SAN oiteo y l^l^('lTiTr9ln9ftMf O.^NIA. SAN DIEGO illll[l III [|[ [I I III III 111111111'" ■• ■ 822 01955 0847 Social Sciences & Humanities Library University of California, San Diego Please Note: This item is subject to recall. Date Due APR 17 1996 FF R ? 9 m f\ CO a: 2 < X (- A D Q UJ a. o +> u> at Cr* Oi (- +> C £ 3 Q < O o o C9 I- c q- +> c a< ir. f. c UJ I L --^fty THE DIADEM FOK MDCCCXLVI. A PRESENT FOR ALL SEASONS. WITH TEN ENGEAVINGS, AFTER PICTURES BY INMAN, LEUTZE, ETC. PHILADELPHIA. CAREY & HART, 126 CHESNUT STREE T. 1846. Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1845, by CAREY AND HART, in the Office of the Clerk of the District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. T. K. t P O. COLLINS, PRINTERS. CONTENTS. PAGE PREFACE 5 LOSS AND GAIN R- W. Ememon - - - - 9 THE EARTH TO THE SUN Anne C. Lynch - ... 10 THE DREAM F. H. Hedge .... 12 THE BEAN - - - - W. 13 PASSAGES, ETC. L. 0. - - 31 A FABLE R. W. Emerson . . - - 3S THE LAST POET N. L. F. 39 THE SINGER F. H. Hedge 41 THE ROSE B. T. 43 THOUGHTS L. 0. 71 LINES Anne C. Lynch . ... SO GENIUS F. SI SPIRIT-GREETING F. H. Hedge 90 COLISEUM C. T. Brooks 91 LINES 93 SONG N. L. F. 94 THE FORE-RUNNERS R. VV. Emerson .... 95 PREFACE, We thought to perform an office of unmingled pleasure in saying a few words introductory to this, the second series of the Diadem. But, as the last sheets were passing through the press, our friend Mr. Carey, to whom the present publication owes its existence, and of whose taste and love of art it is one of the humblest of many memorials, was breathing his last, and those eyes are closed in death which we most wished should see and approve the work.* We bring it before the world with hearts smitten with an acute sense of loss. We are loth to mar with sad thoughts the festivities of the season to which this publication is dedicated, but there are very few, except the very young, around whom even Christmas and the New Year do not gather many mournful memories! If, therefore, amidst the joyous interchange of good wishes which belongs to the season and in which we send forth this volume to participate, we pause to pay a brief tribute to the memory of our friend, we shall not be considered as altogether out of harmony with the occasion. What cup of sweetness is there that is not dashed with bitterness? What path of man on which the shadow of death does not lie? What garlands can be woven without the cypress? For the last four years of his life Mr. Carey was subjected to the severe discipline of infirmities, oftentimes acutely painful, which confined him wholly to the house and rendered him scarcely able to move without assistance. His sufferings had the manifest effect to unfold the best qualities of his nature, and these became the predominant traits of his • Mr. Carey departed this life June 16, 1845, in the 40lh year of his age. B 5 PREFACE. character. He bore the wearisome burthen with uniform sweetness of temper. Thrown upon his own resources, he was a diUgent reader, and through the extensive acquaintance which he acquired with general Utera- ture, his abiUty as a pubhsher, so far from being impaired, was increased by his confinement. To that forced retirement we are indebted for some of the most popular publications that have issued from the American press, such as "The Modern Essayists" and Professor Longfellow's "Poets and Poetry of Europe." At the same time an early fondness for the Fine Arts grew in him day by day, until the walls of his spacious rooms were hung all over with fine specimens of the genius and skill of some of the most eminent of living British and American painters. These beautiful works were his perpetual refreshment, and it was interesting to see how entirely he had passed, long before he died, into a still, imperishable world of truth and beauty, in which he held constant communion with noble thoughts, meditating liberal designs. His love of art, unalloyed by the slightest affectation or pretence, was evinced in his princely dealing with artists. His patronage was in nowise ofiicial; his name did not appear at the head of public institutions; but artists were proud and happy to know that he was the possessor of their works, and they mourn him now as a man as well as a munificent patron. As the embellishments of this work were left wholly to his taste, and as they were incomplete at his death, we have thought that the slight portrait of him taken in part from memory (Plate No. X) by recalling his features in ever so faint a degree to his many and warmly attached friends, would not be wholly out of place in a Souvenir. It remains only to say a word upon a slight change which we have made in the present volume. In preparing publications of this kind, it is customary to make use of a considerable quantity of prose and poetrjs ordered expressly for the purpose, and designed to illustrate the plates, which constitute the chief attraction of these works. We omit to observe this custom in the present instance; for, although the plates in last year's 6 PREFACE. Diadem were illustrated with no ordinary felicity by Miss Lynch, yet sound philosophy and an abundant experience bear witness that it is a false method to treat the inspiration, without which poetry is so designated only by the merest courtesy, as if it were kept subject to order and retail. We therefore prefer to follow the steps of our German brethren, among whom we believe this species of literature first appeared, and leave the plates to tell their own stories and write their own poems, except as such brief remarks may be thought necessary as may here find place. The Frontispiece is after a fancy head by H. Inman, and we anticipate the satisfaction of that gentleman in the full justice done to the original by Mr. Sartain. The Title-page is from a drawing furnished for this volume by that most promising artist, Mr. Leutze, now abroad, and it evidently represents the good Angel of the Christmas and New Year season bringing gifts, riches and honour. The depths of those earnest eyes reveal the genius of the artist. "The Homeless" is from an original picture by P. F. Poole, an English artist. "The Mask" is also engraved from an origi- nal picture by H. Inman. " The Momentous Question," representing a scene from Crabbe's Tales, is from a fine English engraving of a painting by Miss Setchal, who holds a high rank among British artists. The original picture of "The Heart's Misgivings" is in water colour, and commanded great admiration when first exhibited. "The Falconer's Son" and "The Fisherman's Daughter" will be recognized as taken from Landseer's fine picture of Bolton Abbey. For the rest, the embel- lishments of this volume must speak for themselves. W. H. F. THE DIADEM. LOSS AND GAIN. n T n . w . E M E n s o .N . Virtue runs before the muse And defies her skill, She is rapt, and doth refuse To wait a painter's will. Star-adoring, occupied, Virtue cannot bend her, Just to please a poet's pride. To parade her splendor. The bard must be with good intent No more his, but hers, Must throw away his pen and paint, Kneel with her worshippers. Then, perchance, a sunny ray From the heaven of fire His lost tools may overpay And better his desire. THE EARTH TO THE SUN. BT ASXE C. LTXCH. Oh Sun ! oh glorious S'un ! The spell of winter binds me strong and dread In the dark sleep, the coldness of the dead, And song and beauty from my haunts are gone. The skies above me lower, The frozen tempest beats upon my breast, That wearily by its snow-shroud is prest. And the wild winds rave o'er me in mad power. At thine averted gaze, Benumbed and desolate I droop and die ; Life of my life ! lord of my destiny ! Shine on me with thy life-imparting rays. Look from thy radiant throne. And o'er this waste, drear and unlovely now, Young Summer's gorgeous loveliness shall glow, And beauty clasp me in her magic zone. Fair landscapes shall arise. O'er which a sky of tenderest blue shall bend, When forest, hill and vale, and stream shall blend Into a poet's dream of paradise. And in thy living beams The flowers shall wake, and every dewy cup Shall send the homage of its perfume up. And give thy brightness back in rosy gleams. 10 THE EARTH TO THE SUN. A full deep symphony, The voice of streams, the air's melodious sighs. Songs from all living things shall mingling rise In one eternal hymn of love to thee. In vain, oh Earth, in vain ; — What heeds the Sun, if light or shadow rest Upon the bosom in his smile so blest. Or if thou perish in thine icy chain. If from the shining host. Like the lost Pleiad, thou wert stricken down. He would not miss thee from his starry crown, He would not mark one ray of brightness lost. Then for the song and bloom, The untold wealth of beauty buried deep Within thy frozen heart in death-like sleep, Oh ! mourn thou not within thy conscious tomb. THE DREAM. FROM TUE GERMAN OF L. UHLAXD. BT F. H. IIF. DGE. I DREAMED not long ago I stood on a rocky steep, — On a cliff by the ocean's strand; — And I looked far over the land, And down on the glorious deep. Beneath me, in gallant trim, A stately bark lay moored, The surge its dark side laving, — Gaily its flag was waving, And a pilot stood on board. And behold there came from the mountains A merry, merry band ; Bedecked with garlands bright, They seemed like spirits of light As they tripped along the strand. " Say, pilot, wilt thou take us?" " What nymphs be ye so gay ?" ^ " Earth's Joys and Pleasures are we. From earth we feign would flee, ! bear us from earth away !" Then the pilot, he bade them enter; And they entered one by one. " But tell me, are here all ? Are none left in bower or hall .'" And they answered, " There are none." Away ! then ; — the bark unmoored Leaped gaily from anchor's thrall ; And away she sped with a glorious motion. And I saw them vanish over the Ocean, — Earth's Joys and Pleasures all. 12 ?a»nifdb/'55rfili ,V:-hnl THE BEAN, FROM THE HERMAN OF H. 7. 9CH0KKE. " I WAS in despair" — so began the young banker Walter at an evening party, — for nine weeks I went everywhere in Vienna, into all parties, under all pretences, and at every police otfice I described the lady Voii. Tarnau, her aunt and the maid servant ; no one could tell whither they had gone. Good advice, indeed, was not wanting, for that is always cheap. I was directed to all the points of the compass to find my goddess. She was no longer in Vienna. But although I was told so at the hotel where she had lived, and although I occupied the same room which had once been hers, I still sought her. I was at all churches and masses, at all masquerades and balls, at all plays and places of amusement. Enough — love's labour was lost. My angel had vanished. Inconsolable I left the capital, and in the worst winter weather returned home. But to make the whole singularity of my fate clear to you, I must tell you how I became acquainted with the lady. You will find much in my story that is wonderful, but in love everything is romance. Three years before I had visited Vienna on business. Our house was threatened with a great loss. I succeeded in averting the misfortune ; and then availed myself of the opportunity to participate in the amusements of Vienna. " Who knows," thought I, " that 1 shall ever again come to Vienna." My acquaintances carried me into all companies ; I was introduced into many family circles; the mothers received me very kindly, and their fair daughters not less so. I was known to be unmarried, and the name of our house was not unknown to the fathers. I passed everywhere as the rich banker, and was addressed by the title of Mr. Von Walter. On account of the peculiarities of my good old father, I had never thought of marrying. Of course, entirely free, I fluttered from one fair one to another. I loved 'them all, but no one in particular. " The lady Von Tarnau is every moment expected," lisped an elderly lady near me at an evening party to a young neighbour. " She is a dear good creature," replied llie young lady addressed; " she would be thought perfectly beautiful, were it not for that horrible defect." D 13 THE DIADEM. " All !" said the elderly lady, " you mean the mole she has on her breast, just below her neck ? they say that it is in the Ibrm of a mouse !" " A mouse ! Pardon, my dear lady, if it were nothing worse than that, it would not be necessary for her to wrap herself up so like a nun. No, it is just like a camel, with two humps, four legs and a long neck." " Don't you believe that !" said another who joined in the conversation. "I know all about it. It is a mole of a very peculiar kind, of a monstrous size, and covers her whole neck. It is a shocking disfigurement." " Indeed, that is frightful!" exclaimed the old lady. "Yes, and if I were so disfigured," said one of the young ladies, modestly casting her eyes down upon the fine gauze which lay upon her fair neck like a cloud •on the snow, "I do believe it would kill me." ^ Others now joined in the conversation ; every one confirmed the fact, and all pitied the young lady Von Tarnau on account of this great misfortune. The door opened. The young lady and her aunt entered. Had she not already awakened an interest in me through the preceding conver- sation, she would have riveted my attention by her uncommon beauty and grace. An ideal, such as we sometimes admire in the pictures of Angelica Kaufmann, a — no, smile not ; I was not then in love ; and now I am married, so I utter nothing but truth. Enough, the lovely Tarnau won the eyes and hearts of all the gentlemen ; they all approached her with an expression of interest, brightened by the tenderest sympathy. But she was impenetrably veiled close up to her chin. This peculiarity of her dress, of course, incessantly reminded one of the mouse, and another of the camel. " Ah!" thought every one, " why was fate so cruel as to deform the sweetest creature under the sun in this dreadful manner!" — and, I cannot deny it, I thought so too. I am not by nature curious, but on that evening this sin plagued me as never before. My eyes continually wandered over the folds of the thick veil ; I repeated my voyage of discovery every quarter of an hour. I always found opportunity to stand next to the fair unfortunate. But in vain. There was dancing. Several couples had already taken their places. The beau- tiful Tarnau remained unasked, — how powerful is imagination! I asked her to dance; she gave me her hand. I continued her partner the rest of the evening. She hovered lightly around me like one of Titania's elves, in all her motions, smiles, looks, words, full of inexpressible sweetness — "Ah! shame upon the master- piece of Nature, who, in cruel wantonness, had ruined her most beautiful work." The company separated late. The beautiful unfortunate had enraptured me. She -was so innocent and saintly, and unconstrained. — Ah, happily she knew not what every one else knew ! so much the better for her. I was not romantic enough to fancy that I had fallen in love at first sight, although it would not have been strange if I had done so. This much I readily confess, that as yet no woman had ever captivated me to such a degree. A deep sympathy touched my heart ; and certainly such an angel deserved at least a little pity! 14 THE BEAN. The next day I had already forgotten — forgotten ? no, I will not say that, for one cannot well help thinking of so strange a freak of nature, by which all the magic of beauty was mixed with the hatefullest of hateful things. As I returned from a walk and ascended the steps of the hotel, I suddenly met the lady and her aunt descending. Naturally enough we stopped and exchanged friendly inquiries. Surprise was expressed on both sides that we should have been residing under the same roof without knowing it. I showed my pleasure at the discovery, and begged permission at suitable hours to see the ladies in their apartments. At the word, ' see,' I really looked, — for my curiosity again arose — towards the region of the horrid mole, but a thick shawl, carefully pinned under her chin, covered the young lady's breast and shoulders, and, therefore, I preferred to look at the angelic, beautiful face above. They went down the steps and I went hastily into my room, in order to have another sight of that delicate form from my window. They got into a carriage and drove off. "Ah," sighed I, " what a pity that such an angel should be so terribly disfigured!" I did not forget the permission they had given me to come and see them, and from time to time I made the ladies a visit. They were, like myself, strangers in Vienna, and had been introduced to my friend, at whose house a few evenings before I had become acquainted with them, by an Augsburg firm from whom they received their funds. I attended my fellow-boarders to the promenade, to the theatre, and to all places where there was anything to be seen. The beautiful Josephine, — for so her aunt called her, — manifested the fine qualities of her mind and heart the more I became acquainted with her. But it did not escape me, that, the longer our acquaintance lasted, the more carefully did she conceal her unfortunate disfigured breast. Josephine was the most perfect woman that I had ever seen in my life ; but nothing under the sun is quite perfect. As we saw each other daily, we became every day more intimate. At last it seemed as if I wholly belonged to them. The aunt treated me with that familiarity which grows out of travelling in company. In Josephine's maimer of addressing me I fancied that I perceived some tender marks of friendship. When I was occasionally prevented from joining the ladies by business, I was compelled to listen to some slight reproaches, and when Jose{)hine, sitting motionless and silent, wouki fix her eyes upon me as if she sought to look into my very soul, and ask. Who art thou ? — Ah, it is imjiossible to say how I then felt. But at last no business ever hindered mc, and I came punctually with the clock. My heaven, however, did not last long. I received a letter from home. My good father had had an apoplectic stroke ; he longed to see me. It was necessary that I should use the utmost haste if I would again embrace him in this world. The letter arrived in the morning. In half an hour all was packed, and the post- coach stood at the door of the hotel. I was almost out of my senses with anxiety. 15 THE DIADEM. My servant announced that all was ready. I went down to the street like one in a dream. The thought of taking leave of my fellow-boarders never occurred to me; and I was just about to jump into the coach, when a voice from above called to me, " Where are you going ?" It was the sweet voice of Josephine. I looked up ; she stood at the window and repeated the question. My recollection returned. I flew back into the hotel and up stairs to obey the dictates, if not of friendship, at least of politeness. I knocked at the door, and it sprang open. Josephine still in her morning-dress came towards me, but starting back with an expression of the liveliest alarm — " Gracious heaven!" cried she, " what is the matter with you .'' What has hap- pened? How pale and ghastly you look!" As she said this with great emotion, and stretched out her hand to seize mine, the Cashmere shawl, which she had thrown loosely over her, fell open in front. And — may the shade of my honored father pardon me — but curiosity is a most unfortunate sin — I forgot journey, apoplexy, and extra-post, and had eyes only for the revealed secret of Josephine's breast. Imagine my astonishment ! — I saw a breast as white and clear as ivory, and two inches below the dimple of her alabaster throat the unfortunate mole. But it was no mouse, no camel, only a dark brown spot on the skin about the size and the shape of a small bean. I could have sworn that a pretty brown bean was lying on the blinding snow. Josephine blushing, drew the shawl together again, — but I could not speak. Whether it were the apoplexy or the bean— enough, I stood confounded like a statue. "For heaven's sake!" cried her aunt, "tell us what has happened to you.' Have you met with any misfortune ?" " My father has had an apoplectic stroke — he is at the point of death — I must leave you." I could say no more. I kissed the ladies' hands and took leave. For a moment, but only for a moment, Josephine held my hand convulsively grasped in hers. Her countenance was pale, and her eyes wet ; perhaps it was not so, for I hardly saw anything. Everything danced before my eyes. Once in the carriage, I thought of nothing but my dear father's death-bed. I travelled day and night in a perfect fever. The days thus spent were the most painful of my life. I had only a few happy moments amidst the confused dreams that hovered before me. Only now and then did Morpheus or the fever show me the bean in the snow. When at last the coach stopped before the paternal mansion, some of my relatives habited in mourning came out to meet me. I was too late. My father had left the world, and his ashes already rested in the tomb. I will not say how violent was my grief. With all his humors, I loved my father with the most filial tenderness. Grief and the excitement of the journey prostrated my health. I was seized with a violent fever, which was really a benefit to me, as I 16 THE BEAN. became wholly unconscious. For three months I did not leave my bed. When I recovered, and the world and the past came back to me, emerging, as it were, out of a cloud, I was as cold and indifferent as if nothing had happened, as if I had lost all feeling. The affairs of our house had been thrown into some confusion by the death of my father and the long continuance of my illness. Happily for me, labour and occupa- tion were afforded me. Within a year and a day, however, everything was put to rights, and I was the master of my house. And when the black crape disappeared from my arm and hat, aunts and cousins thronged around me, full of marriage plans. Such manifestations of cousinly and auntly regard are as necessary and unavoidable as birth and death. I let the matchmakers have their way, and troubled myself very little about their advice or their plans. No cousin, no aunt, Hymen's ever ready servants, can ever effect so much as simply a single pretty maiden, and at the right hour. But in our whole city and neighbourhood there was no pretty maiden — no, that is a calumny, it was the magic hour that had not come. Nevertheless, this continual questioning and answering brought me to reflection ; I really perceived that I was alone, and that I wanted something. My house, since my father's death, had become a wilderness. And yet among the ten thousand young ladies whom I had ever seen, I knew no one with whom I should like to share my life and my wilderness. My residence in Vienna and the beautiful Tarnau suddenly occurred to me, I know not how, for it was a long forgotten story. Fortunately, I was alone in my room, for I believe that I grew fire-red at the remembrance ; at least I suddenly sprung up from the sofa, stretched my arms far out into the air as if to embrace the heavenly image, and sighed — no, I called aloud with mingled rapture and pain: "Josephine' Josephine!" That was, I believe, the magic hour To increase my disquiet, the very next night the god of dreams showed me the bean in the snow. Josephine was beautiful enough in herself, but my enamoured imagination illuminated her with unearthly beauty. Let no one laugh — I had gone to bed sober, but I arose the next morning intoxicated with love. Now, indeed, was my house desert and waste, as the old Chaos of Creation might have been. I sought Josephine everywhere ; I saw her everywhere. I thought of her as my wife, now at the pleasant window, with her little work-basket ; now at the piano and myself behind her listening; and now at my side on the sofa at a little round breakfast table. In the tumult of my imagination, all her indescribable grace, her smile, her look, and her nightingale-tones became ever more bewitching. I was no longer master of myself ; I was lost in a conflict of emotions of all sorts ; at one time I was upon the point of shouting aloud from very ecstacy, so bright were my dreams, and then, again, I was ready to weep. When I thought how Josephine, perhaps, might reject me, sometimes, I believe, I really did shout, and weep, for I E 17 THE DIADEM. was like a wild dreamer, who is only at home with his Ideal, and is deaf and blind to the outward world. This condition was intolerable. I arranged my business, ordered post horses and flew to Vienna. It is true, some sober considerations now and then occurred to me on the way. How much might she have changed in sixteen months! thought I. Perhaps she loves another. Perhaps she is married. She may not be at her own disposal. She is too young, and has parents and relatives, and they have views which neither of us know of, or she may be of high rank. I then thought over our former friendly intimacy, and consoled myself with the remembrance of her pale countenance, her suffused eyes, and her ardent, involuntary pressure of my hand when we parted. In all these things I found proof of Josephine's interest in me, proofs even of love, although these circumstances might have been interpreted in a different way. But that I might not utterly despair, I was forced to conclude on the whole that the lady Von Tarnau was not indifferent to me. Better not to live, than to live without her ; better deluded and happy than knowing the truth and miserable ! Filled with these thoughts I again approached Vienna. But when I saw the steeples and roofs in the distance, it occurred to me that, although I had considered all chances, 1 had not taken into account that a year ago Josephine was a stranger like myself in Vienna, and could hardly be in Vienna still. How I fared in Vienna, I have already told you. The lady Von Tarnau had vanished. The hotel had passed into new hands ; and so there was no one to give me any information. My acquaintances knew as little of her and her whereabouts as I. They wrote at my request to Augsburg, whence she or her aunt had brought letters of credit and introduction. But the Augsburg correspondent had in the mean time died, and his heirs could give intelligence of no lady Von Tarnau. Enough, I was in despair. I was most heartily vexed with myself. For was it not my own fault, that during my first stay in Vienna, I had been so unpardonably negligent as not to inform myself of her family and residence ? Indeed, then I never once thought that I was going to fall in love with her a year and a quarter afterwards. In the midst of my trouble what enlivened me the most, although it increased my passion, was — her room. That room I now occupied. I found the same furniture still there, the very chair on which she sat, and the table at which she wrote. The whole past lived so vividly before my eyes and around me, that I absolutely sprung up from my seat all in a flutter, upon the slightest noise at the door, thinking that it was she herself and her aunt coming in. In the room itself nothing remained unsearched, fori still hoped to discover some trace of her. Twenty times did I examine the walls from the floor to the ceiling to find among the signatures of travellers there, her name, or something that would lead to the discovery of her home. All in vain ! 18 THE BEAN. Odd— but trifling enough, the very first day I went into the room, I found in the draw of the writing-table — let no one laugh, — a beautiful, shining, brown Bean. You know what a sacred symbol this vegetable had become to me, and now I had found it in Josephine's room ! I took up the bean with the greatest care. And as I now gave up the fond hope of ever finding the loveliest being upon earth, I took the bean to a jeweller, and had it set in gold, in order to wear it continually by a silken guard round my neck, as a memento of the loveliest of her sex, and of my sad romance. I then left Vienna. I was unhappy and comfortless. I swore never to marry. Ah, one swears many things in his haste ! I returned to my native city, like a widower. All young ladies appeared to me intolerable, stale, common ; I buried myself in business ; I diverted my mind by engaging in large speculations; saw no company; made no visits; Josephine's image hovered continually around me like a guardian angel, and the bean upon my breast was as precious a possession as if it had been bestowed by her own hand. Let no one grudge the unhappy his dreams ! I even at last imagined that the beautiful Tarnau had herself placed the bean in the drawer of the writing-table. A happy fancy is in the end as good as any philosophy, by which one would fain console himself. My outward man, indeed, was not indicative of this wonderful happiness; for all thought me melancholy, sick, and like to die. Aunts and cousins beset me with entreaties, invitations, and plans of pleasure; even physicians were sent to my house. I would have nothing to do with them. To free myself from my tormentors, and to show that I was still like otlier men, I went now and then to some of the evening parties at the houses of my friends. One evening I accepted an invitation to Councillor Hildebrande's. Now you shall hear the catastrophe of my story. I went to the councillor's. The company were all known to me, with the excep- tion of one person, who was introduced to me as a lieutenant colonel in the Russian service, and who had lately come into possession of an estate about a league and a half from the city. To tliis, however, I did not pay much attention at the moment. I bowed silently, laid aside my hat and took my seat. Conversation was lively; so much the better for me ; I had no especial desire to talk. The Russian officer, a large stout man, of an agreeable and dignified figure, already past sixty, still full of animation, chiefly engaged my attention. He had a ribbon at his button-hole, and a couple of scars on his forehead and ciieek. His voice was loud and authoritative ; it was easy to see in him a commanding officer. The conversation turned now upon Persia, and now upon Moldau, where the lieutenant colonel had made campaigns. The company listened to iiini with pleasure, and he told his stories well. After supper the conversation grew still more lively. The old officer told of a 19 THE DIADEM. battle, in which, wounded in the breast, he had fallen from his horse and been taken prisoner by the Turks. When in the excitement of his narrative he tore open his vest to show the wound, we remarked that he wore next to his heart, a little golden locket fastened by a silken guard. He drew out the locket and exclaimed : " The Janissa- ries robbed me of everything, but this jewel, the most precious of my possessions, I saved !" Of course, all imagined that it must be a diamond of uncommon size, or a pearl of immense value, one of his Eastern spoils. " Oh, not at all," cried he, "it is only a beanP'' " A bemiT' exclaimed every one. At these words I became, I believe, red as fire or pale as death, or both by turns, for I could not command myself for surprise. " How comes the man by a bean which he wears set in gold like a sacred relic, just like me?" thought I. Let any- one imagine himself in my situation, and he will know how I felt. I longed to learn why he wore the bean. But I was confounded ; I could not bring out a syllable. I tossed off a glass of punch to get courage to ask the question. But I was saved the trouble by all present. " I will willingly tell you," said the old officer, and filled his pipe ; "but I am afraid the story is not sufficiently interesting. Fill your pipes, gentlemen." Every one obeyed, even I, although I was no smoker. But I took the cold pipe between my lips, from pure fear that the colonel should refuse to proceed, if he saw me without his favorite instrument. Gentlemen, I was a cadet in my fifteenth year, and a Lieutenant in my twentieth, said the old gentleman. — But in his five and twentieth one is something more than a mere lieutenant. He is a god, nota bene! if he is in love. And that was L Our colonel had a daughter, the most beautiful and bewitching maiden in the whole kingdom, and I had, along with two sound eyes, an extra sound heart. This explains everything. The young countess of Obendorf — but I love to call her to myself by her baptismal name of Sophia, for, nota bene ! I was no count — Sophia then was sixteen years old, and I, as I said before, five and twenty ; you can easily imagine what mischief arose therefrom. It was quite unavoidable, I assure you. You all see that plainly enough ; but the colonel who had the eye of a hawk in regimental matters, did not see it at all; but my love, nota bene! was no regimental matter: for the rest, I stood very high with him ; he was as fond of me as a son ; he had known my parents, who were no longer living; he stood to me as a father, and I would have given anything in the world to have been his son. But that was not to be thought of. He was a colonel, I a lieutenant ; he a count, I not ; he rich as Croesus, I poor as a church-mouse. Now you know all. The distance between us was too great. The countess Sophia did not make such nice distinctions about titles and wealth as the old colonel, and yet in many things she was more prudent than he. I remarked, indeed, that she treated me in a more friendly manner than any 20 THE BEAN. Other of the officers, that she liked best to talk with me ; liked best to dance with me ; liked best to walk with me in the garden in summer, and to go sleighing with me in the winter, — however, I could not conclude from all this whether she loved me. But that I loved, adored, idolized her that I knew, and that I knew only too well. A thousand times was I ready to declare myself, and throw myself at her feet — but, good heavens ! I have since gone with my battalion to storm a battery with a lighter heart than I was able then to advance a single step towards Sophia. It will not do, said I. But I will not detain you longer with the history of my love and my sufferings, but proceed directly to the main point. One evening I had to carry a report to the colonel. He was not at home ; that, indeed, was no great misfortune, for the countess Sophia was sitting all alone, and she permitted me to await her father's return in her company. How curious it was ! If we met at large parties, it seemed as if there would be no end to our talk ; but when we were alone, tete-a-tete, as they say, we knew not what to say, nay, we knew well enough, but, nota bene! we could not say it! Whether you ever experienced such fatalities, gentlemen, in your young days, I know not. On the table before the young countess lay a draught board upon which a certain game was played with a number of white and brown beans. After a long pause in our conversation — but, nota bene ! such pauses were any- thing but tedious — the countess invited me to play. She gave me the brown beans and kept the white. They belonged to her, of course, on account of their color, — the emblem of Innocence. We played. The countess won. That led to quarreling, and I liked to .quarrel with her, for then I could say many things to her that I could never muster courage to say in cold blood. And now it was just as if we were in a large party ; that is, we talked fast enough about the stakes. The countess Sophia had spirit and wit; she laughed, and teased me, and drove me so with her sallies into a corner, that in my despair I knew not what to answer. In my vexation I took up one of my brown beans, and to punish the beautiful jester, who laughed at me so roguishly, threw it at her. The bean made a parabola aild threatened the delicate nose of my opponent, but as she drew back her pretty head to avoid the light bomb — Ah, my shot fell through the folds of iier neckerchief down into her bosom. Luckily it was no arrow I I was terribly frightened, and was all in a glow in my agony. Sophia blushed and cast her eyes modestly down. Jest, play, and quarrel were now all at an end. I could not speak, and she was silent. I feared that I had incurred her anger through my awkwardness. I looked timidly toward her, she raised her eyes and cast upon me rather a dark look — that I could not bear. I arose, and bent my knee before the adored one, pressed her hand to my lips and implored pardon. She answered not a syllable, yet she did not draw away her hand from me. F 21 THE DIADEM. " countess, dear Sophia! don't be vexed with me. I should die," cried I, " if you were angry with me. For only for you, only through you do I live. With- out you life is worthless. You are my life, my heaven, my all." Enough ; one word followed another. How much did I say to her with tears in my eyes, and with tears in her eyes how much did she listen to! I begged for an answer and yet gave her no time for an answer, and, nota bene ! the colonel stood three steps from us in the room without either of us having seen or heard him enter. I believe he must have glided in like a ghost ! God save him ! he is now in Paradise. His awful voice startled us like a clap of thunder, as he poured out upon us a whole string of regimental oaths old and new. I sprang up before him. Sophia, without losing her presence of mind, did the same. We were on the point of excus- ing ourselves, if there really was anything to be excused. But he would not allow us to utter a word. "Silence!" shouted he, as if, instead of two poor sinners, he had to deal with a couple of regiments of cavalry. " You, Sophia, depart to-morrow — and you, Mr. Lieutenant, will jilease ask your dismissal and quit the province, or you are a dead man." With this he turned upon his heel and left the room. I must confess, the prudence of the man in the midst of his fury was worthy of admiration ; for I hold it was very prudent in him that he left us alone; we had still much to say to each other. The countess Sophia stood there in the middle of the room with her pretty head sunk upon her breast, and her hands negligently folded before her, like a statue. " Oh Sophia!" said I, and rushed towards her and folding her in my arms, pressed her fervently to my heart : " Sophia, now I lose you forever !" "No," she replied firmly, "not forever, so long as I breathe shall your image live in my heart." And this was said in a tone — 0, with a voice that thrilled every nerve in me. " Am I really dear to you, Sophia.'" I whispered, and pressed my burning lips to her rosy mouth. She did not say yes, she did not say no, but she returned my kiss, and the earth went from under my feet ; my soul was no longer in the body ; I touched the stars ; I knew the happiness of the seraphim. She wept ; her sobs recalled me to myself. " Sophia," cried I, sinking at her feet and embracing her knees : " I swear it to you, I am yours alone as long as I breathe and wherever my fate shall bear me!" A deathlike silence ensued — Our souls were silently swearing eternal fidelity. Suddenly something fell upon the floor. It was the unfortunate bean, to which we owed all our wretchedness. I took it up, arose, and held it out to Sophia, saying, " This is the work of Providence ! I will keep it as a remembrancer of this evening." " Yes, it is a providence !" whispered she, and turned and went into the next room. The following morning, or rather in the night, she travelled off. The colonel treated me on parade with the most scornful coldness. I applied for my dismissal, 22 THE BEAN. received it and went off. Whither I cared not. Friends gave me letters to Peters- burg and supplied me with travelling money. "It is a providence!" thought I, and started for the rough north. Sophia was lost to me forever, nothing remained to me but the painful remembrance and the bean. This I had set in gold, and I have now faithfully worn it next my heart for two and forty years. My letters soon obtained for me a lieutenant's commission. I was somewhat indifferent to life, and so was somewhat brave. I fought in Asia and Europe, got booty, honor, orders, and whatever else a soldier desires. After some twenty years, I got to be a lieutenant colonel. I had grown old ; my early history was, indeed, forgotten, but, nota bene! the bean was still dear to me. When I was taken prisoner by the Janissaries at the battle of Hinburn, in the year '88, — we had a hot day of it, the prince of Nassau made his cause good by the way, — they stripped me of everything; but the sacred bean they did not find ; it was completely soaked in my blood. I expected nothing but death. For two days I was dragged about by the infidels ; but, incessantly pursued by our cavalry, they at last left me lying half dead. So our people found me. They took pity on me and carried me to the hospital, and, to complete my restoration, I was sent at the head of a transport back to Moscow. The repose pleased me. I had to live, and therefore, life became dear to me. After twenty years service and seven honorable wounds, I could reasonably look for an honorable dismission. I received it with a pension; that was all very well, but, nota bene! I was not long contented. Moscow is an agreeable city, but for one of us, who are no merchants, rather dull. Petersburg is a beautiful place, but all its splendor was not enough to make me forget the little town, where I had been in garrison twenty years before with Colonel von Obendorf, and, nota bene ! with Sophia. There was nothing to delay me. ' Do you not wish once more to see the little town, and perhaps, also, the beloved of thy youth, who is now either a grandmamma, or is — dead.' Blessed heaven ! how much she must have changed in the mean time, thought I. I received my passports and departed. I looked about me in all the cities through which I passed, for I had nothing to hasten me, and so I approached our former garrison town. How my heart beat when I saw the black pointed church spire with its golden ball, rise behind the numerous gardens and orchards, but, nota bene ! it was not the spire ; but I thought of Sophia and that her grave might not be far from the spire. No one in the town knew me. It is very true a quarter of a century is a long time. The regiment to which I formerly belonged was no longer (here, and the station was occupied by dragoons, colonel von Obendorf had died many years bctbre, and his daughter had removed to her estates in Moravia, that is, not far from Brunn. Whether she were still living no one knew. ' Will you go there, tool' thought I : ' and if she be lying in her grave, then go 23 THE DIADEM. to her grave and take from it some earth and have it enclosed in gold and wear it instead of the bean !' In Brunn I learnt with joyful surprise that she was still alive, and resided five leagues from the city on a beautiful estate, and was still called the Countess von Obendorf. Instantly I was up and away. They showed me a beautiful country seat sur- rounded by gardens laid out with great taste. " There she lives!" — I trembled again as I had formerly done when a lieutenant, and as I never had done before the Turks. I got out of the carriage. Already I saw the lovely one, and how full of hea- venly grace and emotion she would receive me. ' Ah ! woman's heart ! Does she love me still ?' thought I, and proceeded with an uncertain step through the garden. , Before the house under an arbour of blooming red acacias, sat two elderly ladies, and two young ladies. They were reading. But Sophia I saw not. I apologized for the interruption I had occasioned ; for they all seemed surprised at my sudden appearance. " Whom do you wish to see ?" asked one of the elderly ladies. " May I have the honor to pay my respects to the Countess Sophia of Obendorf?" said I. " I am she," replied to my amazement the lady who appeared to be somewhat near forty. I felt as if I should have an attack of vertigo. "Permit me to sit down, I am not well!" sighed I ; and seated myself without waiting for an answer. What a change ! Whither had flown the most blooming of all beauties? The illusion passed away; I bethought myself of a quarter of a cen- tury. It was Sophia, yes, it was she! but the faded Sophia. " To whom have I the honor to speak?" asked she. Alas! she knew me not better than I knew her. I wished to avoid a scene before the two ladies, and therefore begged for a short tete-a-tete. — The countess led me into the house, and then into a large room on the left. The first thing that met my eyes was a full length portrait of her father — I could find no words to speak, my heart was so full. I gazed at the picture till my eyes grew dim with tears. — "Yes, old man," I stammered in a low voice : " look now at thy Sophia ! — Oh thou hast not treated us well!" The countess stood near me, embarrassed, and apparently alarmed at my declara- tion. I wished to release her from her painful situation, and yet could not speak. A feeling of sadness had completely overpowered me. " You are not well, sir?" said the countess, and she looked uneasily towards the door. " Oh no !" sighed I, " do you not know me ?" She now fixed her eyes more earnestly upon me, and then gently shook her head. I snatched the bean from my bosom, kneeled before her, and said, " Ah, Sophia, do you still know this bean, which separated us four and twenty years ago ? I have kept it faithfully— Sophia, you said then, ' There is a providence ;' yes, there is one." 24 THE BEAN. " Heaven!" stammered she with a faint voice, and turning from me, went towards a sofa, upon which she threw herself and sought to conceal her pale face -with her hands, but she fainted. She had recognized me. She loved me still. I called for help to the ladies who were alarmed at the sight of their friend in a fainting fit and a strange officer kneeling before her in tears. But before water and O ID O smelling bottles could be brought, the countess came to herself. She rubbed her eyes as if in a dream. Then a flood of tears broke forth ; she sobbed as if she were inconsolable, threw her arms round my neck and called me by name. Enough, gentlemen, that was a moment! Angels might have wept over us. — I had no thought of taking my leave. The countess received me as a guest. 0, how much had we to say to each other, how faithfully she had loved me ! — What the old colonel once prev'ented, neither he nor his family could prevent any longer. Sophia became my wife; somewhat late it is true, but yet not too late, our souls still loved with youthful fervor. My history or rather the history of this bean is now at an end, nota bene ! not quite. For the child that my Sophia bore me brought into the world with her a mark upon her breast just like a bean. Strange freak of nature! But the maiden is only so much the dearer to me. Here the lieutenant colonel ended ; but I heard no more. Everything swam around me ; in my ears there was a buzzing and humming like the sea. Only in the midst of it all, the name of Josephine sounded. The colonel's carriage was announced. " You must not think of going," said the councillor, "I cannot let you go in the night." " Oh," said the colonel, " it is a lovely night and bright moonlight." My carriage was announced also. I arose, went to the colonel, took him by the hand and said, "Your name is Von Tarnau." He bowed in the affirmative. " I '^eg you to spend this night with me," said I ; " much depends upon it. You must not go. I have something important to say to you." I said this so earnestly, and I might add so unconsciously, and at the same time trembled so violently that the old man did not know what to make of me. — Still he remained firm and insisted upon going. His obstinacy almost brought me to despair. " Come," said I, and seizing him by the hand, drew him aside and showed him my bean: "see — it is not a freak of nature merely — but of fate, — I also wear a bean." The old gentleman opened his eyes wide, looked at my jewel attentively, and at last said: " With such a talisman one might conjure up a spirit from the grave. I will remain and go with you wherever you please." He went with the councillor to order away his carriage. As I had appeared to him in rather a suspicious light, he sought further information about me. The coun- cillor was kind enough to say everything thatwas pleasant. I understood it the moment G 25 THE DIADEM. they re-entered. The old gentleman was as good humored as ever. He handed me a glass of punch and cried, "Long live the beans! and, nota bene! whatever they signify." We drank together. Life came back into me. " And so you are Mr. Von Walter," said he, after a pause. " Only Walter, no Ton." " And you were in Vienna a year ago ?" " Yes, indeed!" answered I, and I felt as if I were all on fire. " So, so !" said he : " My sister-in-law has told me a good deal about you. You resided in the same hotel. You paid much attention to the good lady — and she will thank you for it in person." The conversation now became more general until the company broke up. The lieutenant colonel went home with me, and I conducted him immediately to his room. " And now," said he, " I have thus far been obedient. What have you so very important to tell me ?" I began about Vienna, about the aunt, about Josephine. "I know all about that!" cried he, "but the d — 1! what has it to do with the bean you showed me." I now laid aside all raanceuvring. He learned all. " I know all that, too !" cried he again : " But the bean, the bean !" I then told him of my second journey to Vienna. He burst out a laughing, and shook me cordially by the hand. — " Nothing more now ! we will talk more to-morrow. For you see that I have nothing to say about it. What do you want of me ? — To-morrow we will ride out to my house. There you will see Josephine and become acquainted with my Sophia, that's clear ; people must get acquainted with one another." We separated, I went to bed but could not sleep without feverish dreams. " Come, Mr. Walter, out with the truth !" said the old gentleman to me the fol- lowing morning at breakfast : " I know you are a rich man ; I see you are a young man, from whom the girls will not run away into a nunnery ; I hear you are an honest man, whom all the world respects ; and I now learn from yourself that you are a man in love ; but all this together is not enough without — " " My family is not noble !" interrupted L " That's not it, sir, where mind and heart have a diploma of nobility from heaven, man's diploma may be dispensed with. I was no nobleman, and yet the countess Sophia loved me." " What, then, is wanting?" asked L " That I will tell you now, because, nota bene ! it is morning. In the evening when one is oppressed with the toil and care of the whole day, and the strong man becomes weak, and the greatest man somewhat less, one ought not to lay the least straw upon his shoulder, so out with the truth : with your bean there it is a very dif- ferent thing from mine. Mine was the work of providence ; first, a stumbling block ; 26 THE BEAN. then a corner stone and main pillar of true love : finally, a world, which flung itself between two long united hearts, and at last the magnet that drew us together again. Your love is a mere freak of imagination. I lived for Sophia from the very first moment I saw her; but it was not until a good year after you first became acquainted with Josephine that you fell in love with her. Understand me. I mean no insinua- tions. You will awake from your dream, when you see my daughter again, and the heavenly creation of your imagination is changed into a quite human maiden. Finally, and, nota bene ! let us take the bull by the horns ; Josephine loves you not." " That is hard!" sighed I: " but are you sure of it?" " We will go out to-day to my country seat and you can convince yourself. What I know of your stay in Vienna, I have learned from my sister-in-law, not from my daughter, who, perhaps, hardly remembers your name. — Besides, we have a dan- gerous neighbor, the young count Von Holten. He visits us often. Josephine is always glad to see him. I have often caught her looking at him for some moments with evident pleasure, and when she foimd me observing her, she would blush fire-red and skip laughing and singing away." " If that is the case, colonel," said I after a long pause, in which I sought to collect myself: " I will not go with you. It is best forme never to see your daughter again." "There you are mistaken. I am anxious for your peace of mind. You must see her to correct your imagination, and recover yourself completely." After many pros and cons I took my seat beside him in the carriage; indeed, I began to perceive that my imagination might have been playing me a trick. As long as I lived alone in my love dreams, I became so intimate with ray ideal, I adorned Josephine with such unearthly charms, I painted her — for that my enthusiasm could easily do, — so gentle, so tender, so true and so silent an object of love, that the very first moment I exchanged a word upon the state of my heart with a third person, I instantly perceived that one half of my story was an invention of my own. So long as a thought or feeling remains unexpressed, we know not its form. It is the garment of the thought, the word, that first gives it definiteness, and separates the dream from the reality, and puts the mind in a situation to judge of it as of something apart from itself. It was a beautiful morning in .June, when we set out for the residence of the Von Tarnaus, and — what astonished myself— ray mind was as clear and ([uiet as it had been a year before. My civil and polite relations to Josephine and her aunt during my first visit to Vienna came up to my remembrance so distinctly, that I could not even imagine how I could have been thrown into such a fever only the day before, and for days and months previous. Yes, and the worst of it was, that I saw now, that I had not loved Josephine in Vienna, and that even now I did not love her, although I might find her very lovely. Tiie carriage stopped before a simple villa. 'I'he servants appeared. The colonel conducted me into a parlor, where two elderly ladies came forward to wel- come us. 27 THE DIADEM. He mentioned my name, and then said while he put his arm round the elder of the two : " And this is my Sophia!" I bowed respectfully to the old lady of three-score, who had become very inte- resting to me through the narrative of the evening before. " Oh!" sighed I in my heart : " What are youth and beauty ?" I could almost have believed that the experienced old soldier read in my eyes the meaning of my sigh. For he pressed his wife's hand to his lips and said laugh- ingly: "Is it not so, dear friend .' When one sees old ladies and gentlemen, one can hardly convince himself that they have once been young: and when one sees a maiden in all the freshness of her bloom, he is ready to wager that she never could have wrinkles and gray hair." Josephine's aunt recognized me as quickly as I did her. She said many obliging things to me. We sat down to the table ; and took a second breakfast for the sake of the ladies' company. "And where does Josephine keep herself?" asked the old man; "she will be glad to renew her Vienna acquaintance." " She is out in the garden with count Holten to enjoy the auriculas before the sun is too high," replied her aunt; and here I got a little chill. All my old imagina- tions were over. — I collected myself instantly. I never had had any claims here ; and so I had none to lose. I began to be almost ashamed of the follies of my heart and of the tricks of my imagination. I became lively, fell in with the merry tone of the company, and even related to the aunt, how painfully I had missed her upon my second visit to Vienna. During the conversation a young man entered of a noble mien. His countenance was pale, his eye dark and gloomy, in his manner was something strange and dis- turbed. " Ladies," said he in a hasty and subdued tone as if he had studied this speech, " permit me to take my leave of you. I must return to-day to the Residence — I have — I am — I shall, perhaps, be absent for some time, perhaps make a long journey." The colonel turned and looked fixedly at him. " What disturbs you. Count Holten.'" cried he; "you look as if you had committed a murder." " No," rejjlied he with a forced smile, " rather like a man who has been mur- dered." And with that he kissed the ladies' hands, embraced the colonel, and rushed out of the house without saying another word. The colonel followed him in all haste. The ladies were greatly embarrassed. I learned that this young man was their neighbor Count Holten ; that the evening before, as he had often done, he had come to pay them a visit, had appeared very happy an hour before and was now no more like himself. "What has happened to him.'" asked the ladies when the colonel after some time returned. The old gentleman looked very serious, shook his head, smiled across to his Sophia, and said; "You must ask Josephine." 28 THE BEAN. " Has she offended him ?" inquired the aunt, alarmed. " That is as people take it!" replied he ; " it is a long story, but the count told it in two or three words : ' I loved and was not loved in return.' " Just then the door opened and Miss Von Tarnau entered. It was she, and more lovely, more beautiful than when I saw her in Vienna, more graceful than in my dreams. I arose, but when I would approach her, my knees trembled, I was rooted to the spot — I stammered out some disconnected words — I was at once the most happy and the most miserable of mortals. Josephine stood at the door blushing deeply ; she gazed at me as at an apparition, and then recovering from her surprise, smilingly approached the table after the first exchange of salutations ; the riddle of our unexpected meeting was solved. I related how I had learned her whereabouts only the day before ; and she, how her father had bought the Moravian estate, and had settled down here in the midst of the most charm- ing landscape in the world. "Ah, aunt, dear aunt!" cried she, taking her aunt's hand in both hers, and pressing it to her heart, while she threw upon me a look which sparkled with no doubtful joy : " Did not I tell you so ? Was I not right ?" The good aunt smiled and cast a silencing look upon Josephine. Her mother cast her eyes down to conceal a certain embarrassment. Her old father looked inqui- ringly from one to the other, arose and whispered in my ear with a loud voice: "Mr. Walter, I guess you have found the bean in the right place at last. — But you, Josephine, what have you done to Count Holten, that he has gone off in such a fury.'" Josephine answered evasively. We all arose and went into the garden. The lieutenant colonel showed me his meadows, fields, outhouses, stables, &c., whilst the ladies were in lively conversation in the summer house. After a tedious half hour we returned to them from this domestic survey. The old gentleman was called aside, and Josephine left to entertain me. I intended to be very reserved towards Josephine, — I was afraid of the fate of Count Holten. We spoke of our acquaintance in Vienna, of our former intercourse, walks and various little incidents. "Ah!" cried Josephine, "if you only knew what I have suffered on your account, when you were so suddenly called away from us. Certainly, there has not been a moment since — yes, we have often talked about you." And now — how could I have done otherwise? — Now I told her my whole story, my second journey to Vienna, my possession of her apartments— and ever more softly, ever more timidly — the finding of the bean — my return to my native city — the history of the evening before. Here I paused. I did not dare to look up. I played in the sand with my foot. Josephine's silence lasted a long while. At last I thought I heard a sob. I looked up. She had hidden her face in her handkerchief. — With a trembling voice I asked : " For heaven's sake, Miss Josephine, has my frankness displeased you ?" She let the handkerchief fall, and looked at me smiling through her tears. "Is H 29 THE DIADEM. it all true ?" she asked after a pause. I tore the bean from my neck and held it up before her with the words : " Here is my witness." She took the bean, as if from curiosity, merely to examine the setting. Her tears flowed still more freely. Leaning on my arm she laid her forehead on my shoulder, and whispered : "I believe in a providence, Walter!" I clasped the lovely creature to my heart, and cried: " Now I could die !" — She looked up at me alarmed. The voices of persons approaching through the shrubbery, warned us to go and meet them. Josephine still had the bean in her hand when we stood before her parents. The colonel saw it and laughed aloud. — Josephine hid her beautiful face in her mother's bosom — Yet why more words .■' You well know that Josephine is my wife ; I wished to relate to you only the Romance of my love. PASSAGES FROM THE LIFE OF THE CONTENTED SCHOOLMASTER OF AUENTHAL. TRANSLATKD FROM J. P. niCIITER. How gentle and sea-smooth were thy life and death, thou contented schoolmaster, Wutz ! The calm clear sky of a declining summer encompassed thy life, not with clouds, but fragrance. Thy epochs were the swinging of a lily, and thy death its dropping to pieces, when its leaves flutter down over the flowers which stand beneath it — and even before thou enteredst the grave, how soft was thy slumber! The family of Wutz had been schoolmasters in Auenthal since the time of the Swedes, and I do not believe, that any one of them was ever compktined of by the pastor of the parish. Eight or nine years after a wedding, father and son always discreetly performed the office together — our hero was a teacher of a, b, c, under his father, the week in which he learned to spell, but this was of no disadvantage. There was something .sportive and child-like in the character of our Wutz, as there is in the teaching of other schoolmasters; appearing, however, not in his serious moments, but in those of joy. While still a child, he was a little childish. For there are two kinds of children's plays, the childish and the serious. — The serious consist in imitations of grown people, making-believe merchants, soldiers or mechanics — the childish are the aping of animals. Wutz, was always in his plays a hare, a turtle dove or its young, a bear, a horse, or even the horse's cart. Believe me, a seraph finds even in our colleges and high schools, not business but only plays ; and if strictly examined, only these two kinds of plays. From his later years, we might easily discover what he was in youth. In the month of December, he was accustomed to have the lights brought an hour later than usual, because at this hour — taking it up each day where he left otf the preceding — he recapitulated his childhood. While the wind shaded his window with snow-cur- tains, and the fire glimmered from the stove, he shut up his eyes, and permitted the frozen meadows of his long-withered spring again to thaw ; again he plunged into the hay-cock with his sister, and again, with his closed eyes, as they well couUI guide him, he rode home upon the architecturally piled mountain of the hay- wagon. In the cool of evening, while the swallows were skirmishing among themselves, he mimicked the crying of the mother bird, twittering for her young. — Then he became a wooden Christmas fowl, with feathers glued on — and next a hoopon, with wooden beak pick- ing straws and feathers from the beds to build a nest. Upon another of these retro- spective winter evenings, he had arisen on a splendid 'J'rinity Sunday, (I wish there 31 THE DIADEM. were 365 Trinity Sundays,) with the tuneful spring morning all around and within him. He strutted through the village into the garden with a jingling bunch of keys, cooled himself in the dew, and with glowing face pushed his way among the drooping currant bushes; measured his height with the tall shrubs, and with his pliant fingers plucked roses for the aged pastor and his pulpit. — On the evening of the same Trinity Sunday, (and this formed a second course for the December evening,) while the sun shone on his back, he smashed forth among the organ keys the chorus, " Glory to God in the highest." He was accustomed to shuffle together the most dissimilar things, while remembering in these evening hours his undertakings in the December of his childhood — his pleasure in hooking together the window shutters, and sitting down at his ease in the fire-lighted apartment ; though he did not like to look for a length of time at the window panes, as they reflected over the shutters the out-stretched room ; — then, how he and his sister peeped among their mother's supper cakes, piled them up and pulled them down; and how he and she twinkled their eyes at the dazzling light, when the tallow candles -were brought in, planting themselves within the breast-work of their father's legs ; and how warm, satisfied and happy they felt themselves in this closet of an apartment, cut out, or built up for them, from the immeasurable expanse of the universe. And every year, when he thus arranged the retrospect of his childhood and its Decembers, he forgot himself, and was astonished, when the light was brought in, that he was even now sitting in the room which he had been regarding as a Loretto house, brought from the Canaan of childhood. After describing the rules laid down by Wutz for preserving a contented spirit, his wedding, &c., Jean Paul continues: But now, while I am telling these things, the wedding of Wutz has long been over; his Justina is old, and he himself is in the grave-yard. The stream of time has borne him along, w'ith all those bright days, and sunk and buried them beneath four or five feet of earth — the returning tide is ever rising higher upon ourselves: in three minutes it will reach the heart of you and me, and down we sink! In this state of feeling, I am not disposed to communicate the many pleasures recorded by the schoolmaster in his joy-manual, particularly his Christmas-eve, paro- chial and school pleasures — possibly they may be inserted in a posthumous postscript which I may hereafter publish, but not to-day. To-day it will be better for us to look for the last time at our contented Wutz, alive and dead, and then we will go away. I had, indeed — though I had probably passed thirty times before his door — known little concerning the entire man, until, on the 12th of May, last year, old Justina, observing that I wrote on my tablet as I passed along, called after me and inquired whether I too were not a book-maker .' — " What if I am, dear .'" I answered — " some books I make every year and duly present to the public." — She then proceeded to beg me to take the trouble to go in to her old man for an hour, who was a book-maker like myself, but now in a miserable condition. A palsy had struck the old man's left side, possibly in consequence of his having 3-2 PASSAGES FROM THE LIFE OF THE CONTENTED SCHOOLMASTER. healed up a ring-worm, of the size of a dollar, upon his neck, or from old age. He was sitting in bed supported by pillows, and had the contents of a whole warehouse, which I will forthwith specify, spread before him on the coverlet — a sick man does as a traveller — and what else is he ? — he becomes acquainted with every one immediately ; when foot and eye are so near to higher worlds, we cease to stand on ceremony in this rough one. He complained that his old woman had been obliged to look round for three days, after a book-maker, and had found no one until now — but that he needed one to arrange and take an inventory of his library, and also add to the description of his life contained in the library, an account of his last hours, in case they bad now arrived, as its completion ; for his old woman was no scholar, and his son had been left by him three weeks since at the university in Heidelberg. A crop of pock-marks and wrinkles gave his little round face strangely comical holes, each one resembling a laughing mouth ; but I and my diagnosis had no plea- sure in remarking how his eyes flushed, his eye-brows and the corners of his mouth contracted, and his lips quivered. I will keep my promise respecting the specification. On the coverlet lay a child's green taffety cap, one of the strings of which had been torn off; a child's whip, covered with gold leaf pealing off; a tin finger ring; a box with dwarf volumes, allowing one hundred and twenty-eight to a sheet of paper ; a clock ; a blotted wri- ting-book, and a finch-trap a finger long. These were the beginnings and endings of his playful childhood. The cabinet of these, his Grecian antiquities, had always been under the staircase ; — for in a house which is the flower-vase and conservatory of a whole race, things remain in place undisturbed for fifty years together. And since from childhood it had been with him a fixed law to take