ said she; ‘his heart demands Natalia: my reason shall assist his heart.’ We agreed to keep our eyes upon Natalia and yourself: we told the abbé of our plan, who made us promise not to intermeddle with this union, or attempt to forward it, but to suffer every thing to take its course. We have done so: Nature has performed her part; our mad brother only shook the ripe fruit from the branch. And now, since we have come together so unusually, let us lead no common life: let us work together in a noble manner, and for noble purposes! It is inconceivable how much a man of true culture can accomplish for himself and others, if, without attempting to rule, he can be the guardian over many; can induce them to do that in season which they are at any rate disposed enough to do; can guide them to their objects, which in general they see with due distinctness, though they miss the road to them. Let us make a league for this: it is no enthusiasm, but an idea which may be fully executed, which, indeed, is often executed, only with imperfect consciousness, by people of benevolence and worth. Natalia is a living instance of it. No other need attempt to rival the plan of conduct which has been prescribed by Nature for that pure and noble soul.”

He had more to say, but Friedrich with a shout came jumping in. “What a garland have I earned!” cried he: “how will you reward me? Myrtle, laurel, ivy, leaves of oak, the freshest you can find, come twist them: I have merits far beyond them all. Natalia is thine! I am the conjurer who raised this treasure for thee.” “He raves,” said Wilhelm: “I must go.” “Art thou empowered to speak?” inquired Lothario, holding Wilhelm from retiring. “By my own authority,” said Friedrich, “and the grace of God. It was thus I was the wooer, thus I am the messenger: I listened at the door; she told the abbé every thing.” “Barefaced rogue! who bade thee listen?” said Lothario. “Who bade her bolt the door?” cried Friedrich. “I heard it all: she was in a wondrous pucker. In the night when Felix seemed so ill, and was lying half upon her knees, and thou wert sitting comfortless before her, sharing the beloved load, she made a vow, that, if the child died, she would confess her love to thee, and offer thee her hand. And now, when the child lives, why should she change her mind? What we promise under such conditions, we keep under any. Nothing wanting but the parson! He will come, and marvel what strange news he brings.”

The abbé entered. “We know it all,” cried Friedrich: “be as brief as possible; it is mere formality you come for, - they never send for you or me on any other score.” “He has listened,” said the baron. “Scandalous!” exclaimed the abbé. “Now, quick!” said Friedrich. “How stands it with the ceremonies? These we can reckon on our fingers. You must travel: the marchese’s invitation answers to a hair’s-breadth. If we had you once beyond the Alps, it will all be right: the people are obliged to you for undertaking any thing surprising; you procure them an amusement which they are not called to pay for. It is as if you gave a free ball: all ranks partake in it.” “In such popular festivities,” replied the abbé, “you have done the public much service in your time; but to-day, it seems, you will not let me speak at all.” “If it is not just as I have told it,” answered Friedrich, “let us have it better. Come round, come round: we must see them both together.” Lothario embraced his friend, and led him to Natalia, who, with Theresa, came to meet them. All were silent. “No loitering!” cried Friedrich. “In two days you may be ready for your travels. Now, think you, friend,” continued he, addressing Wilhelm, “when we first scraped acquaintance, and I asked you for the pretty nosegay, who could have supposed you were ever to receive a flower like this from me?”

“Do not, at the moment of my highest happiness, remind me of those times!” “Of which you need not be ashamed, any more than one need be ashamed of his descent. The times were very good times: only I cannot but laugh to look at thee; to my mind thou resemblest Saul the son of Kish, who went out to seek his father’s asses, and found a kingdom.” “I know not the worth of a kingdom,” answered Wilhelm; “but I know I have attained a happiness which I have not deserved, and which I would not change with any thing in life.” To travel now the Apprentice does essay, And every step is girt with doubt and danger: In truth, he uses not to sing or pray; But, is his path perplexed, this toilsome ranger Does turn an earnest eye, when mist’s above him, To his own heart, and to the hearts that love him. Scarce could tell you rightly Whether I’m the same or not, If you task me very tightly: Yes, this is my sense you’ve got, - Sense that vexes, then assuages, Now too light, and now too dark, But in some few hundred pages May again come to the mark.

Does Fortune try thee? She had cause to do’t: She wished thee temperate; obey, be mute! What, shap’st thou here at the world! ’tis shapen long ago; The Maker shaped it, he thought it best even so: Thy lot is appointed, go follow its hest; Thy way is begun, thou must walk, and not rest; For sorrow and care cannot alter thy case; And running, not raging, will win thee the race. Enweri tells us, a most royal man, The deepest heart and highest head to scan: “In every place, at every time, thy surest chance Lies in decision, justice, tolerance.” My inheritance, how wide and fair! Time is my estate: to time I’m heir. Now it is day: be doing, every one; For the night cometh, wherein work can none. And so I, in Tale adjoining, Lift old treasures into day; If not gold or perfect coining, They are metals any way: Thou canst sort them, thou canst sunder, Thou canst melt and make them one; Then take that with smiling wonder, Stamp it like thyself, my son.

Wilhelm was sitting under the shadow of a huge crag, on a shaggy, impressive spot, where the steep mountain path turned abruptly round a corner, down into the chasm. The sun was still high, and brightening the tops of the pine-trees in the clefts at his feet. He was looking at something in his note-book, when Felix, who had been clambering about, came to him with a stone in his hand. “What is the name of this stone, father?” said the boy. “I know not,” answered Wilhelm. “Can this be gold that glitters in it so?” said Felix. “No, no,” replied Wilhelm; “and now I remember, people call it mica, or cat-gold.” “Cat-gold!” said the boy, smiling. “And why?” “I suppose, because it is false, and cats are reckoned false too.” “Well, I will note that,” said the son, and put in the stone beside the rest with which he had already filled his pockets. Scarcely was this over when, adown the steep path, a strange enough appearance came in sight. Two boys, beautiful as day, in colored jackets which you might have taken for outer shirts, came bounding down, one after the other; and Wilhelm had opportunity of viewing them more closely, as they faltered on observing him, and stopped for a moment. Round the elder boy’s head waved rich, fair locks, which you looked at first, on observing him; and then his clear blue eyes attracted your attention, which spread itself with delight over his beautiful shape. The younger, more like a friend than a brother, was decked with brown, sleek hair, which hung down over his shoulders, and the reflection of which appeared to be imaged in his eyes.

These strange, and, in this wilderness, quite unexpected, beings, Wilhelm had not time to view more narrowly; for he heard a man’s voice calling down round the corner of the crag, in a serious, but friendly, tone, “Why do you stand still? Don’t stop the way.” Wilhelm looked upwards; and, if the children had surprised him, what he now saw filled him with astonishment. A stout, firm-set, not too tall, young man, tucked up for walking, of brown complexion and black hair, was stepping firmly and carefully down the rock-way, and leading an ass behind him, which first presented its glossy, well-trimmed head, and then the fair burden it bore. A soft, lovely woman was seated on a large and well-pannelled saddle: in her arms, within a blue mantle which hung over her, lay an infant, which she was pressing to her breast, and looking at with indescribable tenderness. The man did as the children had done, - faltered for a moment at sight of Wilhelm. The beast slackened its step, but the descent was too precipitous: the travellers could not halt; and Wilhelm with astonishment saw them vanish behind the contiguous wall of rocks. Nothing was more natural than that this singular procession should cut short his meditations. He rose in no small curiosity, and looked from his position towards the chasm, to see whether they would not again make their appearance somewhere below. He was just about descending to salute these strange travellers, when Felix came climbing up, and said, “Father, may I not go home with these boys to their house? They want to take me with them. Thou must go too, the man said to me. Come! They are waiting down there.”

“I will speak with them,” answered Wilhelm. He found them at a place where the path was more level, and he could not but gaze in wonder at the singular figures which had so strongly attracted his attention. Not till now had it been in his power to note the peculiarities of the group. The young, stout man, he found, had a joiner’s axe on his shoulder, and a long, thin iron square. The children bore in their hands large sedge-tufts, like palms; and if, in this point, they resembled angels, they likewise carried little baskets with shop-wares in them, thereby resembling the little daily posts, as they pass to and fro over the mountains. The mother also, he observed, on looking more leisurely, wore under her blue mantle a reddish, mild-colored, lower garment: so that “The Flight into Egypt,” which our friend had so often seen painted, he now, with amazement, saw bodied forth before his eyes. The strangers exchanged salutations; and as Wilhelm, from surprise and attention, could not speak, the young man said, “Our children have formed a friendship in these few moments. Will you go with us to see whether some kind relation will not spring up between the elder parties also?”

Wilhelm bethought himself an instant, and then answered, “The aspect of your little family procession awakens trust and good will, and, to confess it frankly, curiosity no less, and a lively desire to be better acquainted with you. For, at the first glance, one might ask himself the question, Whether you are real travellers, or only spirits that take pleasure in enlivening these uninhabitable mountains by pleasant visions?” “Then, come home with us to our dwelling,” said the other. “Come with us!” cried the children, already drawing Felix along with them. “Come with us!” said the woman, turning her soft kindliness from the suckling to the stranger. Without reflecting, Wilhelm answered, “I am sorry, that, for the present moment, I cannot follow you. This night, at least, I must spend up at the Border-house. My portmanteau, my papers, - all is lying up there, unpacked, intrusted to no one. But, that I may prove my wish and purpose to satisfy your friendly invitation, take my Felix with you as a pledge. To-morrow I shall see you. How far is it?” “We shall be home before sunset,” said the carpenter; “and from the Border-house you are but a league and a half. Your boy increases our household for this night, and to-morrow we expect you.”

The man and the animal set forth. Wilhelm smiled thoughtfully to see his Felix so soon received among the angels. The boy had already seized a sedge-tuft, and taken the basket from the younger of his companions. The procession was again on the point of vanishing behind a ledge of rock, when Wilhelm recollected himself, and cried, “But how shall I inquire you out?” “Ask for St. Joseph!” sounded from the hollow; and the whole vision had sunk behind the blue, shady wall of cliffs. A pious hymn, uplifted on a chorus of several voices, rose echoing from the distance; and Wilhelm thought he could distinguish the voice of his Felix among the rest. He ascended the path, and thus protracted the period of sunset. The heavenly star, which he had more than once lost sight of, illuminated him afresh as he mounted higher; and it was still day when he reached his inn. Once more he delighted himself with the vast mountain prospect, then withdrew to his chamber, where immediately he seized his pen, and passed a part of the night in writing. Now at last I have reached the summit, - the summit of the mountains, which will place a stronger separation betwixt us than all the tract I had passed over before. To my feeling, one is still in the neighborhood of those he loves, so long as the streams run down from him towards them. To-day I can still fancy to myself that the twig which I cast into the forest-brook may, perhaps, float down to her, may in a few days land at her garden;

and thus our spirit sends its images more easily, our heart its sympathies, by the same downward course. But over on the other side I fear there rises a wall of division against the imagination and the feelings. Yet this, perhaps, is but a vain anxiety; for over on the other side, after all, it will not be otherwise than it is here. What could part me from thee! From thee, whose own I am forever; though a strange destiny sunders me from thee, and unexpectedly shuts the heaven to which I stood so near. I had time to compose myself; and yet no time could have sufficed to give me that composure, had I not gained it from thy mouth, from thy lips, in that decisive moment. How could I have torn myself away, if the enduring thread had not been spun which is to unite us for time and eternity? Yet I must not speak of all this. Thy tender commands I will not break: on this mountain-top be it the last time that I name the word Separation before thee! My life is to become a restless wandering. Strange duties of the wanderer have I to fulfil, and peculiar trials to undergo. How I often smile within myself when I read the terms which thou prescribedst to me, which I prescribed to myself. Many of them have been kept, many broken; but, even while breaking them, this sheet is of use to me, this testimonial of my last confession, - of my last absolution: it speaks to me as an authoritative conscience, and I again turn to the right path. I watch myself; and my faults no longer rush like mountain torrents, one over the other.

Yet I will confess to thee I many times wonder at those teachers and guides of men who impose on their scholars nothing but external, mechanical duties. They make the task light for themselves as well as for the world. For this very part of my obligations, which at first seemed the heaviest, the strangest, I now observe with greatest ease, with greatest satisfaction. I am not to stay beyond three days under one roof. I am to quit no inn without removing at least one league from it. These regulations are, in truth, calculated to make my life a life of travel, and to prevent the smallest thought of settlement from taking hold of me. Hitherto I have fulfilled this condition to the letter, not even using all the liberty it grants me. This is the first time that I have paused: here, for the first time, I sleep three nights in the same bed. From this spot I send thee much that I have heard, observed, laid up for thee; and early in the morning I descend on the other side, - in the first place, to a strange family, I might almost say, a Holy Family, of which, in my journal, thou wilt find further notice. For the present, farewell; and lay down this sheet with the feeling that it has but one thing to say, but one thing which it would say and repeat forever; yet will not say it, will not repeat it now, till I have once more the happiness of lying at thy feet, and weeping over thy hands for all that I renounce.

My packing is done. The porter is girding the portmanteau on his dorsel. As yet, the sun is not up: vapors are streaming out of all the hollows, but the upper sky is clear. We step down into the gloomy deeps, which also will soon brighten over our heads. Let me send my last sigh home to thee! Let my last look towards thee be yet blinded with involuntary tears! I am decided and determined. Thou shalt hear no more complaints from me: thou shalt hear only what happens to the wanderer. And yet now, when I am on the point of ending, a thousand thoughts, wishes, hopes, and purposes come crowding through my soul. Happily the people force me away. The porter calls me; and mine host has already in my presence begun sorting the apartment, as if I were gone: thus feelingless, imprudent heirs do not hide from the departing testator their preparations for assuming management.

Already had the wanderer, following his porter on foot, left the steep rocks behind and above him: already were they traversing a softer mid-range of hills, and hastening through many a well-pruned wood, over many a friendly meadow, forward and forward; till at last they found themselves on a declivity, and looked down into a beautifully cultivated valley, begirt on all sides with hills. A large monastic edifice, half in ruins, half in repair, immediately attracted their attention. “This is St. Joseph,” said the porter. “Pity for the fine church! Do but look how fresh and firm it still holds up its pillars through bush and tree, though it has lain many hundred years in decay.” “The cloister, on the contrary,” said Wilhelm, “I observe, is kept in good state.” “Yes,” said the other: “there is a Schaffner lives here; he manages the husbandry, collects the dues and tithes, which the people far and wide have to pay him.” So speaking, they had entered through the open gate into a spacious court, surrounded with earnest-looking, well-kept buildings, and announcing itself as the residence of some peaceful community. Among the children playing in the area, Wilhelm noticed Felix: the other two were the angels of last night. The friendly trefoil came running towards him with salutations, and assurances that papa would soon be back. He, in the mean while, they said, must go into the hall, and rest himself.

How surprised was Wilhelm when the children led him into this apartment which they named the hall. Passing directly from the court, through a large door, our wanderer found himself in a very cleanly, undecayed chapel, which however, as he saw well enough, had been fitted up for the domestic uses of daily life. On the one side stood a table, a settle, some chairs and benches; on the other side a neatly carved dresser, with variegated pottery, jugs, and glasses. Some chests and trunks were standing in suitable niches: and, simple as the whole appeared, there was not wanting an air of comfort; and daily household life looked forth from it with an aspect of invitation. The light fell in from high windows on the side. But what most roused the attention of the wanderer was a series of colored figures painted on the wall, stretching under the windows, at a considerable height, round three quarters of the chapel, and hanging down to the wainscot, which covered the remainder of the wall to the ground. The pictures represented the history of St. Joseph. Here you might see him first employed with his carpentry work: here he meets Mary; and a lily is sprouting from the ground between them, while angels hover round observing them. Here his betrothing takes place: next comes the salutation of the angel. Here he is sitting disconsolate among his neglected work: he has laid by the axe, and is thinking to put away his wife.

But now appears the angel to him in a dream, and his situation changes. With reverence he looks on the new-born child in the stable at Bethlehem, and prays to it. Soon after this comes a wonderfully beautiful picture. You observe a quantity of timber lying dressed: it is just to be put together, and by chance two of the pieces form a cross. The child has fallen asleep on the cross; his mother sits by, and looks at him with heartfelt love; and the foster-father pauses with his labor, that he may not awaken him. Next follows the flight into Egypt: it called forth a smile from the gazing traveller, for he saw here on the walls a repetition of the living figures he had met last night.

He had not long pursued his contemplations, when the landlord entered, whom he directly recognized as the leader of the Holy Caravan. They saluted each other cordially: much conversation followed, yet Wilhelm’s chief attention continued fixed on the pictures. The host observed the feeling of his guest, and began with a smile, “No doubt you are wondering at the strange accordance of this building with its inhabitants, whom you last night got acquainted with. Yet it is, perhaps, still more singular than you suppose: the building has, in truth, formed the inhabitants. For, when the inanimate has life, it can also produce what has life.” “Yes, indeed!” answered Wilhelm: “I should be surprised if the spirit, which worked so powerfully in this mountain solitude long centuries ago, and drew round it such a mighty body of edifices, possessions, and rights, diffusing in return the blessings of manifold culture over the region, could not still, out of these ruins, manifest the force of its life on some living being. But let us not linger on general reflections: make me acquainted with your history; let me know how it can possibly have happened, that, without affectation and presumption, the past again represents itself in you, and what was, again is.”

Just as Wilhelm was expecting responsive information from the lips of his host, a friendly voice in the court cried, “Joseph!” The man obeyed it, and went out. “So he, too, is Joseph!” said Wilhelm to himself. “This is strange enough, and yet not so strange as that in his life he should personate his saint.” At the same time, looking through the door, he saw the Virgin Mother of last night speaking with her husband. They parted at last: the woman walked towards the opposite building. “Mary,” cried he after her, “a word more.” “So she, too, is Mary!” said Wilhelm inwardly. “Little would make me feel as if I were transported eighteen hundred years into the past!” He thought of the solemn and secluded valley in which he was, of the wrecks and silence all around; and a strange, antiquarian mood came over him. It was time for the landlord and children to come in. The latter called for Wilhelm to go and walk, as the landlord had still some business to do. And now came in view the ruins of the church, with its many shafts and columns, with its high peaks and walls; which looked as if gathering strength in the influence of wind and weather; for strong trees from of old had taken root in the broad backs of the walls, and now, in company with grass, flowers, and moss in great quantities, exhibited bold hanging gardens vegetating in the air. Soft sward-paths led you up the banks of a lively brook; and from a little elevation our wanderer could now overlook the edifice and its site with more interest, as its occupants had become still more singular in his eyes, and by their harmony with their abode had awakened his liveliest curiosity.

The promenaders returned, and found in the religious hall a table standing covered. At the upper end was an arm-chair, in which the mistress of the house took her seat. Beside her she had placed a high wicker-cradle, in which lay the little infant: the father sat next this on her left hand, Wilhelm on her right. The three children occupied the under space of the table. An old serving-maid brought in a well-readied meal. Eating and drinking implements alike pointed to the past. The children afforded matter for talk, while Wilhelm could not satisfy himself with looking at the form and the bearing of his saintly hostess. Their repast over, the company separated. The landlord took his guest to a shady spot in the ruin, where, from an elevated station, the pleasant prospect down the valley lay entire before them; and, farther off, the heights of the lower country, with their fruitful declivities and woody backs, were seen protruding one behind the other. “It is fair,” said the landlord, “that I satisfy your curiosity; and the rather, as I feel that you can view the strange with seriousness when you find it resting on a serious ground. This religious foundation, the remains of which are lying round us, was dedicated to the Holy Family, and in old times noted as a place of pilgrimage for many wonders done in it. The church was consecrated to the Mother and the Son. It has lain for several centuries in ruins. The chapel, dedicated to the holy foster-father, still remains, as does likewise the serviceable part of the cloister. The revenues have for many years belonged to a temporal prince, who keeps a steward or Schaffner here: this Schaffner am I, son of the last Schaffner, who also succeeded his father in the office.

“St. Joseph, though any regular worship of him has long ceased here, had been so helpful to our family, that it is not to be wondered at if they felt particularly well inclined towards him: hence came it that they had me baptized by the name of Joseph, and thereby, I may say, in some sense determined my whole future way of life. I grew up; and, if I used to help my father in managing the dues, I attached myself as gladly, nay, still more gladly, to my mother, who cheerfully distributed her bounty according to her fortune, and for her kindness and good deeds was known and loved over all the mountains. Erelong she would send me out, now this way, now that; now to fetch, now to carry, now direct; and I very speedily began to be at home in this sort of pious occupation. “In general, our mountain life has something more humane in it than the life of Lowlanders. The inhabitants here are nearer, and, if you will, more remote also. Our wants are smaller, but more pressing. Each man is placed more on his own footing: he must learn to depend on his own hands, on his own limbs. The laborer, the post, the porter, all unite in one person: each of us is more connected with the other, meets him oftener, and lives with him in joint activity.

“As I was still young, and my shoulders could not bear heavy burdens, I fell upon a thought of furnishing a little ass with panniers, which I might drive before me up and down the steep foot-paths. In the mountains the ass is no such despicable animal as in the plain country, where the laborer that ploughs with horses reckons himself better than he that turns his furrow with oxen. And I walked behind my beast with the less hesitation, as I had before observed in the chapel, that an animal of this same sort had been promoted to such honor as to carry God and his Mother. This chapel was not then, however, in the state you now see it in. It had been treated as a cart-house, nay, almost as a stable. Firewood, stakes, implements, barrels, and ladders, every thing that came to hand, lay huddled together in it. Lucky that the pictures were so high, and the wainscot could stand some hardships. But even in my childhood I used many a time to clamber over the wood, and delight myself with looking at the pictures, which no one could properly explain to me. However, I knew at least that the saint whose life stood depicted on these walls was my patron; and I rejoiced in him as much as if he had been my uncle. I waxed in stature; and it being an express condition, that whoever meant to aspire after this post of Schaffner must practise some handicraft, our family, desiring that I might inherit so good a benefice, determined on putting me to learn some trade, and such a one, at the same time, as might be useful here in our upland way of life.

“My father was a cooper, and had been accustomed to supply of himself whatever was required in that sort; from which there arose no little profit, both to himself and the country. But I could not prevail on myself to follow him in this business. My inclination drew me irresistibly to the joiner trade, the tools and materials of which I had seen, from infancy upwards, so accurately and circumstantially painted beside my patron saint. I signified my wish: nothing could be objected to it, - the less, as in our frequent buildings the carpenter is often wanted here; nay, if he have any sleight in his trade, and fondness for it, especially in forest districts, the arts of the cabinet-maker, and even of the carver, lie close beside his province. And what still further confirmed me in my higher purposes was a picture, which now, alas! is almost effaced. If once you know what it is meant to represent, you may still be able to decipher the figures, when I take you to look at it. St. Joseph had got no lower a commission than to make a throne for King Herod. The royal seat was to be erected between two given pillars. Joseph carefully measures the breadth and height, and fashions a costly throne. But how astonished is he, how alarmed, on carrying his finished work to the place: the throne is too high, and not broad enough. King Herod, as we know, was a man that did not understand jesting:

the pious wright is in the greatest perplexity. The divine Child, accustomed to follow him everywhere, and in childlike, humble sport to carry his tools after him, observes his strait, and is immediately at hand with advice and assistance. He requires of his foster-father to take hold of the throne by the one side, he himself grasps it by the other, and both begin to pull. Easily and pliantly, as if it had been made of leather, the carved throne extends in breadth, contracts proportionately in length, and fits itself to the place with the nicest accuracy, to the great comfort of the re-assured master, and the perfect satisfaction of the king.

“This throne was, in my youth, quite distinctly visible; and by the remains of the one side you will still be able to discern that there was no want of carving on it, - which, indeed, must have been easier for the painter than it would have been for the carpenter, had such a thing been required of him. “That circumstance, however, raised no scruples in me; but I looked on the handicraft to which I had devoted myself in so honorable a light, that I was all impatience to be apprenticed to it, - a longing which was the easier to fulfil, as a master of the trade lived in our neighborhood, who worked for the whole district, and kept several apprentices and journeymen about him. Thus I continued in the neighborhood of my parents, and to a certain extent pursued my former way of life also; seeing I employed my leisure hours and holidays in doing those charitable messages which my mother still intrusted to me.”

“So passed several years,” continued the narrator. “I very soon comprehended the principles of my trade; and my frame, expanded by labor, was equal to the undertaking of every thing connected with the business. At the same time I kept managing my ancient service, which my good mother, or rather the sick and destitute, required at my hands. I moved with my beast through the mountains, punctually distributed my lading, and brought back from shopkeepers and merchants what we needed here at home. “My master was contented with me, my parents also. Already I enjoyed the satisfaction, in my wanderings, of seeing many a house which I had helped to raise, or had myself decorated. For, in particular, that last notching of the beam-ends, that carving of certain simple forms, that branding in of pretty figures, that red painting of certain recesses, by which a wooden house in the mountains acquires so pleasant an aspect, - these arts were especially intrusted to me; as I always made the best hand of such tasks, having Herod’s throne and its ornaments constantly in my head. “Among the help-needing persons whom my mother took peculiar charge of, were particularly young wives near the time of their confinement, as by degrees I could well enough remark; though, in such cases, the commissions given me were veiled in a certain mystery. My messages, on these occasions, never reached directly to the party concerned; but every thing passed through the hands of a good old woman, who lived down the dale, and was called Frau Elizabeth.

My mother, herself skilful in the art which saves life to so many at their very entrance into life, constantly maintained a good understanding with Frau Elizabeth; and I often heard, in all quarters, that many a one of our stout mountaineers stood indebted for his existence to these two women. The secrecy with which Elizabeth received me at all times, her pointed replies to my enigmatical questions, which I myself did not understand, awoke in me a singular reverence for her; and her house, which was extremely clean, appeared to me to represent a sort of sanctuary.

“Meanwhile, by my acquirements and adroitness in my craft, I had gained considerable influence in the family. As my father, in the character of cooper, had taken charge of the cellar and its contents, I now took charge of roof and room, and repaired many a damaged part in the old building. In particular, I contrived to make some fallen barns and out-houses once more serviceable for domestic use; and scarcely was this done when I set about cleaning and clearing out my beloved chapel. In a few days it was put in order, almost as you see it at present; and such pieces of the wainscot as were damaged or altogether wanting, I had endeavored, as I went along, to restore in the same fashion as the rest. These door-leaves of the entrance, too, you might think, were old enough; yet they are of my workmanship. I passed several years in carving them at leisure hours, having first mortised the body of them firmly together out of strong oaken planks. Whatever of the pictures had not been effaced or injured at that time, has since continued unimpaired; and I assisted our glazier in a new house he was erecting, under the condition of his putting in colored windows here.

“If these figures and thoughts on the saint’s life had hitherto occupied my imagination, the whole impressed itself on me with much more liveliness, now that I could again regard the place as a sanctuary, could linger in it, and muse at leisure on what I saw or conjectured. There lay in me an irresistible desire to follow in the footsteps of this saint: and, as a similar history was not to be looked for in these times, I determined on commencing my resemblance from the lowest point upwards; as, indeed, by the use of my beast of burden, I had already commenced it long ago. The small creature which I had hitherto employed would no longer content me: I chose for myself a far more stately carrier, and got a large, stout saddle, which was equally adapted for riding and packing. A pair of new baskets were also procured; and a net of many-colored knots, flakes, and tufts, intermixed with jingling tags of metal, decorated the neck of my long-eared beast, which might now show itself beside its model on the wall. No one thought of mocking me when I passed over the mountains in this equipment: people do not quarrel with Benevolence for putting on a strange outside.