Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship and Travels

“Meanwhile, war, or rather its consequences, had approached our district; for dangerous bands of vagabond deserters had more than once collected, and here and there practised much violence and wanton mischief. By the good order of our provincial militia, by patrolling and prompt watchfulness, the evil was very soon remedied: but we too quickly relapsed into our former carelessness; and, before we thought of it, new disorders broke forth. “For a long time all had been quiet in our neighborhood, and I had travelled peacefully with my ass along the accustomed paths; till one day, passing over a newly sown glade of the forest, I observed a female form sitting, or rather lying, at the edge of the fence-ditch. She seemed to be asleep or in a swoon. I endeavored to recall her; and, as she opened her eyes and sat upright, she cried with eagerness, ‘Where is he? Did you see him?’ I asked, ‘Whom?’ She replied, ‘My husband.’ Considering her extremely youthful appearance, I had not been expecting this reply; yet I continued, so much the more kindly, to assist her, and assure her of my sympathy. I learned that the two travellers had left their carriage, the road being so heavy, and struck into a footpath to make a shorter cut. Hard by they had been overtaken by armed marauders; her husband had gone off fighting with them; she, not able to follow him far, had sunk on this spot, and lain there she knew not how long.

She pressingly begged of me to leave her, and hasten after her husband. She rose to her feet; and the fairest, loveliest form stood before me: yet I could easily observe that she was in a situation in which she might soon require the help of my mother and Frau Elizabeth. We disputed a while: for I wished, before all, to bring her to some place of safety; she wished, in the first place, to have tidings of her husband. She would not leave the trace of him; and all my arguments would perhaps have been unavailing, had not a party of our militia, which the tidings of fresh misdeeds had again called out into service, chanced to pass that way through the forest. These I informed of the matter: with them the necessary arrangements were made, the place of meeting appointed, and so the business settled for the time. With great expedition I hid my panniers in a neighboring cave, which had often served me before as a repository: I adjusted my saddle for easy riding, and, not without a strange emotion, lifted the fair burden on my willing beast, which, knowing of itself what path to choose, left me at liberty to walk by her side.

“You can figure to yourself, without my describing it at large, in what a strange mood I was. What I had long been seeking I had now found. I felt as if I were dreaming, and then again as if I were awakening from a dream. That heavenly form which I saw, as it were, hovering in the air, and bending aside from the green branches, now seemed to me like a dream which had risen in my soul through those figures in the chapel. Soon those figures themselves seemed to me to have been only dreams, which were here issuing in a fair reality. I asked her many things: she answered me softly and kindly, as beseemed a dignified distress. She often desired me, when we reached any open height, to stop, to look round, to listen. She desired me with such grace, with such a deep, wistful look from under her long black eyelashes, that I could not but do whatever lay in my power; nay, at last I climbed to the top of a high, solitary, branchless pine. Never had this feat of my handicraft been more welcome to me: never had I, with greater joy, brought down ribbons and silks from such elevations at festivals and fairs. But for this time, alas! I came back without booty: above, as below, I could hear or see nothing. In the end, she herself called me down, and beckoned to me earnestly with her hand: nay, at last, as in gliding down I quitted my hold a considerable way up, and dropped on the ground, she gave a scream; and a sweet kindliness spread over her face as she saw me before her unhurt.

“Why should I tell you in detail of the hundred attentions with which I strove the whole way to be pleasing, to divert her thoughts from her grief? Indeed, how could I? For it is the very quality of true attention, that, at the moment, it makes a nothing all. To my feeling, the flowers which I broke for her, the distant scenes which I showed her, the hills, the woods, which I named to her, were so many precious treasures which I was giving her to obtain for myself a place among her interests, as one tries to do by presents. “Already she had gained me for my whole life, when we reached our destination, at that good old woman’s door; and I saw a painful separation close at hand. Once more I ran over all her form; and, as my eyes came on her feet, I stooped as if to adjust something in my girdle, and kissed the daintiest shoe that I had ever seen, yet without her noticing me. I helped her down, sprang up the steps, and called in at the door, ‘Frau Elizabeth, here is a visitor!’ The good old woman came down: and I looked over her shoulders towards the house, as the fair being mounted the steps with graceful sorrow, and inward, painful self-consciousness; till she gratefully embraced my worthy old woman, and accompanied her into the better chamber. They shut the door; and I was left standing outside by my ass, like a man that has delivered a loading of precious wares, and is again as poor a carrier as before.”

“I was still lingering in my departure, for I knew not what to do if I were gone, when Frau Elizabeth came to the door, and desired me to send my mother down to her, and then to go about, and, if possible, get tidings of the husband. ‘Mary begs you very much to do this,’ said she. ‘Can I not speak with her again myself?’ replied I. ‘That will not do,’ said Elizabeth; and we parted. In a short time I reached our dwelling: my mother was ready that same night to go over, and be helpful to the young stranger. I hastened down the country, thinking I should get the surest intelligence at the Amtmann’s. But the Amtmann himself was still in uncertainty; and, as I was known to him, he invited me to pass the night there. It seemed interminably long; and still I had the fair form before my eyes, as she sat gently swaying in the saddle, and looking down to me so sorrowful and friendly. Every moment I hoped for news. To the worthy husband I honestly wished life and safety, and yet I liked so well to fancy her a widow! The ranging troops by little and little collected; and, after many variable rumors, the certainty at last came to light, that the carriage was saved, but the hapless traveller dead of his wounds in a neighboring village. I learned also, that, according to our first arrangement, some of the party had gone to communicate the melancholy tidings to Frau Elizabeth: consequently I had nothing more to do there. Yet a boundless impatience, an immeasurable longing, drove me over wood and mountain once more to her threshold. It was dark; the door was shut; I saw light in the room, I saw shadows moving on the curtains; and thus I sat watching on a bench opposite the house; still on the point of knocking, and still withheld by many considerations.

“But why should I go on describing to you what is in itself of no interest? In short, next morning, too, the house was shut against me. They knew the heavy tidings, they needed me no further; they sent me to my father, to my work; they would not answer my inquiries; they wanted to be rid of me. “For eight days this sort of treatment had continued, when at last Frau Elizabeth called me in. ‘Step softly, my friend,’ said she, ‘but enter without scruple.’ She led me into a trim apartment, where, in the corner, through the half-opened curtains, I saw my fair one dressed, and sitting upright in the bed. Frau Elizabeth went towards her as if to announce me, lifted something from the bed, and brought it me, - wrapped in the whitest swathings, the prettiest boy! Frau Elizabeth held it straight betwixt the mother and me; and just then the lily-stalk occurred to me, which, in the picture, springs from the ground between Joseph and Mary, as witness of the purity of their affection. From that moment I was certain of my cause, certain of my happiness. I could approach her with freedom, speak with her, bear her heavenly eye, take the boy on my arm, and imprint a warm kiss on his brow.

“‘How I thank you for the love you bear to that orphan child!’ said the mother. Unthinkingly and briskly I cried, ‘It is no orphan any longer, if you like!’ “Frau Elizabeth, more prudent than I, took the child from my hands, and got me put away. “To this hour, when I chance to be wandering over our mountains and forests, the remembrance of that time forms my happiest entertainment. I can still recall the slightest particulars; which, however, as is fit, I spare you at present. Weeks passed on: Mary was recovered; I could see her oftener; my intercourse with her was a train of services and attentions. Her family circumstances allowed her to choose a residence according to her pleasure. She first staid with Frau Elizabeth: then she paid us a visit, to thank my mother and me for so many and such friendly helps. She liked to live with us, and I flattered myself that it was partly on my account. What I wished to tell her, however, and durst not utter, came to words in a singular and pretty wise, when I took her into the chapel, which I had then fitted up as a habitual apartment. I showed her the pictures, and explained them to her one after the other, and, so doing, unfolded the duties of a foster-father in so vivid and cordial a manner that the tears came into her eyes, and I could not get to the end of my picture exhibition.

I thought myself certain of her affection, though I was not proud enough to wish so soon to efface the memory of her husband. The law imposes on widows a year of mourning; and, in truth, such an epoch, which includes in it the change of all earthly things, is necessary for a feeling heart, to alleviate the painful impressions of a great loss. We see the flowers fade and the leaves fall; but we likewise see fruits ripen, and new buds shoot forth. Life belongs to the living, and he who lives must be prepared for vicissitudes.

“I now spoke with my mother on the concern which lay so near my heart. She thereupon disclosed to me how grievous to Mary the death of her husband had been, and how she had borne up and gathered courage again, solely from the thought that she must live for her child. My inclination was not unknown to the women, and already Mary had accustomed herself to the idea of living with us. She staid a while longer in the neighborhood: then she came up to us, and we lived for a time in the gentlest and happiest state of betrothment. At last we wedded. That feeling which had first drawn us together did not fade away. The duties and joys of the father and the foster-father were united: and so our little family, as it increased, did certainly surpass its prototype in number of persons; but the virtues of that pattern, in respect to faithfulness, and purity of sentiments, were sacredly maintained and practised by us. And so also in friendly habitude we keep up the external appearance which we, by accident, arrived at, and which fits our internal state so well; for though all of us are good walkers, and stout bearers of weight, the beast of burden still remains in our company, when any business or visit takes us through these mountains and valleys. As you met us last night, so does the whole country know us; and we feel proud that our walk and conversation are of such a sort as not to throw disgrace on the saintly name and figure whose imitators we profess to be.”

I now conclude a pleasant, half-marvellous history, which I have just written down for thee, from the mouth of a very worthy man. If I have not always given his very words; if here and there, in describing his sentiments, I have expressed my own, - this, considering the relationship of mind I feel with him, was natural enough. His reverence for his wife, does it not resemble that which I entertain for thee? And is there not, even in the first meeting of these lovers, something similar to ours? But that he is fortunate enough to walk beside his animal, as it bears the doubly beautiful burden; that he can enter at evenings, with his family possession, through the old cloister-gate; that he is inseparable from his own loved ones, - in all this, I may well secretly envy him. Yet I must not complain of my destiny; seeing I have promised thee that I will suffer and be silent, as thou also hast undertaken. Many a fair feature in the domestic union of these devout and cheerful persons I have been obliged to omit, for how could it be depicted in writing? Two days have passed over me agreeably, but the third warns me to be mindful of my farther wayfaring.

With Felix I had a little quarrel to-day. He was almost for compelling me to break through one wholesome regulation, for which I stand engaged to thee. It has been an error, a misfortune, in short, an arrangement of Fate with me hitherto, that, before I am aware, my company increases; that I take a new burden on my shoulders, which thenceforth I have to bear, and drag along with me. So, in my present wanderings, no third party is to become a permanent associate with us. We are, we will and must continue, Two; and just now a new, and not very pleasing, connection, seemed about to be established. To the children of the house, with whom Felix has gayly passed these days in sporting, there had joined himself a little merry beggar-boy, who, submitting to be used or misused as the play required, had very soon got into favor with Felix. By various hints and expressions, I now gathered that the latter had found himself a playmate for the next stage of our journey. The boy is known in this quarter, and everywhere tolerated for his lively humor, and now and then obtains an alms. Me, however, he did not please; and I desired our host to get him sent away. This likewise took place; but Felix was angry at it, and we had a little flaw of discord.

In the course of this affair, I discovered something which was pleasant to me. In the corner of the chapel, or hall, stood a box of stones, which Felix, who, since our wanderings through the mountains, has acquired an excessive fondness for minerals, eagerly drew forth and examined. Many pretty eye-catching things were among them. Our landlord said the child might choose out what he liked: these were the remains of a large collection which a friend had despatched thence a short while ago. He called this person Montan; and thou wilt easily suppose how glad I was to hear this name, under which one of our best friends is travelling, one to whom we owe so much. Having inquired into date and circumstances, I can now hope to meet him erelong on my pilgrimage.

The news that Montan was in the neighborhood had made Wilhelm reflect. He considered that it ought not to be left to chance alone whether he should meet with so estimable a friend, therefore he inquired of his landlord if they did not know towards what quarter this traveller had turned his course. No one had any information on this point; and Wilhelm had determined to pursue his pilgrimage on the former plan, when Felix cried, “If father were not so strange, we might soon find Montan.” “What way?” said Wilhelm. Felix answered, “Little Fitz told us last night that he could trace out the stranger gentleman, who had many fine stones with him, and understood them well.” After some talking, Wilhelm at last resolved on making the experiment; purposing, in the course of it, to keep so much the sharper watch on the suspicious boy. Fitz was soon found; and, hearing what was to be done, he soon produced mallet and chisel, and a stout hammer, with a little bag, and set forth, running merrily before the party, in his mining accoutrements. The way went to a side, and up the mountains. The children skipped on together, from crag to crag, over stock and stone, over brook and bourn; and, without having any path before him, Fitz pressed rapidly upwards, now looking to the right hand, now to the left. As Wilhelm, and especially the laden porter, could not follow so fast, the boys often ran back and forward, singing and whistling.

The aspect of some new trees arrested the attention of Felix, who now, for the first time, formed acquaintance with larches and fir-cones, and curiously surveyed the strange gentian shrubs. And thus, in their toilsome wandering, there lacked not from time to time a little entertainment. But all at once they were fronted by a barricado of trees, which a storm had hurled together in a confused mass. “This was not in my reckoning,” said Fitz. “Wait here till I find my way again, only have a care of the cave up there: no one goes into it or near it, without getting harm, or having tricks played on him.”

The boy went off in an ascending direction: the porter, on the other hand, grumbling at the excessive difficulty of the way, set down his luggage, and searched sidewards and downwards for some beaten path. No sooner did Felix see himself alone with his father, than his curiosity awoke, and he glided softly toward the cave. Wilhelm, who gave him leave, observed after some time that the child was no longer in sight. He himself mounted to the cave, at the mouth of which he had last seen the boy; and, on entering, he found the place empty. It was spacious, but could be taken in at a glance. He searched for some other outlet, and found none. The matter began to be serious. He took the whistle which he wore at his button-hole: an answer to his call came sounding out of the depth, so that he was uncertain whether he should take it for an echo, when, shortly afterwards, Felix peeped out of the ground; for the chink through which he looked was scarcely wide enough to let through his head. “What art thou about there?” cried his father. “Hush!” said Felix: “art thou alone?” “Quite alone,” answered Wilhelm.

“Then, go quick,” cried the boy, “and fetch me a couple of strong clubs.” Wilhelm went to the fallen timber, and, with his hanger, cut off a pair of thick staves: Felix took them, and vanished, having first called to his father, “Let no one into the cave!” After some time Felix cried, “Another pair of staves, and larger ones!” With these also his father provided him, and waited anxiously for the solution of his riddle. At length the boy issued rapidly from the cleft, and brought a little box with him, not larger than an octavo volume, of rich, antique appearance: it seemed to be of gold, decorated with enamel. “Put it up, father,” said the boy, “and let none see it.” Wilhelm had not time to ask many questions, for they already heard the call of the returning porter; and scarcely had they joined him, when the little squire also began to shout and wave from above. On their approach he cried out, “Montan is not far off: I bet we shall soon meet him.” “How canst thou know this,” said Wilhelm, “in so wild a forest, where no human being leaves any trace behind him?” “That is my knack,” said Fitz; and, like a Will-o’-wisp, he hopped off hither and thither, in a side direction, to lead his masters the strangest road.

Felix, in the mean while, highly satisfied in the treasure he had found, highly delighted at possessing a secret, kept close by his father, without, as formerly, skipping up and down beside his comrade. He nodded to Wilhelm with sparkling eyes; glancing towards his companion, and making significant faces, to indicate how much he was above Fitz now, in possessing a secret entirely wanting to the other. He carried it so far at length, that Fitz, who often stopped and looked about, must very soon have noticed it. Wilhelm therefore said to Felix, “My son, whoever wishes to keep a secret must hide from us that he possesses one. Self-complaisance over the concealed destroys its concealment.” Felix restrained himself; but his former gay, free manner to his comrade he could not now attain. All at once little Fitz stood still. He beckoned the rest to him. “Do you hear a beating?” said he. “It is the sound of a hammer striking on the rock.” “We hear it,” answered they. “That is Montan,” said he, “or some one who will tell us of him.” Following the sound, which was repeated from time to time, they reached an opening in the wood, and perceived a steep, high, naked rock, towering over all the rest, leaving even the lofty forest deep beneath it. On the top of it they descried a man: he was too far off to be recognized. Immediately the boys set about ascending the precipitous path.

Wilhelm followed with some difficulty, nay, danger: for the person that climbs a rock foremost always proceeds with more safety, because he can look out for his conveniences; he who comes after sees only whither the other has arrived, but not how. The boys soon reached the top, and Wilhelm heard a shout of joy. “It is Jarno,” cried Felix to his father; and Jarno immediately came forward to a rugged spot, stretched out his hand to his friend, and drew him up. They embraced, and welcomed each other into the free, skyey air, with the rapture of old friends.

But scarcely had they stepped asunder, when a giddiness came over Wilhelm, not so much on his own account, as at seeing the boys hanging over the frightful abyss. Jarno observed it, and immediately bade all sit down. “Nothing is more natural,” said he, “than that we should grow giddy at a great sight, which comes unexpectedly before us, to make us feel at once our littleness and our greatness. But there is not in the world any truer enjoyment than at the moment when we are so made giddy for the first time.” “Are these, then, down there, the great mountains we climbed over?” inquired Felix. “How little they look! And here,” continued he, loosening a crumb of stone from the rock, “is the old cat-gold again: this is found everywhere, I suppose?” “It is found far and wide,” answered Jarno; “and, as thou art asking after such things, I may bid thee notice that thou art now sitting on the oldest mountain, on the earliest rock, of this world.” “Was the world not made at once, then?” said Felix. “Hardly,” answered Jarno: “good bread needs baking.” “Down there,” said Felix, “is another sort of rock; and there again another, and still again another,” cried he, pointing from the nearest mountains to the more remote, and so downward to the plain.

It was a beautiful day, and Jarno let them survey the lordly prospect in detail. Here and there stood several other peaks, similar to the one our travellers were on. A secondary moderate range of mountains seemed as if struggling up, but did not by far attain that height. Farther off, the surface flattened still more; yet again some strangely protruding forms rose to view. At last, in the remote distance, lakes were visible, and rivers; and a fruitful country spread itself out like a sea. And, when the eye came back, it pierced into frightful depths, sounding with cataracts, and connected with each other in labyrinthic combination. Felix could not satisfy himself with questions, and Jarno was kind enough to answer all of them; in which, however, Wilhelm thought he noticed that the teacher did not always speak quite truly and sincerely. So, after the unstaid boys had again clambered off, Wilhelm said to his friend, “Thou hast not spoken with the child about these matters as thou speakest to thyself.” “That, indeed, were a heavy requisition,” answered Jarno. “We do not always speak, even to ourselves, as we think; and it is not fit to tell others any thing but what they can take up. A man understands nothing but what is commensurate with him. To fix a child’s attention on what is present; to give him a description, a name, - is the best thing we can do for him. He will soon enough begin to inquire after causes.”

“One cannot blame this latter tendency,” observed Wilhelm. “The multiplicity of objects perplexes every one; and it is easier, instead of investigating them, to ask directly, whence and whither?” “And yet,” said Jarno, “as children look at what is present only superficially, we cannot speak with them of origin and object otherwise than superficially also.” “Most men,” answered Wilhelm, “continue all their days in this predicament, and never reach that glorious epoch in which the comprehensible appears to us common and insipid.” “It may well be called glorious,” answered Jarno; “for it is a middle stage between despair and deification.” “Let us abide by the boy,” said Wilhelm, “who is, at present, my first care. He has, somehow, got a fondness for minerals since we began this journey. Canst thou not impart so much to me as would put it in my power to satisfy him, at least for a time?” “That will not do,” said Jarno. “In every new department one must, in the first place, begin again as a child: throw a passionate interest over the subject; take pleasure in the shell till one has the happiness to arrive at the kernel.” “Tell me, then,” said Wilhelm, “how hast thou attained this knowledge? For it is not so very long, after all, since we parted.”

“My friend,” said Jarno, “we were forced to resign ourselves, if not forever, at least for a long season. The first thing that occurs to a stout-hearted man, under such circumstances, is to begin a new life. New objects will not suffice him; these serve only for diversion of thought: he requires a new whole, and plants himself in the middle of it.” “But why, then,” interrupted Wilhelm, “choose this strangest and loneliest of all pursuits?” “Even because of its loneliness,” cried Jarno. “Men I wished to avoid. To them we can give no help, and they hinder us from helping ourselves. Are they happy, we must let them persevere in their stolidities; are they unhappy, we must save them without disturbing these stolidities; and no one ever asks whether Thou art happy or unhappy.” “It is not quite so bad with them, surely,” answered Wilhelm, smiling. “I will not talk thee out of thy happiness,” said Jarno. “Go on thy way, thou second Diogenes! Let not thy lamp in daylight go out! Down on that side lies a new world before thee; but, I dare wager, things stand there as in the old one. If thou canst not pimp, and pay debts, thou availest nothing.”

“Yet they seem to me more entertaining than thy dead rocks,” said Wilhelm. “Not they!” answered Jarno, “for my rocks are at least incomprehensible.”

The two friends had descended, not without care and labor, to reach the children, who were now lying in a shady spot down below. With almost greater eagerness than their picnic repast, the collected rock specimens were unpacked by Montan and Felix. The latter had much to ask, the former much to nominate. Felix was delighted that his new teacher could give him names for all, and he speedily committed them to memory. At length he produced another specimen, and asked, “What do you call this, then?” Montan viewed it with surprise, and said, “Where did you get it?” Fitz answered promptly, “I found it myself: it is of this country.” “Not of this quarter,” said Montan. Felix rejoiced to see his master somewhat puzzled. “Thou shalt have a ducat,” said Montan, “if thou bring me to the spot where it lies.” “That is easy to earn,” answered Fitz, “but not immediately.” “Then, describe the place to me accurately, that I may not fail to find it: but the thing is impossible; for this is a cross-stone, which comes from Santiago in Compostella, and which some stranger has lost, - if, indeed, thou hast not stolen it from him, for its curious look.”.

“Give your ducat into my master’s hands,” said Fitz, “and I will honestly confess where I got the stone. In the ruined church at St. Joseph there is likewise a ruined altar. Under the top-stones, which are all broken and heaped together, I discovered a layer of this rock, which has been the foundation of the other, and broke off from it as much as I could come at. If the upper stones were cleared away, one might find much more of it there.” “Take thy ducat,” said Montan: “thou deservest it for this discovery. It is pretty enough. Men naturally rejoice when inanimate nature produces any likeness of what they love and reverence. Nature then appears to us in the form of a sibyl, who has beforehand laid down a testimony of what had been determined from eternity, and was not to be realized till late in time. On this rock, as on a sacred, mysterious, primeval basis, the priests had built their altar.” Wilhelm, who had listened for a while, and observed that many names, many designations, were repeatedly mentioned, again signified his former wish, that Montan would impart to him so much as was required for the primary instruction of the boy. “Give that up,” replied Montan. “There is nothing more frightful than a teacher who knows only what his scholars are intended to know. He who means to teach others may, indeed, often suppress the best of what he knows; but he must not be half instructed.”

“But where are such perfect teachers to be had?” “These thou wilt find very easily,” replied Montan. “Where, then?” said Wilhelm, with some unbelief. “Where the thing thou art wishing to learn is in practice,” said Montan. “Our best instruction we obtain from complete conversance. Dost thou not learn foreign languages best in the countries where they are at home? - where only these and no other strike thy ear?” “And so it was among the mountains,” inquired Wilhelm, “that thy knowledge of mountains was acquired?” “Without help from men?” “At least only from men who were miners. There, where the pygmies, allured by the metallic veins, bore through the rock, making the interior of the earth accessible, and in a thousand ways endeavoring to solve the hardest problems, - there is the place where an inquiring thinker ought to take his stand. He looks on action and effort, watches the progress of enterprises, and rejoices in the successful and the unsuccessful. What is useful forms but a part of the important. Fully to possess, to command, and rule an object, we must first study it for its own sake.” “Is there such a place in the neighborhood?” said Wilhelm. “I should like to take Felix thither.”

“The question I can answer in the affirmative,” replied Montan, “the project not exactly assent to. At least, I must first tell thee, that thou hast the power of choosing among many other branches of activity, of knowledge, of art, for thy Felix, some of which might, perhaps, suit him better than this sudden fancy which he has taken up at the moment, most probably from mere imitation.” “Explain thyself more clearly,” interrupted Wilhelm. “Thou must know, then,” said Montan, “that we are here on the borders of a province, which I might justly call a Pedagogic Utopia. In the conviction that only one thing can be carried on, taught, and communicated with full advantages, several such points of active instruction have been, as it were, sown over a large tract of country. At each of these places thou wilt find a little world, but so complete within its limitation, that it may represent and model any other of these worlds, nay, the great busy world itself.” “I do not altogether comprehend what thou canst mean by this,” interrupted Wilhelm. “Thou shalt soon comprehend it,” said the other. “As down, not far from this, among the mountains, thou wilt, in the first place, find collected round a mass of metalliferous rocks, whatever is of use for enabling man to appropriate these treasures of Nature, and, at the same time, to acquire general conceptions of moulding the ruggedness of inanimate things more dexterously to his own purposes; so down in the lowest level, far out on the plain, where the soil spreads into large meadows and pastures, thou wilt find establishments for managing another important treasure which Nature has given to men.”

“And this?” inquired Wilhelm. “Is the horse,” replied the other. “In that last quarter thou art in the midst of every thing which can instruct one on the training, diet, growth, and likewise employment, of this noble animal. As in these hills all are busy digging, boring, climbing; so there nothing is more anxiously attended to than the young brood, springing, as it were, out of the ground: and every one is occupied foddering, grazing, driving, leading, curbing them, mounting their backs, and in all sorts of movements, natural and artificial, coursing with them over the plain.” Felix, who had approached in the deepest attention, exclaimed, interrupting him, “Oh, thither will we! That is the prettiest, the best, of all.” “It is far thither,” answered Jarno; “and thou wilt find something more agreeable and suitable, perhaps, by the way. Any species of activity,” continued he, “attracts the fondness of a child; for every thing looks easy that is practised to perfection. All beginnings are hard, says the proverb. This, in a certain sense, may be true: but we might say, with a more universal application, All beginnings are easy; and it is the last steps that are climbed most rarely and with greatest difficulty.”

Wilhelm, who had been reflecting in the mean while, now said to Montan, “Is it actually so, as thou sayest, that these people have separated the various sorts of activity, both in the practice and teaching of them?” “They have done it,” said Montan, “and with reason. Whatever any man has to effect, must emanate from him like a second self; and how could this be possible, were not his first self entirely pervaded by it?” “Yet has not a general culture been reckoned very advantageous?” “It may really be so,” replied the other: “every thing in its time. Now is the time of specialties. Happy he who understands this, and works for himself and others in that spirit.” “In my spirit it cannot be,” replied Wilhelm; “but tell me, if I thought of sending Felix, for a while, into one of these circles, which wouldst thou recommend to me?” “It is all one,” said Jarno. “You cannot readily tell which way a child’s capacity particularly points. For me, I should still advise the merriest trade. Take him to those horse-subduers. Beginning as a groom is, in truth, little easier than beginning as an ore-beater: but the prospect is always gayer; you can hope at least to get through the world riding.”

It is easy to conceive that Wilhelm had many other doubts to state, and many further explanations to require: these Jarno settled in his usual laconic way, but at last he broke out as follows: “In all things, to serve from the lowest station upwards is necessary. To restrict yourself to a trade is best. For the narrow mind, whatever he attempts is still a trade; for the higher, an art; and the highest, in doing one thing, does all; or, to speak less paradoxically, in the one thing which he does rightly, he sees the likeness of all that is done rightly. Take thy Felix,” continued he, “through the province: let the directors see him; they will soon judge him, and dispose of him to the best advantage. The boy should be placed among his equals, otherwise he seeks them for himself, and then, in his associates, finds only flatterers or tyrants.”

The third day being over, the friends, in conformity to the engagement of our renunciants, had to part; and Jarno declared he would now fly so far into the waste mountains, that no one should be able to discover him. “There is nothing more frightful,” said he, “in a state like ours, than to meet an old, true friend, to whom we can communicate our thoughts without reserve. So long as one is by himself, one fancies there is no end to the novelties and wonders he is studying: but let the two talk a while together, right from the heart; one sees how soon all this is exhausted. Nothing is endless but inanity. Clever people soon explain themselves to one another, and then they have done. But now I will dive into the chasms of the rocks, and with them begin a mute, unfathomable conversation.” “Have a care,” said Wilhelm, smiling, “lest Fitz come upon thy track. This time, at least, he succeeded in finding thee.” “How didst thou manage that?” said Montan. “After all, it was only chance.” “Not in the least,” answered Fitz: “I will tell you my secret for a fair consideration. You mineralogists, wherever you go, keep striking to the right and left; from every stone, from every rock, breaking off a piece, as if gold and silver were hid in them. One has but to follow this trace; and, where any corner shows a fresh breakage, there some of you have been. One notes and notes, forward and forward, and at last comes upon the man.”

Fitz was praised and rewarded. The friends parted. - Montan alone, the little caravan in company. Wilhelm had settled the place they should make for. The porter proposed a road to it; but the children had taken a fancy for looking, by the way, at the Giant’s Castle, of which Fitz had talked so much. Felix was curious about the large, black pillars, the great door, the cellar, the caves, and vaults, and hoped he might perhaps find something there, - something of even greater value than the box. How he came by this he had, in the interim, informed his father. Creeping through the cleft, it appeared he had got down into an open space pretty well lighted, and noticed in the corner of it a large iron chest, the lid of which, though it was not locked, he could not lift, but only raise a very little. To get into this, he had called to his father for the staves, which he had employed partly as props under the lid, partly as levers to heave it up, and so at length forcing his way into the chest, had found it wholly empty, except for the little box which was lying in one of the nooks. This toy they had shown Montan, who agreed with them in opinion, that it should be kept unopened, and no violence done to it; for it could not be unlocked except by a very complicated key.

The porter declined going with the rest to the Giant’s Castle, and proceeded down the smooth footpath by himself. The others toiled after Fitz through moss and tangle, and at length reached the natural colonnade, which, towering over a huge mass of fragments, rose black and wondrous into the air. Yet, without much regarding what he saw before his eyes, Felix instantly began inquiring for the other promised marvels; and, as none of them was to be seen, Fitz could excuse himself no otherwise than by declaring that these things were never visible except on Sundays and particular festivals, and then only for a few hours. The boys remained convinced that the pillared palace was a work of men’s hands: Wilhelm saw well that it was a work of Nature, but he could have wished for Montan to speak with on the subject. They now proceeded rapidly down hill, through a wood of high, taper larches, which, becoming more and more transparent, erelong exposed to view the fairest spot you can imagine, lying in the clearest sunshine. A large garden, seemingly appropriated to use, not ornament, lay richly furnished with fruit-trees, yet open before their eyes; for the ground, sloping, on the whole, had been regularly cut into a number of divisions, now raised, now hollowed in manifold variety, and thus exhibited a complex waving surface. Several dwelling-houses stood scattered up and down, so that it seemed as if the space belonged to several proprietors; yet Fitz assured them that one individual owned and directed the whole. Beyond the garden stretched a boundless landscape, beautifully cultivated and planted, in which lakes and rivers might be distinguished in the distance.

Still descending, they had approached nearer and nearer, and were now expecting in a few moments to be in the garden, when Wilhelm all at once stopped short, and Fitz could not hide his roguish satisfaction; for a yawning chasm at the foot of the mountain opened before them, and showed on the other side a wall which had hitherto been concealed, steep enough without, though within it was quite filled up with soil. A deep trench, therefore, separated them from the garden, into which they were directly looking. “We have still a good circuit to make,” said Fitz, “before we get the road that leads in. However, I know an entrance on this side, which is much shorter. The vaults where the hill-water in time of rain is let through, in regular quantities, into the garden, open here: they are high, and broad enough for one to walk along without difficulty.” The instant Felix heard of vaults, he insisted on taking this passage and no other. Wilhelm followed the children; and the party descended the large steps of this covered aqueduct, which was now lying quite dry. Down below they found themselves sometimes in light, sometimes in darkness, according as the side-openings admitted day, or the walls and pillars excluded it. At last they reached a pretty even space, and were slowly proceeding, when all at once a shot went off beside them; and at the same time two secret iron-grated doors started out, and enclosed them on both sides. Not, indeed, the whole of them: Wilhelm and Felix only were caught. For Fitz, the instant he heard the shot, sprang back; and the closing grate caught nothing but his wide sleeve: he himself, nimbly throwing off his jacket, had darted away without loss of a moment.

The two prisoners had scarcely time to recover from their astonishment, till they heard voices, which appeared to be slowly approaching. In a little while some armed men with torches came forward to the grate, looking with eager eyes what sort of capture they had made. At the same time they asked if the prisoners would surrender peaceably. “Surrender is not the word here,” said Wilhelm: “we are already in your power. It is rather our part to ask, whether you will spare us? The only weapon we have, I give up to you.” And with these words he handed his hanger through the grate: this opened directly, and the two strangers were led forward by the party with great composure. After a short while they found themselves in a singular place: it was a spacious, cleanly apartment, with many little windows at the very top of the walls; and these, notwithstanding the thick iron gratings, admitted light enough. Seats, sleeping-places, and whatever else is expected in a middling inn, had been provided; and it seemed as if any one placed here could want nothing but freedom. Wilhelm, directly after entering, had sat down to consider his situation: Felix, on the other hand, on recovering from his astonishment, broke out into an incredible fury. These large walls, these high windows, these strong doors, this seclusion, this restriction, were entirely new to him. He looked round and round, he ran hither and thither, stamped with his feet, wept, rattled the doors, struck against them with his fists, nay, was even on the point of running at them with his head, had not Wilhelm seized him, and held him fast between his knees.

“Do but look at the thing calmly, my son,” began he; “for impatience and violence cannot help us. The mystery will clear up; and I must be widely mistaken, or we are fallen into no wicked hands. Read these inscriptions: ‘To the innocent, deliverance and reparation; to the misled, compassion; and, to the guilty, avenging justice.’ All this bespeaks to us that these establishments are works, not of cruelty, but of necessity. Men have but too much cause to secure themselves from men. Of ill-wishers there are many, of ill-doers not few; and, to live fitly, well-doing will not always suffice.” Felix still sobbed; but he had pacified himself in some degree, more by the caresses than the words of his father. “Let this experience,” continued Wilhelm, “which thou gainest so early and so innocently, remain a lively testimony to thy mind, in how complete and accomplished a century thou livest. What a journey had human nature to travel before it reached the point of being mild, even to the guilty, merciful to the injurious, humane to the inhuman! Doubtless they were men of godlike souls who first taught this, who spent their lives in rendering the practice of it possible, and recommending it to others. Of the beautiful, men are seldom capable, oftener of the good; and how highly should we value those who endeavor, with great sacrifices, to forward that good among their fellows!”

Felix, in the course of this consolatory speech, had fallen quietly asleep on his father’s bosom; and scarcely had the latter laid him down on one of the ready-made beds, when the door opened, and a man of prepossessing appearance stepped in. After looking kindly at Wilhelm for some time, he began to inquire about the circumstances which had led him by the private passage, and into this predicament. Wilhelm related the affair as it stood, produced some papers which served to explain who he was, and referred to the porter, who, he said, must soon arrive on the other side, by the usual road. This being so far explained, the official person invited his guest to follow him. Felix could not be awakened, and his father carried him asleep from the place which had incited him to such violent passion. Wilhelm followed his conductor into a fair garden-apartment, where refreshments were set down, which he was invited to partake of; while the other went to report the state of matters to his superior. When Felix, on awakening, perceived a little covered table, fruit, wine, biscuit, and, at the same time, the cheerful aspect of a wide-open door, he knew not what to make of it. He ran out, he ran back; he thought he had been dreaming; and in a little while, with such dainty fare and such pleasant sights, the preceding terror and all his obstruction had vanished like an oppressive vision in the brightness of morning.

The porter had arrived; the officer, with another man of a still friendlier aspect, brought him in; and the business now came to light, as follows: The owner of this property, charitable in this higher sense, that he studied to awaken all round him to activity and effort, had, for several years, been accustomed, from his boundless young plantations, to give out the small wood to diligent and careful cultivators, gratis; to the negligent, for a certain price; and to such as wished to trade in it, likewise at a moderate valuation. But these two latter classes, also, had required their supplies gratis, as the meritorious were treated; and, this being refused them, they had attempted stealing trees. Their attempt succeeded in many ways. This vexed the owner the more, as not only were the plantations plundered, but, by too early thinning, often ruined. It had been discovered that the thieves entered by this aqueduct: so the trap-gate had been erected in the place, with a spring-gun, which, however, was only meant for a signal. This little boy had, under various pretexts, often made his appearance in the garden; and nothing was more natural than that, out of mischief and audacity, he should lead the stranger by a road which he had formerly discovered for other purposes. The people could have wished to get hold of him: meanwhile, his little jacket was brought in, and put by among other judicial seizures.

Wilhelm was now made acquainted with the owner and his people, and by them received with the friendliest welcome. Of this family we shall say nothing more here, as some further light on them and their concerns is offered us by the subsequent history.

Man is of a companionable, conversing nature: his delight is great when he exercises faculties that have been given him, even though nothing further came of it. How often in society do we hear the complaint that one will not let the other speak; and in the same manner, also, we might say, that one would not let the other write, were not writing an employment commonly transacted in private and alone. How much people write, one could scarcely ever conjecture. I speak not of what is printed, though that, in itself, is abundant enough, but of all that, in the shape of letters and memorials and narratives, anecdotes, descriptions of present circumstances in the life of individuals, sketches, and larger essays, circulates in secret: of this you can form no idea, till you have lived for some time in a community of cultivated families, as I am now doing. In the sphere where I am moving at present, there is almost as much time employed in informing friends and relatives of what is transacted as was employed in transacting it. This observation, which for several weeks has been constantly forced on me, I now make with the more pleasure, as the writing tendency of my new friends enables me, at once and perfectly, to get acquainted with their characters and circumstances. I am trusted: a sheaf of letters is given to me, some quires of a travelling-journal, the confessions of some mind not yet in unity with itself;

and thus everywhere, in a little while, I am at home. I know the neighboring circle, I know the persons whose acquaintance I am to obtain: I understand them better, almost, than they do themselves; seeing they are still implicated in their situation, while I hover lightly past them, ever with thy hand in mine, ever speaking with thee about all I see. Indeed, it is the first condition I make before accepting any confidence offered me, that I may impart it to thee. Here, accordingly, are some letters which will introduce thee into the circle in which, without breaking or evading my vow, I, for the present, revolve.

Lenardo to his Aunt. At last, dear aunt, after three years you receive my first letter, conformably to our engagement, which, in truth, was singular enough. I wished to see the world and mingle in it, and wished, during that period, to forget the home whence I had departed, whither I hoped to return. The whole impression of this home I purposed to retain, and the partial and individual was not to confuse me at a distance. Meanwhile the necessary tokens of life and welfare have, from time to time, passed to and fro between us. I have regularly received money, and little presents for my kindred have been delivered you for distribution. By the wares I sent, you would see how and where I was. By the wines, I doubt not my uncle has tasted out my several places of abode; then the laces, knick-knacks, steel wares, would indicate to my fair cousins my progress through Brabant, by Paris, to London; and so, on their writing-desks, work-boxes, tea-tables, I shall find many a symbol wherewith to connect the history of my journeyings. You have accompanied me without hearing of me, and, perhaps, may care little about knowing more. For me, on the other hand, it is highly desirable to learn, through your kindness, how it stands with the circle into which I am once more entering. I would, in truth, return from strange countries as a stranger, who, that he may not be unpleasant, first informs himself about the way and manner of the household;

not fancying, that, for his fine eyes or hair, he shall be received there quite in his own fashion. Write to me, therefore, of my worthy uncle, of your fair nieces, of yourself, of our relations near and distant, of servants also, old and new. In short, let your practised pen, which for so long a time you have not dipped into ink for your nephew, now again tint paper in his favor. Your letter of news shall forthwith be my credential, with which I introduce myself so soon as I obtain it. On you, therefore, it depends, whether you will see me or not. We alter far less than we imagine; and circumstances, too, continue much as they were. Not only what has altered, but what has continued, what has by degrees waxed and waned, do I now wish instantly to recognize at my return, and so once more to see myself in a well-known mirror. Present my heartiest salutations to all our people, and believe, that, in the singular manner of my absence and my return, there may lie more true affection than is often found in constant participation and lively intercourse. A thousand compliments to one and all!

Postscript. - Neglect not, also, my dear aunt, to say a word or two about our dependants, - how it stands with our stewards and farmers. What has become of Valerina, the daughter of that farmer whom my uncle, with justice certainly, but also, as I thought, with some severity, ejected from his lands when I went away? You see, I still remember many a particular: I still know all. On the past you shall examine me when you have told me of the present. The Aunt to Julietta. At last, dear children, a letter from our three-years’ speechless traveller. What strange beings these strange men are! He will have it that his wares and tokens were as good as so many kind words, which friend may speak or write to friend. He actually fancies himself our creditor, requires from us, in the first place, the performance of that service which he so unkindly refused. What is to be done? For me, I should have met his wishes forthwith in a long letter, did not this headache signify too clearly that the present sheet can scarcely be filled. We all long to see him. Do you, my dears, undertake the business. Should I be recovered before you have done, I will contribute my share. Choose the persons and circumstances, as you like best to describe them. Divide the task. You will do it all far better than I. The messenger will bring me back a note from you.

Julietta to her Aunt. We have read and considered, and now send you by the messenger our view of the matter, each in particular; having first jointly signified that we are not so charitable as our dear aunt to her ever perverse nephew. Now, when he has kept his cards hid from us for three years, and still keeps them hid, we, forsooth, are to spread ours on the table, and play an open against a secret game. This is not fair, and yet let it pass; for the craftiest is often caught, simply by his own over-anxious precautions. But, as to the way and manner of transacting this commission, we are not agreed. To write of our familiars as we think of them is for us, at least, a very strange problem. Commonly we do not think of them at all, except in this or that particular case, when they give us some peculiar satisfaction or vexation. At other times, each lets his neighbor go his way. You alone could manage it, dear aunt; for you have both the penetration and the tolerance. Hersilia, who, you know, is not difficult to kindle, has just, on the spur of the moment, given me a bird’s-eye view of the whole family in all the graces of caricature. I wish it stood on paper, to entice a smile from yourself in your illness, but not that I would have it sent. My own project is, to lay before him our correspondence for these three years: then let him read, if he have the heart; or let him come and see with his eyes, if he have not. Your letters to me, dear aunt, are in the best order, and all at your service. Hersilia dissents from this opinion, excuses herself with the disorder of her papers, and so forth, as she will tell you herself.

Hersilia to her Aunt. I will and must be very brief, dear aunt; for the messenger is clownishly impatient. I reckon it an excess of generosity, and not at all in season, to submit our correspondence to Lenardo. What has he to do with knowing all the good we have said of him, with knowing all the ill we have said of him, and finding out from the latter, still more than from the former, that we like him? Hold him tight, I entreat you! There is something so precise and presumptuous in this demand, in this conduct, of his, - just the fashion of your young gentlemen when they return from foreign parts. They can never look on those who have staid at home as full-grown persons, like themselves. Make your headache an excuse. He will come, doubtless; and, if he do not come, we can wait a little. Perhaps his next idea may be, to introduce himself in some strange, secret way, to become acquainted with us in disguise; and who knows what more may be included in the plan of so deep a gentleman? How pretty and curious this would be! It could not fail to bring about all manner of embroilments and developments, far grander than any that could be produced by such a diplomatic entrance into his family as he now purposes.

The messenger! The messenger! Bring up your old people better, or send young ones. This man is neither to be pacified with flattery nor wine. A thousand farewells! Postscript for Postscript. - What does our cousin want, will you tell me, with his postscript of Valerina? This question of his has struck me doubly. She is the only person whom he mentions by name. The rest of us are nieces, aunts, stewards, - not persons, but titles. Valerina, our lawyer’s daughter! In truth, a pretty, fair-haired girl, that may have glanced in our gallant cousin’s eyes before he went away. She is married well and happily: this to you is no news; but to him it is, of course, as unknown as every thing that has occurred here. Forget not to inform him, in a postscript, that Valerina grew daily more and more beautiful, and so at last made a very good match. That she is the wife of a rich proprietor. That the lovely, fair-haired maid is married. Make it perfectly distinct to him. But neither is this all, dear aunt. How the man can so accurately remember his flaxen-headed beauty, and yet confound her with the daughter of that worthless farmer, with a wild humble-bee of a brunette, whose name was Nachodina, and who went away, Heaven knows whither, - this, I declare to you, remains entirely incomprehensible, and puzzles me quite excessively. For it seems as if our pretty cousin, who prides himself on his good memory, could change names and persons to a very strange degree. Perhaps he feels this obscurely himself, and would have the faded image refreshed by your delineation. Hold him tight, I beg of you! but try to learn, for our own behoof, how it does stand with these Valerinas and Nachodinas, and how many more Inas and Trinas have retained their place in his imagination, while the poor Ettas and Ilias have vanished. The messenger! The cursed messenger!

The Aunt to her Nieces. Why should we dissemble towards those we have to spend our life with? Lenardo, with all his peculiarities, deserves confidence. I send him both your letters; from these he will get a view of you: and the rest of us, I hope, will erelong unconsciously find occasion to depict ourselves before him likewise. Farewell! My head is very painful. Hersilia to her Aunt. Why should we dissemble towards those we have to spend our life with? Lenardo is a spoiled nephew. It is horrible in you to send him our letters. From these he will get no real view of us; and I wish, with all my heart, for opportunity to let him view me in some other light. You give pain to others, while you are in pain yourself, and blind to boot. Quick recovery to your head! Your heart is irrecoverable. The Aunt to Hersilia. Thy last note I should likewise have packed in for Lenardo, had I happened to continue by the purpose which my irrecoverable heart, my sick head, and my love of ease, suggested to me. Your letters are not gone. I am just parting with the young man who has been for some time living in our circle, who, by the strangest chance, has come to know us pretty well, and is, withal, of an intelligent and kindly nature. Him I am despatching. He undertakes the task with great readiness. He will prepare our nephew, and send or bring him. Thus can your aunt recollect herself in the course of a rash enterprise, and bend into another path. Hersilia also will take thought, and a friendly revocation will not long be wanting from her hand.

Wilhelm having accurately and circumstantially fulfilled this task, Lenardo answered with a smile, “Much as I am obliged to you for what you tell me, I must still put another question. Did not my aunt, in conclusion, request you also to inform me of another, and, seemingly, an unimportant, matter?” Wilhelm thought a moment. “Yes,” said he then: “I remember. She mentioned a lady, named Valerina. Of her I was to tell you that she is happily wedded, and every way well.” “You roll a stone from my heart,” replied Lenardo. “I now gladly return home, since I need not fear that my recollection of this girl can reproach me there.” “It beseems not me to inquire what relation you have had to her,” said Wilhelm: “only you may be at ease if in any way you feel concerned for her fortunes.” “It is the strangest relation in the world,” returned Lenardo, - “nowise a love-matter, as you might, perhaps, conjecture. I may confide in you, and tell it; as, indeed, there is next to nothing to be told. But what must you think, when I assure you that this faltering in my return, this fear of revisiting our family, these strange preparatives, and inquiries how things looked at home, had no other object but to learn, by the way, how it stood with this young woman?

“For you will believe,” continued he, “I am very well aware that we may leave people whom we know without finding them, even after a considerable time, much altered; and so I likewise expect very soon to be quite at home with my relatives. This single being only gave me pause: her fortune, I knew, must have changed; and, thank Heaven, it has changed for the better.” “You excite my curiosity,” said Wilhelm. “There must be something singular in this.” “I, at least, think it so,” replied Lenardo, and began his narrative as follows: - “To accomplish, in my youth, the grand adventure of a tour through cultivated Europe was a fixed purpose, which I had entertained from boyhood; but the execution of which was, as usually happens in these things, from time to time postponed. What was at hand attracted me, retained me; and the distant lost more and more of its charms the more I read of it or heard it talked of. However, at last, incited by my uncle, allured by friends who had gone forth into the world before me, I did form the resolution, and that more rapidly than any one had been expecting. “My uncle, who had to afford the main requisite for my enterprise, directly made this his chief concern. You know him, and the way he has, - how he still rushes with his whole force on one single object, and every thing else in the mean while must rest and be silent:

by which means, indeed, he has effected much that seemed to lie beyond the influence of any private man. This journey came upon him, in some degree, unawares; yet he very soon took his measures. Some buildings which he had planned, nay, even begun, were abandoned; and, as he never on any account meddles with his accumulated stock, he looked about him, as a prudent financier, for other ways and means. The most obvious plan was, to call in outstanding debts, especially remainders of rent; for this, also, was one of his habits, that he was indulgent to debtors, so long as he himself had, to a certain degree, no need of money. He gave his steward the list, with orders to manage the business. Of individual cases we learned nothing: only I heard transiently, that the farmer of one of our estates, with whom my uncle had long exercised patience, was at last actually to be ejected; his cautionary pledge, a scanty supplement to the produce of this prosecution, to be retained, and the land to be let to some other person. This man was of a religious turn, but not, like others of his sect among us, shrewd and active withal; for his piety and his goodness he was loved by his neighbors, but, at the same time, censured for his weakness, as the master of a house. After the death of his wife, a daughter, whom we usually named the Nut-brown Maid, though already giving promise of activity and resolution, was still too young for taking a decisive management: in short, the man went back in his affairs; and my uncle’s indulgence had not stayed the sinking of his fortune.

“I had my journey in my head, and could not quarrel with the means for accomplishing it. All was ready: packing and sorting went forward; every moment was becoming full of business. One evening I was strolling through the park for the last time, to take leave of my familiar trees and bushes, when all at once Valerina stepped into my way, - for such was the girl’s name: the other was but a by-name, occasioned by her brown complexion. She stepped into my way.” Lenardo paused for a moment, as if considering. “How is this, then?” said he. “Was her name really Valerina? Yes, surely,” he continued; “but the by-name was more common. In short, the brown maid came into my path, and pressingly entreated me to speak a good word for her father, for herself, to my uncle. Knowing how the matter stood, and seeing clearly that it would be difficult, nay, impossible, to do her any service at this moment, I candidly told her so, and set before her the blameworthiness of her father in an unfavorable light. “She answered this with so much clearness, and, at the same time, with so much filial mitigation and love, that quite gained me; and, had it been my own money, I should instantly have made her happy by granting her request. But it was my uncle’s income; these were his arrangements, his orders: with such a temper as his, to attempt altering aught that had been done was hopeless.

From of old I had looked on a promise as in the highest degree sacred. Whoever asked any thing of me embarrassed me. I had so accustomed myself to refuse, that I did not even promise what I purposed to perform. This habit came in good stead in the present instance. Her arguments turned on individuality and affection, mine on duty and reason; and I will not deny that at last they seemed too harsh, even to myself. Already we had more than once repeated our topics without convincing one another, when necessity made her more eloquent: the inevitable ruin which she saw before her pressed tears from her eyes. Her collected manner she entirely lost: she spoke with vivacity, with emotion; and, as I still kept up a show of coldness and composure, her whole soul turned itself outwards. I wished to end the scene; but all at once she was lying at my feet, had seized my hand, kissed it, and was looking up to me, so good, so gentle, with such supplicating loveliness, that, in the haste of the moment, I forgot myself. Hurriedly I said, while raising her from her kneeling posture, ‘I will do what is possible: compose thyself, my child!’ and so turned into a side-path. ‘Do what is impossible!’ cried she after me. I now knew not what I was saying, but answered, ‘I will,’ and hesitated. ‘Do it!’ cried she, at once enlivened, and with a heavenly expression of hope. I waved a salutation to her, and hastened away.

“To my uncle I did not mean to apply directly; for I knew too well that with him it was vain to speak about the partial, when his purpose was the whole. I inquired for the steward; he had ridden off to a distance: visitors came in the evening, friends wishing to take leave of me. They supped and played till far in the night. They continued next day, and their presence effaced the image of my importunate petitioner. The steward returned: he was busier and more overloaded than ever. All were asking for him: he had no time to hear me. However, I did make an effort to detain him; but scarcely had I named that pious farmer, when he eagerly repelled the proposal. ‘For Heaven’s sake, not a word of this to your uncle, if you would not have a quarrel with him!’ The day of my departure was fixed: I had letters to write, guests to receive, visits in the neighborhood to pay. My servants had been hitherto sufficient for my wants, but were nowise adequate to forward the arrangements of a distant journey. All lay on my own hands; and yet, when the steward appointed me an hour in the night before my departure to settle our money concerns, I neglected not again to solicit him for Valerina’s father.

“‘Dear baron,’ said the unstable man, ‘how can such a thing ever come into your head? To-day already I have had a hard piece of work with your uncle, for the sum you need is turning out to be far higher than we reckoned on. This is natural enough, but not the less perplexing. To the old gentleman it is especially unwelcome, when a business seems concluded, and yet many odds and ends are found straggling after it. This is often the case, and I and the rest have to take the brunt of it. As to the rigor with which the outstanding debts were to be gathered in, he himself laid down the law to me: he is at one with himself on this point, and it would be no easy task to move him to indulgence. Do not try it, I beg of you! It is quite in vain.’ “I let him deter me from my attempt, but not entirely. I pressed him, since the execution of the business depended on himself, to act with mildness and mercy. He promised every thing, according to the fashion of such persons, for the sake of momentary peace. He got quit of me: the bustle, the hurry of business, increased. I was in my carriage, and had turned my back on all home concerns.

“A keen impression is like any other wound: we do not feel it in receiving it. Not till afterwards does it begin to smart and gangrene. So was it with me in regard to this occurrence in the park. Whenever I was solitary, whenever I was unemployed, that image of the entreating maiden, with the whole accompaniment, with every tree and bush, the place where she knelt, the side-path I took to get rid of her, the whole scene, rose like a fresh picture before my soul. It was an indestructible impression, which, by other images and interests, might indeed be shaded or overhung, but never obliterated. Still, in every quiet hour, she came before me; and, the longer it lasted, the more painful did I feel the blame which I had incurred against my principles, against my custom, though not expressly, only while hesitating, and for the first time caught in such a perplexity. “I failed not, in my earliest letters, to inquire of our steward how the business had turned. He answered evasively. Then he engaged to explain this point; then he wrote ambiguously; at last he became silent altogether. Distance increased; more objects came between me and my home; I was called to many new observations, many new sympathies; the image faded away, the maiden herself, almost to the name. The remembrance of her came more rarely before me; and my whim of keeping up my intercourse with home, not by letters, but by tokens, tended gradually to make my previous situation, with all its circumstances, nearly vanish from my mind.

Now, however, when I am again returning home, when I am purposing to repay my family with interest what I have so long owed it, now at last this strange repentance, strange I myself must call it, falls on me with its whole weight. The form of the maiden brightens up with the forms of my relatives: and I dread nothing more deeply than to learn, that, in the misery into which I drove her, she has sunk to ruin; for my negligence appears in my own mind an abetting of her destruction, a furtherance of her mournful destiny. A thousand times I have told myself that this feeling was at bottom but a weakness; that my early adoption of the principle, never to promise, had originated in my fear of repentance, not in any noble sentiment. And now it seems as if Repentance, which I had fled from, meant to avenge herself by seizing this incident, instead of hundreds, to pain me. Yet is the picture, the imagination which torments me, so agreeable withal, so lovely, that I like to linger over it. And, when I think of the scene, that kiss which she imprinted on my hand still seems to burn there.”

Lenardo was silent; and Wilhelm answered quickly and gayly, “It appears, then, I could have done you no greater service than by that appendix to my narrative; as we often find in the postscript the most interesting part of the letter. In truth, I know little of Valerina, for I heard of her only in passing: but, for certain, she is the wife of a prosperous land-owner, and lives happily; as your aunt assured me on taking leave.” “Good and well,” said Lenardo: “now there is nothing to detain me. You have given me absolution: let us now to my friends, who have already waited for me too long.” To this Wilhelm answered, “Unhappily I cannot attend you; for a strange obligation lies on me to continue nowhere longer than three days, and not to revisit any place in less than a year. Pardon me, if I am not at liberty to mention the cause of this singularity.” “I am very sorry,” said Lenardo, “that we are to lose you so soon; that I cannot, in my turn, do any thing for you. But, since you are already in the way of showing me kindness, you might make me very happy if you pleased to visit Valerina, to inform yourself accurately of her situation, and then to let me have in writing or in speech (a place of meeting might easily be found,) express intelligence for my complete composure.”

This proposal was further discussed: Valerina’s place of residence had been named to Wilhelm. He engaged to visit her: a place of meeting was appointed, to which the baron should come, bringing Felix with him, who in the mean while had remained with the ladies. Lenardo and Wilhelm had proceeded on their way for some time, riding together through pleasant fields, with abundance of conversation, when at last they approached the highway, and found the baron’s coach in waiting, now ready to revisit, with its owner, the spot it had left three years before. Here the friends were to part; and Wilhelm, with a few kindly words, took his leave, again promising the baron speedy news of Valerina. “Now, when I bethink me,” said Lenardo, “that it were but a small circuit if I accompanied you, why should I not visit Valerina myself? Why not witness with my own eyes her happy situation? You were so friendly as to engage to be my messenger, why should you not be my companion? For some companion I must have, some moral counsel; as we take legal counsel to assist us, when we think ourselves inadequate to the perplexities of a process.” Wilhelm’s objections, that the friends at home would be anxiously expecting the long-absent traveller, that it would produce a strange impression if the carriage came alone, and other reasons of the like sort, had no weight with Lenardo; and Wilhelm was obliged at last to resolve on acting the companion to the baron, a task on which, considering the consequences that might be apprehended, he entered with no great alacrity.

Accordingly the servants were instructed what to say on their arrival, and the two friends now took the road for Valerina’s house. The neighborhood appeared rich and fertile, the true seat of agriculture. Especially the grounds of Valerina’s husband seemed to be managed with great skill and care. Wilhelm had leisure to survey the landscape accurately, while Lenardo rode in silence beside him. At last the latter said, “Another in my place would perhaps try to meet Valerina undiscovered, for it is always a painful feeling to appear before those whom we have injured; but I had rather front this, and bear the reproach which I have to dread from her first look, than secure myself from it by disguise and untruth. Untruth may bring us into embarrassment quite as well as truth; and, when we reckon up how often the former or the latter profits us, it really seems most prudent, once for all, to devote ourselves to what is true. Let us go forward, therefore, with cheerful minds: I will give my name, and introduce you as my friend and fellow-traveller.” They had now reached the house, and dismounted in the court. A portly man, plainly dressed, whom you might have taken for a farmer, came out to them, and announced himself as master of the family. Lenardo named himself; and the landlord seemed highly delighted to see him, and obtain his acquaintance. “What will my wife say,” cried he, “when she again meets the nephew of her benefactor? She never tires of recounting and reckoning up what her father owes your uncle.”

What strange thoughts rushed in rapid disorder through Lenardo’s mind! “Does this man, who looks so honest-minded, hide his bitterness under a friendly countenance and smooth words? Can he give his reproaches so courteous an outside? For did not my uncle reduce that family to misery? And can the man be ignorant of this? Or,” so thought he to himself, with quick hope, “has the business not been so bad as thou supposest? For no decisive intelligence has ever yet reached thee.” Such conjectures alternated this way and that, while the landlord was ordering out his carriage to bring home his wife, who, it appeared, was paying a visit in the neighborhood. “If, in the mean while, till my wife return,” said the latter, “I might entertain you in my own way, and at the same time carry on my duties, say you walk a few steps with me into the fields, and look about you how I manage my husbandry; for, no doubt, to you, as a great proprietor of land, there is nothing of more near concernment than the noble science, the noble art, of agriculture.” Lenardo made no objection: Wilhelm liked to gather information. The landlord had his ground, which he possessed and ruled without restriction, under the most perfect treatment; what he undertook was adapted to his purpose; what he sowed and planted was always in the right place; and he could so clearly explain his mode of procedure, and the reasons of it, that every one comprehended him, and thought it possible for himself to do the same, - a mistake one is apt to fall into on looking at a master, in whose hand all moves as it should do.

The strangers expressed their satisfaction, and had nothing but praise and approval to pronounce on every thing they saw. He received it gratefully and kindly, and at last added, “Now, however, I must show you my weak side, a quality discernible in every one that yields himself exclusively to one pursuit.” He led them to his court-yard, showed them his implements, his store of these, and, besides this, a store of all imaginable sorts of farm-gear, with its appurtenances, kept by way of specimen. “I am often blamed,” said he, “for going too far in this matter; but I cannot quite blame myself. Happy is he to whom his business itself becomes a puppet, who, at length, can play with it, and amuse himself with what his situation makes his duty.” The two friends were not behindhand with their questions and examinations. Wilhelm, in particular, delighted in the general observations which this man appeared to have a turn for making, and failed not to answer them; while the baron, more immersed in his own thoughts, took silent pleasure in the happiness of Valerina, which, in this situation, he reckoned sure, yet felt underhand a certain faint shadow of dissatisfaction, of which he could give himself no account.

The party had returned within doors, when the lady’s carriage drove up. They hastened out to meet her; but what was Lenardo’s amazement, his fright, when she stepped forth! This was not the person: this was no nut-brown maid, but directly the reverse, - a fair, slim form, in truth, but light-haired, and possessing all the charms which belonged to that complexion. This beauty, this grace, affrighted Lenardo. His eyes had sought the brown maiden: now quite a different figure glanced before them. These features, too, he recollected; her words, her manners, soon banished all uncertainty; it was the daughter of the lawyer, a man who stood in high favor with the uncle; for which reason also the dowry had been so handsome, and the new pair so generously dealt with. All this, and much more, was gayly recounted by the young wife as an introductory salutation, and with such a joy as the surprise of an unexpected meeting naturally gives rise to. The question, whether they could recognize each other, was mutually put and answered: the changes in look were talked of, which in persons of that age are found notable enough. Valerina was at all times agreeable, but lovely in a high degree when any joyful feeling raised her above her usual level of indifference. The company grew talkative: the conversation became so lively that Lenardo was enabled to compose himself and hide his confusion. Wilhelm, to whom he had very soon given a sign of this strange incident, did his best to help him; and Valerina’s little touch of vanity in thinking that the baron, even before visiting his own friends, had remembered her, and come to see her, excluded any shadow of suspicion that another purpose, or a misconception, could be concerned in the affair.

The party kept together till a late hour, though the two friends were longing for a confidential dialogue; which, accordingly, commenced the moment they were left alone in their allotted chambers. “It appears,” said Lenardo, “I am not to get rid of this secret pain. A luckless confusion of names, I now observe, redoubles it. This fair-haired beauty I have often seen playing with the brunette, who could not be called a beauty; nay, I myself have often run about with them over the fields and gardens, though so much older than they. Neither of them made the slightest impression on me: I have but retained the name of the one and applied it to the other. And now her who does not concern me I find happy above measure in her own way; while the other is cast forth, who knows whither? into the wide world.” Next morning the friends were up almost sooner than their active entertainers. The happiness of seeing her guests had also awakened Valerina early. She little fancied with what feelings they came to breakfast. Wilhelm, seeing clearly, that, without some tidings of the nut-brown maid, Lenardo must continue in a painful state, led the conversation to old times, to playmates, to scenes which he himself knew, and other such recollections; so that Valerina soon quite naturally came to speak of the nut-brown maid, and to mention her name.

No sooner did Lenardo hear the name Nachodina, than he perfectly remembered it; but, with the name, the figure also, of that supplicant, returned to him with such violence that Valerina’s further narrative became quite agonizing to him, as with warm sympathy she proceeded to describe the distrainment of the pious farmer, his submissive resignation and departure, and how he went away, leaning on his daughter, who carried a little bundle in her hand. Lenardo was like to sink under the earth. Unhappily and happily, she went into a certain circumstantiality in her details; which, while it tortured Lenardo’s heart, enabled him, with help of his associate, to put on some appearance of composure. The travellers departed amid warm, sincere invitations, on the part of the married pair, to return soon, and a faint, hollow assent on their own part. And as a person who stands in any favor with himself takes every thing in a favorable light; so Valerina explained Lenardo’s silence, his visible confusion in taking leave, his hasty departure, entirely to her own advantage, and could not, although the faithful and loving wife of a worthy gentleman, help feeling some small satisfaction at this re-awakening or incipient inclination, as she reckoned it, of her former landlord.

After this strange incident, while the friends were proceeding on their way, Lenardo thus addressed Wilhelm: “For our shipwreck with such fair hopes, at the very entrance of the haven, I can still console myself in some degree for the moment, and go calmly to meet my people, when I think that Heaven has brought me you, you to whom, under your peculiar mission, it is indifferent whither or how you direct your path. Engage to find out Nachodina, and to give me tidings of her. If she be happy, then am I content; if unhappy, then help her at my charges. Act without reserve; spare, calculate nothing. I shall return home, shall endeavor to get intelligence, and send your Felix to you by some trusty person. Place the boy, as your intention was, where many of his equals are placed: it is almost indifferent under what superintendence; but I am much mistaken if, in the neighborhood, in the place where I wish you to wait for your son and his attendant, you do not find a man that can give you the best counsel on this point. It is he to whom I owe the training of my youth, whom I should have liked so much to take along with me in my travels, whom, at least, I should many a time have wished to meet in the course of them, had he not already devoted himself to a quiet, domestic life.”

The friends had now reached the spot where they were actually to part. While the horses were feeding, the baron wrote a letter, which Wilhelm took charge of, yet, for the rest, could not help communicating his scruples to Lenardo. “In my present situation,” said he, “I reckon it a desirable commission to deliver a generous man from distress of mind, and, at the same time, to free a human creature from misery, if she happen to be miserable. Such an object one may look upon as a star, towards which one sails, not knowing what awaits him, what he is to meet, by the way. Yet, with all this, I must not be blind to the danger which, in every case, still hovers over you. Were you not a man who regularly avoids engagements, I should require a promise from you not again to see this female, who has come to be so precious in your eyes, but to content yourself when I announce to you that all is well with her, be it that I actually find her happy, or am enabled to make her so. But, having neither power nor wish to extort a promise from you, I conjure you by all you reckon dear and sacred, for your own sake, for that of your kindred, and of me, your new-acquired friend, to allow yourself no approximation to that lost maiden under what pretext soever; not to require of me that I mention or describe the place where I find her, or the neighborhood where I leave her; but to believe my word that she is well, and be enfranchised and at peace.”

Lenardo gave a smile, and answered, “Perform this service for me, and I shall be grateful. What you are willing and able to do, I commit to your own hands; and, for my self, leave me to time, to common sense, and, if possible, to reason.” “Pardon me,” answered Wilhelm; “but whoever knows under what strange forms love glides into our hearts, cannot but be apprehensive on foreseeing that a friend may come to entertain wishes, which, in his circumstances, his station, would, of necessity, produce unhappiness and perplexity.” “I hope,” said Lenardo, “when I know the maiden happy, I have done with her.” The friends parted, each in his own direction.

By a short and pleasant road, Wilhelm had reached the town to which his letter was directed. He found it gay and well built; but its new aspect showed too clearly, that, not long before, it must have suffered by a conflagration. The address of his letter let him into the last small, uninjured portion of the place, to a house of ancient, earnest architecture, yet well kept, and of a tidy look. Dim windows, strangely fashioned, indicated an exhilarating pomp of colors from within. Nor, in fact, did the interior fail to correspond with the exterior. In clean apartments, everywhere stood furniture, which must have served several generations, intermixed with very little that was new. The master of the house received our traveller kindly in a little chamber similarly fitted up. These clocks had already struck the hour of many a birth and many a death: every thing which met the eye reminded one that the past might, as it were, be protracted into the present. The stranger delivered his letter; but the landlord, without opening it, laid it aside, and endeavored, in a cheerful conversation, immediately to get acquainted with his guest. They soon grew confidential; and as Wilhelm, contrary to his usual habit, let his eye wander inquisitively over the room, the good old man said to him, “My domestic equipment excites your attention. You here see how long a thing may last; and one should make such observations now and then, by way of counterbalance to so much in the world that rapidly changes, and passes away.

This same teakettle served my parents, and was a witness of our evening family assemblages; this copper fire-screen still guards me from the fire which these stout old tongs still help me to mend; and so it is with all throughout. I had it in my power to bestow my care and industry on many other things, as I did not occupy myself with changing these external necessaries, a task which consumes so many people’s time and resources. An affectionate attention to what we possess makes us rich, for thereby we accumulate a treasure of remembrances connected with indifferent things. I knew a young man who got a common pin from his love while taking leave of her, daily fastened his breast-frill with it, and brought back this guarded and not unemployed treasure from a long journeying of several years. In us little men, such little things are to be reckoned virtue.”

“Many a one, too,” answered Wilhelm, “brings back, from such long and far travellings, a sharp pricker in his heart, which he would fain be quit of.” The old man seemed to know nothing of Lenardo’s situation, though in the mean while he had opened the letter and read it; for he returned to his former topics. “Tenacity of our possessions,” continued he, “in many cases, gives us the greatest energy. To this obstinacy in myself I owe the saving of my house. When the town was on fire, some people wished to begin snatching and saving here too. I forbade this, bolted my doors and windows and turned out, with several neighbors, to oppose the flames. Our efforts succeeded in preserving this summit of the town. Next morning all was standing here as you now see it, and as it has stood for almost a hundred years.” “Yet you will confess,” said Wilhelm, “that no man withstands the change which time produces.” “That in truth!” said the other; “but he who holds out longest has still done something. “Yes: even beyond the limits of our being, we are able to maintain and secure; we transmit discoveries, we hand down sentiments as well as property; and, as the latter was my chief province, I have for a long time exercised the strictest foresight, invented the most peculiar precautions; yet not till lately have I succeeded in seeing my wish fulfilled.

“Commonly the son disperses what the father has collected, collects something different, or in a different way. Yet if we can wait for the grandson, for the new generation, we find the same tendencies, the same tastes, again making their appearance. And so at last, by the care of our pedagogic friends, I have found an active youth, who, if possible, pays more regard to old possession than even I, and has, withal, a vehement attachment to every sort of curiosities. My decided confidence he gained by the violent exertions with which he struggled to keep off the fire from our dwelling. Doubly and trebly has he merited the treasure which I mean to leave him, - nay, it is already given into his hands; and ever since that time our store is increasing in a wonderful way. “Not all, however, that you see here is ours. On the contrary, as in the hands of pawnbrokers you find many a foreign jewel, so with us, I can show you precious articles, which people, under the most various circumstances, have deposited with us for the sake of better keeping.” Wilhelm recollected the beautiful box, which, at any rate, he did not like to carry with him in his wanderings, and showed it to his landlord. The old man viewed it with attention, gave the date when it was probably made, and showed some similar things. Wilhelm asked him if he thought it should be opened. The old man thought not. “I believe, indeed,” said he, “it could be done without special harm to the casket; but, as you found it in so singular a way, you must try your luck on it. For if you are born lucky, and this little box is of any consequence, the key will doubtless by and by be found, and in the very place where you are least expecting it.”

“There have been such occurrences,” said Wilhelm. “I have myself experienced such,” replied the old man; “and here you behold the strangest of them. Of this ivory crucifix I have had, for thirty years, the body with the head and feet in one place. For its own nature, as well as for the glorious art displayed in it, I kept the figure laid up in my most private drawer: nearly ten years ago I got the cross belonging to it, with the inscription, and was then induced to have the arms supplied by the best carver of our day. Far, indeed, was this expert artist from equalling his predecessor; yet I let his work pass, more for devout purposes than for any admiration of its excellence. “Now, conceive my delight! A little while ago the original, genuine arms were sent me, as you see them here united in the loveliest harmony; and I, charmed at so happy a coincidence, cannot help recognizing in this crucifix the fortunes of the Christian religion, which, often enough dismembered and scattered abroad, will ever in the end again gather itself together at the foot of the cross.” Wilhelm admired the figure and its strange combination. “I will follow your counsel,” added he: “let the casket continue locked till the key of it be found, though it should lie till the end of my life.”

“One who lives long,” said the old man, “sees much collected and much cast asunder.” The young partner in the house now chanced to enter, and Wilhelm signified his purpose of intrusting the box to their keeping. A large book was thereupon produced, the deposit inscribed in it, with many ceremonies and stipulations; a receipt granted, which applied in words to any bearer, but was only to be honored on the giving of a certain token agreed upon with the owner. So passed their hours in instructive and entertaining conversation, till at last Felix, mounted on a gay pony, arrived in safety. A groom had accompanied him, and was now, for some time, to attend and serve Wilhelm. A letter from Lenardo, delivered at the same time, complained that he could find no vestige of the nut-brown maid; and Wilhelm was anew conjured to do his utmost in searching her out. Wilhelm imparted the matter to his landlord. The latter smiled, and said, “We must certainly make every exertion for our friend’s sake: perhaps I may succeed in learning something of her. As I keep these old, primitive household goods; so, likewise, have I kept some old, primitive friends. You tell me that this maiden’s father was distinguished by his piety. The pious have a more intimate connection with each other than the wicked, though externally it may not always prosper so well. By this means I hope to obtain some traces of what you are sent to seek. But, as a preparative, do you now pursue the resolution of placing your Felix among his equals, and turning him to some fixed department of activity. Hasten with him to the great Institution. I will point out the way you must follow, in order to find the chief, who resides now in one, now in another, division of his province. You shall have a letter, with my best advice and direction.”

The pilgrims, pursuing the way pointed out to them, had, without difficulty, reached the limits of the province, where they were to see so many singularities. At the very entrance they found themselves in a district of extreme fertility, - in its soft knolls, favorable to crops; in its higher hills, to sheep-husbandry; in its wide bottoms, to grazing. Harvest was near at hand, and all was in the richest luxuriance; yet what most surprised our travellers was, that they observed neither men nor women, but, in all quarters, boys and youths engaged in preparing for a happy harvest, - nay, already making arrangements for a merry harvest-home. Our travellers saluted several of them, and inquired for the chief, of whose abode, however, they could gain no intelligence. The address of their letter was, “To the Chief, or the Three.” Of this, also, the boys could make nothing: however, they referred the strangers to an overseer, who was just about mounting his horse to ride off. Our friends disclosed their object to this man: the frank liveliness of Felix seemed to please him, and so they all rode along together. Wilhelm had already noticed, that, in the cut and color of the young people’s clothes, a variety prevailed, which gave the whole tiny population a peculiar aspect: he was just about to question his attendant on this point, when a still stranger observation forced itself upon him; all the children, how employed soever, laid down their work, and turned, with singular, yet diverse, gestures, towards the party riding past them, or rather, as it was easy to infer, towards the overseer, who was in it.

The youngest laid their arms crosswise over their breasts, and looked cheerfully up to the sky; those of middle size held their hands on their backs, and looked smiling on the ground; the eldest stood with a frank and spirited air; their arms stretched down, they turned their heads to the right, and formed themselves into a line; whereas the others kept separate, each where he chanced to be.

The riders having stopped and dismounted here, as several children, in their various modes, were standing forth to be inspected by the overseer, Wilhelm asked the meaning of these gestures; but Felix struck in, and cried gayly, “What posture am I to take, then?” “Without doubt,” said the overseer, “the first posture, - the arms over the breast, the face earnest and cheerful towards the sky.” Felix obeyed, but soon cried, “This is not much to my taste; I see nothing up there: does it last long? But yes!” exclaimed he joyfully: “yonder are a pair of falcons flying from the west to the east; that is a good sign too.” “As thou takest it, as thou behavest,” said the other, “now mingle among them as they mingle.” He gave a signal; and the children left their postures, and again betook them to work or sport as before. “Are you at liberty,” said Wilhelm then, “to explain this sight, which surprises me? I easily perceive that these positions, these gestures, are salutations directed to you.” “Just so,” replied the overseer: “salutations which, at once, indicate in what degree of culture each of these boys is standing.” “But can you explain to me the meaning of this gradation?” inquired Wilhelm; “for that there is one is clear enough.”

“This belongs to a higher quarter,” said the other: “so much, however, I may tell you, that these ceremonies are not mere grimaces; that, on the contrary, the import of them, not the highest, but still a directing, intelligible import, is communicated to the children; while, at the same time, each is enjoined to retain and consider for himself whatever explanation it has been thought meet to give him: they are not allowed to talk of these things, either to strangers or among themselves; and thus their instruction is modified in many ways. Besides, secrecy itself has many advantages; for when you tell a man at once, and straightforward, the purpose of any object, he fancies there is nothing in it. Certain secrets, even if known to every one, men find that they must still reverence by concealment and silence; for this works on modesty and good morals.” “I understand you,” answered Wilhelm: “why should not the principle which is so necessary in material things be applied to spiritual also? But perhaps in another point you can satisfy my curiosity. The great variety of shape and color in these children’s clothes attracts my notice; and yet I do not see all sorts of colors, but a few in all their shades, from the lightest to the deepest. At the same time I observe that by this no designation of degrees in age or merit can be intended; for the oldest and the youngest boys may be alike, both in cut and color, while those of similar gestures are not similar in dress.”

“On this matter, also,” said the other, “silence is prescribed to me; but I am much mistaken, or you will not leave us without receiving all the information you desire.” Our party continued following the trace of the chief, which they believed themselves to be upon. But now the strangers could not fail to notice, with new surprise, that, the farther they advanced into the district, a vocal melody more and more frequently sounded towards them from the fields. Whatever the boys might be engaged with, whatever labor they were carrying on, they accompanied it with singing; and it seemed as if the songs were specially adapted to their various sorts of occupation, and in similar cases everywhere the same. If there chanced to be several children in company, they sang together in alternating parts. Towards evening appeared dancers likewise, whose steps were enlivened and directed by choruses. Felix struck in with them, not altogether unsuccessfully, from horseback, as he passed; and Wilhelm felt gratified in this amusement, which gave new life to the scene. “Apparently,” he said to his companion, “you devote considerable care to this branch of instruction: the accomplishment, otherwise, could not be so widely diffused and so completely practised.”

“We do,” replied the other: “on our plan, song is the first step in education; all the rest are connected with it, and attained by means of it. The simplest enjoyment, as well as the simplest instruction, we enliven and impress by song; nay, even what religious and moral principles we lay before our children are communicated in the way of song. Other advantages for the excitement of activity spontaneously arise from this practice: for, in accustoming the children to write the tones they are to utter in musical characters, and, as occasion serves, again to seek these characters in the utterance of their own voice; and, besides this, to subjoin the text below the notes, - they are forced to practise hand, ear, and eye at once, whereby they acquire the art of penmanship sooner than you would expect; and as all this, in the long-run, is to be effected by copying precise measurements and accurately settled numbers, they come to conceive the high value of mensuration and arithmetic much sooner than in any other way. Among all imaginable things, accordingly, we have selected music as the element of our teaching; for level roads run out from music towards every side.”

Wilhelm endeavored to obtain still further information, and expressed his surprise at hearing no instrumental music. “This is, by no means, neglected here,” said the other, “but practised in a peculiar district, one of the most pleasant valleys among the mountains; and there again we have arranged it so that the different instruments shall be taught in separate places. The discords of beginners, in particular, are banished into certain solitudes, where they can drive no one to despair; for you will confess, that in well-regulated civil society there is scarcely a more melancholy suffering to be undergone than what is forced on us by the neighborhood of an incipient player on the flute or violin. “Our learners, out of a laudable desire to be troublesome to no one, go forth of their own accord, for a longer or a shorter time, into the wastes, and strive in their seclusion to attain the merit which shall again admit them into the inhabited world. Each of them, from time to time, is allowed to venture an attempt for admission: and the trial seldom fails of success; for bashfulness and modesty in this, as in all other parts of our system, we strongly endeavor to maintain and cherish. That your son has a good voice I am glad to observe: all the rest is managed with so much the greater ease.”

They had now reached a place where Felix was to stop and make trial of its arrangements, till a formal reception should be granted him. From a distance they had been saluted by a jocund sound of music: it was a game in which the boys were, for the present, amusing themselves in their hour of play. A general chorus mounted up; each individual of a wide circle striking in at his time with a joyful, clear, firm tone, as the sign was given him by the overseer. The latter more than once took the singers by surprise, when, at a signal, he suspended the choral song, and called on any single boy, touching him with his rod, to catch by himself the expiring tone, and adapt to it a suitable song, fitted also to the spirit of what had preceded. Most part showed great dexterity: a few who failed in this feat willingly gave in their pledges without altogether being laughed at for their ill success. Felix was child enough to mix among them instantly, and in his new task he acquitted himself tolerably well. The first salutation was then enjoined on him: he directly laid his hands on his breast, looked upwards, and truly with so roguish a countenance that it was easy to observe no secret meaning had yet, in his mind, attached itself to this posture.

The delightful spot, his kind reception, the merry playmates, all pleased the boy so well that he felt no very deep sorrow as his father moved away; the departure of the pony was, perhaps, a heavier matter; but he yielded here also, on learning that in this circle it could not possibly be kept; and the overseer promised him, in compensation, that he should find another horse as smart and well broken at a time when he was not expecting it. As the chief, it appeared, was not to be come at, the overseer turned to Wilhelm, and said, “I must now leave you, to pursue my occupations; but first I will bring you to the Three, who preside over our sacred things. Your letter is addressed to them likewise, and they together represent the chief.” Wilhelm could have wished to gain some previous knowledge of these sacred things; but his companion answered, “The Three will, doubtless, in return for the confidence you show in leaving us your son, disclose to you, in their wisdom and fairness, what is most needful for you to learn. The visible objects of reverence, which I named sacred things, are collected in this separate circle; are mixed with nothing, interfered with by nothing; at certain seasons of the year only are our pupils admitted here, to be taught in their various degrees of culture by historical and sensible means; and in these short intervals they carry off a deep enough impression to suffice them for a time, during the performance of their other duties.”

Wilhelm had now reached the gate of a wooded vale, surrounded with high walls: on a certain sign the little door opened, and a man of earnest and imposing look received our traveller. The latter found himself in a large, beautifully umbrageous space, decked with the richest foliage, shaded with trees and bushes of all sorts; while stately walls and magnificent buildings were discerned only in glimpses through this thick, natural boscage. A friendly reception from the Three, who by and by appeared, at last turned into a general conversation, the substance of which we now present in an abbreviated shape. “Since you intrust your son to us,” said they, “it is fair that we admit you to a closer view of our procedure. Of what is external you have seen much that does not bear its meaning on its front. What part of this do you chiefly wish to have explained?” “Dignified yet singular gestures of salutation I have noticed, the import of which I would gladly learn: with you, doubtless, the exterior has a reference to the interior, and inversely; let me know what this reference is.” “Well-formed, healthy children,” replied the Three, “bring much into the world along with them: Nature has given to each whatever he requires for time and duration; to unfold this is our duty; often it unfolds itself better of its own accord. One thing there is, however, which no child brings into the world with him; and yet it is on this one thing that all depends for making man in every point a man. If you can discover it yourself, speak it out.” Wilhelm thought a little while, then shook his head.

The Three, after a suitable pause, exclaimed, “Reverence!” Wilhelm seemed to hesitate. “Reverence!” cried they a second time. “All want it, perhaps you yourself. “Three kinds of gestures you have seen; and we inculcate a threefold reverence, which, when commingled and formed into one whole, attains its highest force and effect. The first is, reverence for what is above us. That posture, the arms crossed over the breast, the look turned joyfully towards heaven, that is what we have enjoined on young children; requiring from them thereby a testimony that there is a God above, who images and reveals himself in parents, teachers, superiors. Then comes the second, reverence for what is under us. Those hands folded over the back, and, as it were, tied together; that down-turned, smiling look, - announce that we are to regard the earth with attention and cheerfulness: from the bounty of the earth we are nourished; the earth affords unutterable joys, but disproportionate sorrows she also brings us. Should one of our children do himself external hurt, blamably or blamelessly; should others hurt him accidentally or purposely; should dead, involuntary matter do him hurt, - then let him well consider it; for such dangers will attend him all his days. But from this posture we delay not to free our pupil the instant we become convinced that the instruction connected with it has produced sufficient influence on him. Then, on the contrary, we bid him gather courage, and, turning to his comrades, range himself along with them. Now, at last, he stands forth, frank and bold, not selfishly isolated: only in combination with his equals does he front the world. Further we have nothing to add.”

“I quite understand it,” said Wilhelm. “Are not the mass of men so marred and stinted because they take pleasure only in the element of evil-wishing and evil-speaking? Whoever gives himself to this, soon comes to be indifferent towards God, contemptuous towards the world, spiteful towards his equals; and the true, genuine, indispensable sentiment of self-estimation corrupts into self-conceit and presumption. Allow me, however,” continued he, “to state one difficulty. You say that reverence is not natural to man: now, has not the reverence or fear of barbarous nations for violent convulsions of Nature, or other inexplicable, mysteriously foreboding occurrences, been heretofore regarded as the germ out of which a higher feeling, a purer sentiment, was by degrees to be developed?” “Fear does accord with Nature,” replied they, “but reverence does not. Men fear a known or unknown powerful being: the strong seeks to conquer it, the weak to avoid it; both endeavor to get quit of it, and feel happy when, for a short season, they have put it aside, and their nature has, in some degree, regained freedom and independence. The natural man repeats this operation millions of times in the course of his life; from fear he struggles to freedom; from freedom he is driven back to fear, and so makes no advancement. To fear is easy, but grievous; to reverence is difficult, but satisfactory. Man does not willingly submit himself to reverence; or, rather, he never so submits himself: it is a higher sense, which must be communicated to his nature; which only, in some peculiarly favored individuals, unfolds itself spontaneously, who on this account, too, have of old been looked upon as saints and gods. Here lies the worth, here lies the business, of all true religions; whereof there are, likewise, only three, according to the objects towards which they direct our devotion.”

The men paused: Wilhelm reflected for a time in silence; but, feeling in himself no pretension to unfold the meaning of these strange words, he requested the sages to proceed with their exposition. They immediately complied. “No religion that grounds itself on fear,” said they, “is regarded among us. With the reverence to which a man should give dominion in his mind, he can, in paying honor, keep his own honor: he is not disunited with himself, as in the former case. The religion which depends on reverence for what is above us we denominate the ethnic; it is the religion of the nations, and the first happy deliverance from a degrading fear: all heathen religions, as we call them, are of this sort, whatsoever names they may bear. The second religion, which founds itself on reverence for what is around us, we denominate the philosophical; for the philosopher stations himself in the middle, and must draw down to him all that is higher, and up to him all that is lower: and only in this medium condition does he merit the title of Wise. Here, as he surveys with clear sight his relation to his equals, and therefore to the whole human race, his relations likewise to all other earthly circumstances and arrangements, necessary or accidental, he alone, in a cosmic sense, lives in truth. But now we have to speak of the third religion, grounded on reverence for what is beneath us;

this we name the Christian, as in the Christian religion such a temper is with most distinctness manifested: it is a last step to which mankind were fitted and destined to attain. But what a task was it, not only to be patient with the earth, and let it lie beneath us, we appealing to a higher birthplace, but also to recognize humility and poverty, mockery and despite, disgrace and wretchedness, suffering and death, - to recognize these things as divine, - nay, even on sin and crime to look, not as hinderances, but to honor and love them as furtherances of what is holy. Of this, indeed, we find some traces in all ages: but the trace is not the goal; and, this being now attained, the human species cannot retrograde: and we may say, that the Christian religion, having once appeared, cannot again vanish; having once assumed its divine shape, can be subject to no dissolution.”

“To which of these religions do you specially adhere?” inquired Wilhelm. “To all the three,” replied they; “for in their union they produce what may properly be called the true religion. Out of those three reverences springs the highest reverence, - reverence for one’s self; and those again unfold themselves from this: so that man attains the highest elevation of which he is capable, that of being justified in reckoning himself the best that God and Nature have produced, - nay, of being able to continue on this lofty eminence, without being again, by self-conceit and presumption, drawn down from it into the vulgar level.” “Such a confession of faith, developed in this manner, does not repulse me,” answered Wilhelm: “it agrees with much that one hears now and then in the course of life; only you unite what others separate.” To this they replied, “Our confession has already been adopted, though unconsciously, by a great part of the world.” “How, then, and where?” said Wilhelm. “In the creed!” exclaimed they; “for the first article is ethnic, and belongs to all nations; the second, Christian, for those struggling with affliction and glorified in affliction; the third, in fine, teaches an inspired communion of saints, that is, of men in the highest degree good and wise. And should not, therefore, the Three Divine Persons, under the similitudes and names of which these threefold doctrines and commands are promulgated, justly be considered as in the highest sense One?”

“I thank you,” said Wilhelm, “for having pleased to lay all this before me in such clearness and combination, as before a grown-up person, to whom your three modes of feeling are not altogether foreign. And now, when I reflect that you communicate this high doctrine to your children, in the first place as a sensible sign, then with some symbolical accompaniment attached to it, and at last unfold to them its deepest meaning, I cannot but warmly approve of your method.” “Right,” answered they; “but now we must show you more, and so convince you the better that your son is in no bad hands. This, however, may remain for the morrow: rest and refresh yourself, that you may attend us in the morning, as a man satisfied and unimpeded, into the interior of our sanctuary.”

At the hand of the eldest, our friend now proceeded through a stately portal into a round, or rather octagonal, hall, so richly decked with pictures, that it struck him with astonishment as he entered. All this, he easily conceived, must have a significant import; though at the moment he saw not so clearly what it was. While about to question his guide on this subject, the latter invited him to step forward into a gallery, open on the one side, and stretching round a spacious, gay, flowery garden. The wall, however, not the flowers, attracted the eyes of the stranger: it was covered with paintings, and Wilhelm could not walk far without observing that the Sacred Books of the Israelites had furnished the materials for these figures. “It is here,” said the eldest, “that we teach our first religion, - the religion which, for the sake of brevity, I named the ethnic. The spirit of it is to be sought for in the history of the world; its outward form, in the events of that history. Only in the return of similar destinies on whole nations can it properly be apprehended.” “I observe,” said Wilhelm, “you have done the Israelites the honor to select their history as the groundwork of this delineation; or, rather, you have made it the leading object there.”

“As you see,” replied the eldest: “for you will remark, that on the socles and friezes we have introduced another series of transactions and occurrences, not so much of a synchronistic as of a symphronistic kind; since, among all nations, we discover records of a similar import, and grounded on the same facts. Thus you perceive here, while in the main field of the picture, Abraham receives a visit from his gods in the form of fair youths, Apollo, among the herdsmen of Admetus, is painted above on the frieze. From which we may learn, that the gods, when they appear to men, are commonly unrecognized of them.” The friends walked on. Wilhelm, for the most part, met with well-known objects; but they were here exhibited in a livelier and more expressive manner than he had been used to see them. On some few matters he requested explanation, and at last could not help returning to his former question, Why the Israelitish history had been chosen in preference to all others? The eldest answered, “Among all heathen religions, - for such also is the Israelitish, - this has the most distinguished advantages, of which I shall mention only a few. At the ethnic judgment-seat, at the judgment-seat of the God of nations, it is not asked, Whether this is the best, the most excellent nation, but whether it lasts, whether it has continued. The Israelitish people never was good for much, as its own leaders, judges, rulers, prophets, have a thousand times reproachfully declared: it possesses few virtues, and most of the faults of other nations; but in cohesion, steadfastness, valor, and, when all this would not serve, in obstinate toughness, it has no match. It is the most perseverant nation in the world: it is, it was, and will be, to glorify the name of Jehovah through all ages. We have set it up, therefore, as the pattern-figure, - as the main figure, to which the others only serve as a frame.”

“It becomes not me to dispute with you,” said Wilhelm, “since you have instruction to impart. Open to me, therefore, the other advantages of this people, or, rather, of its history, of its religion.” “One chief advantage,” said the other, “is its excellent collection of Sacred Books. These stand so happily combined together, that, even out of the most diverse elements, the feeling of a whole still rises before us. They are complete enough to satisfy, fragmentary enough to excite, barbarous enough to rouse, tender enough to appease; and for how many other contradicting merits might not these books, might not this one book, be praised!” The series of main figures, as well as their relations to the smaller which above and below accompanied them, gave the guest so much to think of, that he scarcely heard the pertinent remarks of his guide, who, by what he said, seemed desirous rather to divert our friend’s attention than to fix it on the paintings. Once, however, the old man said, on some occasion, “Another advantage of the Israelitish religion I must here mention: it has not embodied its God in any form, and so has left us at liberty to represent him in a worthy human shape, and likewise, by way of contrast, to designate idolatry by forms of beasts and monsters.”

Our friend had now, in his short wandering through this hall, again brought the spirit of universal history before his mind: in regard to the events, he had not failed to meet with something new. So likewise, by the simultaneous presentment of the pictures, by the reflections of his guide, many new views had risen on him; and he could not but rejoice in thinking that his Felix was, by so dignified a visible representation, to seize and appropriate for his whole life those great, significant, and exemplary events, as if they had actually been present, and transacted beside him. He came at length to regard the exhibition altogether with the eyes of the child, and in this point of view it perfectly contented him. Thus wandering on, they had now reached the gloomy and perplexed periods of the history, the destruction of the city and the temple, the murder, exile, slavery of whole masses of this stiff-necked people. Its subsequent fortunes were delineated in a cunning allegorical way: a real historical delineation of them would have lain without the limits of true art. At this point the gallery abruptly terminated in a closed door, and Wilhelm was surprised to see himself already at the end. “In your historical series,” said he, “I find a chasm. You have destroyed the Temple of Jerusalem, and dispersed the people; yet you have not introduced the divine Man who taught there shortly before, to whom, shortly before, they would give no ear.”

“To have done this, as you require it, would have been an error. The life of that divine Man, whom you allude to, stands in no connection with the general history of the world in his time. It was a private life, his teaching was a teaching for individuals. What has publicly befallen vast masses of people, and the minor parts which compose them, belongs to the general history of the world, to the general religion of the world, - the religion we have named the first. What inwardly befalls individuals belongs to the second religion, the philosophical: such a religion was it that Christ taught and practised, so long as he went about on earth. For this reason the external here closes, and I now open to you the internal.” A door went back; and they entered a similar gallery, where Wilhelm soon recognized a corresponding series of pictures from the New Testament. They seemed as if by another hand than the first: all was softer, - forms, movements, accompaniments, light, and coloring. “Here,” said the guide, after they had looked over a few pictures, “you behold neither actions nor events, but miracles and similitudes. There is here a new world, a new exterior, different from the former; and an interior, which was altogether wanting there. By miracles and similitudes a new world is opened up. Those make the common extraordinary, these the extraordinary common.”

“You will have the goodness,” said Wilhelm, “to explain these few words more minutely; for, by my own light, I cannot.” “They have a natural meaning,” said the other, “though a deep one. Examples will bring it out most easily and soonest. There is nothing more common and customary than eating and drinking; but it is extraordinary to transform a drink into another of more noble sort, to multiply a portion of food that it suffice a multitude. Nothing is more common than sickness and corporeal diseases; but to remove, to mitigate these by spiritual or spiritual-like means, is extraordinary; and even in this lies the wonder of the miracle, that the common and the extraordinary, the possible and the impossible, become one. With the similitude again, with the parable, the converse is the case; here it is the sense, the view, the idea, that forms the high, the unattainable, the extraordinary. When this embodies itself into common, customary, comprehensible figure, so that it meets us as if alive, present, actual, so that we can seize it, appropriate, retain it, live with it as with our equal, this is a second sort of miracle, and is justly placed beside the first sort, - nay, perhaps preferred to it. Here a living doctrine is pronounced, a doctrine which can cause no argument: it is not an opinion about what is right and wrong; it is right and wrong themselves, and indisputably.”

This part of the gallery was shorter; indeed, it formed but the fourth part of the circuit enclosing the interior court. Yet, if in the former part you merely walked along, you here liked to linger, you here walked to and fro. The objects were not so striking, not so varied; yet they invited you the more to penetrate their deep, still meaning. Our two friends, accordingly, turned round at the end of the space; Wilhelm at the same time expressing some surprise that these delineations went no farther than the Supper, than the scene where the Master and his disciples part. He inquired for the remaining portion of the history. “In all sorts of instruction,” said the eldest, “in all sorts of communication, we are fond of separating whatever it is possible to separate; for by this means alone can the notion of importance and peculiar significance arise in the young mind. Actual experience of itself mingles and mixes all things together: here, accordingly, we have entirely disjoined that sublime Man’s life from its termination. In life, he appears as a true philosopher, - let not the expression stagger you, - as a wise man in the highest sense. He stands firm to his point; he goes on his way inflexibly; and while he exalts the lower to himself, while he makes the ignorant, the poor, the sick, partakers of his wisdom, of his riches, of his strength, he, on the other hand, in no wise conceals his divine origin;

he dares to equal himself with God, - nay, to declare that he himself is God. In this manner is he wont, from youth upwards, to astound his familiar friends; of these he gains a part to his own cause, irritates the rest against him, and shows to all men, who are aiming at a certain elevation in doctrine and life, what they have to look for from the world. And thus, for the noble portion of mankind, his walk and conversation are even more instructive and profitable than his death; for to those trials every one is called, to this trial but a few. Now, omitting all that results from this consideration, do but look at the touching scene of the Last Supper. Here the wise Man, as it ever is, leaves those that are his own utterly orphaned behind him; and, while he is careful for the good, he feeds along with them a traitor by whom he and the better are to be destroyed.”

With these words the eldest opened a door, and Wilhelm faltered in surprise as he found himself again in the first hall at the entrance. They had in the mean while, as he now saw, passed round the whole circuit of the court. “I hoped,” said Wilhelm, “you were leading me to the conclusion; and you take me back to the beginning.” “For the present,” said the eldest, “I can show you nothing further: more we do not lay before our pupils, more we do not explain to them, than what you have now gone through. All that is external, worldly, universal, we communicate to each from youth upwards; what is more particularly spiritual, and conversant with the heart, to those only who grow up with some thoughtfulness of temper; and the rest, which is opened only once a year, cannot be imparted save to those whom we are sending forth as finished. That last religion which arises from the reverence of what is beneath us; that veneration of the contradictory, the hated, the avoided, - we give each of our pupils in small portions, by way of outfit, along with him into the world, merely that he may know where more is to be had should such a want spring up within him. I invite you to return hither at the end of a year, to visit our general festival, and see how far your son is advanced: then shall you be admitted into the sanctuary of sorrow.”