In June, 1864, a visit I had promised to pay one of the friends of my youth led me into the heart of the province of Brandenburg. I could travel by the railway as far as the little city of St. ----, but from this place was compelled to hire a carriage for two or three miles, as the estate, which my friend had owned several years, did not even possess the advantage of a daily stage. So, on reaching St. ----, I applied to the landlord of the "Crown-Prince"--who was also postmaster--for a carriage, and, as it was past three o'clock in the afternoon, and the drive over shadeless roads in the early heat of summer would not be particularly agreeable, I begged him not to hurry, but give me time to have a glimpse of the little city and its environs.

The landlord replied that the poor little place had no sights worth looking at. As a native of a great capital who had removed to the province, he displayed a compassionate contempt for his present residence. The situation was not bad, and the "lake" the most abundantly stocked with fish in the whole Mark. If I kept straight on in that direction--he pointed across the square marketplace on which his hostelry stood--I should get a view of the water just beyond the city-wall.

To a traveler who is less thoroughly familiar with the local history of the Mart than my friend, Theodor Fontane, and who suddenly finds himself transferred from the capital to the province, one of these little cities looks very much like another. The first feeling amid the neat little houses--most of them only a story high, while walking over the rough pavement kept as clean as the floor of an old maid's room, or passing through the quiet squares planted with acacias or ancient lindens, where nothing is stirring save flocks of noisy sparrows--is a secret doubt whether real people actually dwell here, people who take an active interest in the life of the present day, or whether we have not strayed into a pretty, gigantic toy village, which has merely been set up here for a time and will soon be taken down and packed into boxes like Nuremberg carvings.

This impression of fairy illusion and enchantment, which would speedily vanish, was enhanced by the sultry calm, portending an approaching thunder-storm, that brooded over the streets and squares and kept the inhabitants indoors. Here and there I saw behind the glittering window-panes the face of an old woman or a fair-haired young girl, not peering out between the pots of geranium and cactus to look after the stranger with provincial curiosity, but gazing into vacancy with a strange expression of gentle melancholy. The few persons I met in the street also wore this pensive look, as if some great universal calamity had happened, which quenched the cheerfulness of even the most indifferent.

I therefore pursued my walk somewhat cheerlessly, and not until I had reached the wall, which rose to a moderate height on both sides of the ancient city-gate, did the oppression of this sultry afternoon calm abandon me. Not less than four rows of the most magnificent old trees, among which several huge maples and chestnuts stretched their gigantic branches skyward, cast a broad belt of shade over the dreary little place, and were not only animated by the notes of birds, but by the shouts and laughter of countless children, who had seen the light of the world in the silent houses. Their nurses sat knitting and gossiping on the numerous benches; yet even on their faces I fancied I perceived the sorrowful expression I had noticed in the other inhabitants of the city.

It would have been pleasant to linger here in the shade among the little ones. But I remembered that I must do my duty as a tourist and see the lake, which even the postmaster had mentioned approvingly. At the end of a long avenue of poplars, leading from the gate over the level plain, I saw the white-capped waves sparkling in the sunlight, and quickened my pace in order to return the sooner to the cool shade of the dense foliage.

Yet the scene that opened below, before my gaze, was indeed wonderfully charming. A bright, semicircular basin, as clear as a mirror, whose circuit it would probably have required a full hour to make, lay amid the most luxuriant green meadows and a few tilled fields, in which the lighter hue of the young grain stood forth in strong relief. The shore was encircled by a dense border of sedges, whose brown tops, whenever a faint breeze blew, waved gently to and fro as though stirred by their own weight. The opposite bank, which rose in a gradual ascent, was clothed with a dark grove of firs, whose reddish trunks were reflected in the water, and around whose tops hovered flocks of crows and jays, whose harsh screams ever and anon interrupted the oppressive silence.

The avenue of poplars led directly to the harbor, which was marked by half a dozen gayly painted boats. These had been drawn up on the sand, but their owners had not thought it worth while to fasten them to a stake, as if it would be quite impossible for them to voluntarily drift away from the shore. Near these skiffs I was surprised by the sight of a steamer, similar in size and form to the coasters so much used in the German Ocean. The light green garlands of fir, with which it was profusely adorned, formed a strange contrast to its slanting smokestack and the damaged condition of the deck-rail. But I looked about me in vain for some person who might have told me how this craft, which must have once seen better days, had reached the quiet inland lake and been decked in its gay festal array, like a shame-faced old man holding a jubilee.

Still keeping my eyes fixed on the opposite grove, I strolled slowly along the broad path by the shore of the lake, unheeding the sun, as a refreshing coolness rose from the water. But ere I had advanced a hundred paces I discovered, half hidden behind some tall lindens, several lonely buildings, a long, narrow, gable-roofed house, without any architectural ornamentation, which looked more like a store-house than a dwelling, yet showed by the little white curtains at the window-frames, and the flowering plants inclosed by trellis-work fences, that human beings lived there. A few low huts or sheds adjoined it in the rear, the long front faced the lake; but the view was here partly cut off by a little church or chapel, also of the plainest structure, and so low that a man on horseback might have easily glanced into the swallows' nests under its weather-beaten roof. Yet the poor little church, with its four blind arched windows and tiny steeple, looked cheerful and picturesque, for an ancient ivy had climbed the narrow rear wall, and, while the trunk clung naked and bare to the masonry, the luxuriant branches, twining over cornice and roof, had flung a thick mantle over the shoulders of the shabby building.

Here, too, all was desolate and silent. But a peasant lad, who had been fishing in the lake and was now running home, answered my queries so far as to enable me to learn that the long building was the almshouse, and the chapel belonged to it, but there were no religious services held there now; and no one, except the paupers, were buried in the little grave-yard, whose sunken, slanting black crosses gleamed from under the shadow of the lindens. When I asked if I could go into the chapel, the child stared at me in astonishment, shook his flaxen head, and sped away on his little bare feet as swiftly as though the earth was beginning to scorch them.

I now walked slowly around the chapel, and approached the house. Standing on a little bench in the flower-garden, before an open window, was a tall figure clad in black, gazing motionless into the dwelling. He was apparently a man of middle age, with smooth, brown hair, which fell slightly over a high forehead. The profile, whose noble lines denoted marked character, was strongly relieved against the whitewashed wall; the sun shone fiercely on his head and back, but, without heeding it, he held his hat before him in both hands, and did not even turn when I passed. The sound of my steps apparently did not reach his ear. His coat was old-fashioned in cut, but his appearance was by no means provincial. I would gladly have accosted him, had it not seemed as if he were listening to something, inaudible to me, that was being said inside the room.

So I quietly passed him and went to the gable side of the house. On the steps in front of the open door sat an aged dame, stooping so far forward that her big black crÊpe cap shaded the tiny old book she held in her lap. A pair of large horn spectacles rested on the open pages, and her sharp red nose nodded strangely like the beak of a bird that is trying to peck at something. She was not asleep, for she sometimes sighed so heavily that the capstrings under her withered chin trembled. Then her yellow shriveled hand grasped a small lead box lying on the stone step beside her, and she took a pinch of snuff.

"Can you still read, mother?" I asked, stopping before her.

She looked up at me without the slightest sign of surprise. The stern, withered old face wore the anxious expression of a deaf person.

I repeated my question.

"Not so very well, sir," she replied in her Mark dialect. "When one has seventy-seven years on one's back the old eyes are of little use. But I can still manage tolerably with the hymn-book. I need only see the numbers and the big letters at the beginning to remember the whole at once; and if I can't get one verse exactly right, I think of the next one. Whoever has had experiences, and fears and loves the Lord, can make a verse for many a hymn in the book."

"You have a beautiful spot for your old age, mother, and are well taken care of, it seems to me."

The aged dame wore a new dark calico dress, and over her thin shoulders lay a black shawl, which, spite of the heat, she had pinned close.

"It's very comfortable, my dear sir, it's very comfortable," she replied, taking a pinch of snuff with her trembling hand. "The Canoness said so, too; that's why she didn't wish to go away again, not even when they wanted to take her to the castle. But she planted the flowers, and we have only kept our gardens so neat since she has been here. Well, everything will soon be at sixes and sevens again. You see, when I first came, thirteen years ago, just after my husband and my eldest daughter died, and there wasn't a soul to care for Mother Schulzen, I thought I should lead a wretched life in the almshouse. A silver groschen every day, free lodging, peat, and light, six groschen every quarter for beer money, and a bit of land where everybody can plant potatoes--that was hardly enough for a living. Dear me! A person who hasn't much is soon satisfied, and there is apt to be something put by for a rainy day. When the Canoness first came, though she had nothing herself, yet she always found something to give away. See, she gave me this woolen petticoat"--she pulled her dress up to her knees to show it--"on her last birthday, and the shawl at Christmas. That's why I wear it in her honor to-day, though it's certainly warm; but I want to look respectable when I follow the body, for a woman like her won't come again, and, as the hymn says:

She muttered to herself for a while, with her chin buried in her shawl, and seemed to have entirely forgotten my presence.

"Mother," I began after a time, "you are always talking about a Canoness. Is there a chapter-house in this neighborhood?"

The old dame slowly raised her head and scanned me with a half-suspicious, half-pitying look.

"Why, what a question!" she said at last. "I suppose you don't belong here, my dear sir; but you must live very far away, for everybody in the neighborhood knows who the Canoness was, and that she died three days ago and will be buried to-day. Have you never heard of Spiegelberg, her husband, who is now standing before the throne of God? She belonged to a noble family, and her cousin, the baron, when he visited her, took me aside and said: 'I hope, Mother Schulzen, that you don't let my cousin want for anything here.' Good Heavens! What we poor old women could do to make her life easy--especially I! For she always showed me the greatest kindness, and the teacher and I were with her in her last hour. Yes! yes! If anybody had told me that such a poor, useless body would close her eyes, and yet must creep about here on earth a while longer, while she, who was still in her prime--But perhaps you would like to see her? There is time enough. She is to be buried at four, and the whole town will be present, and not a dry eye in the throng, for nobody else in the whole place had gifts like hers; and now they will see what we had in her, we old creatures especially, for no one like her will come again--never again--never again--"

She shook her head mournfully as she spoke, but her weary, reddened eyes were tearless, and, rising with some difficulty, she took up her hymn-book, spectacles, and snuff-box, and, beckoning to me to follow, hobbled through the entrance--the door stood ajar--into the long corridor which divided the interior of the dwelling into two equal parts.

It was pleasantly cool inside, only a strong smell of vinegar tainted the air and enhanced the feeling of uneasiness with which I had entered. It was uncanny to be conducted to the abode of death by this old crone, incessantly mumbling her song of Destiny, while out-of-doors the bright young summer was wandering over the fields. The bare hall, too, from which opened more than a dozen whitewashed doors, had no inviting aspect, especially as several dark figures, all dressed very much like my guide, were crouching on little benches along the walls, whispering together and casting distrustful glances at me. I afterward learned that the almshouse had been erected for a pest-house centuries before, when the Black Death was devastating the land, and afterward remained a long time vacant and shunned, until it was at last converted into a poor-house, and the chapel was rebuilt. But how had the Canoness come under this humble roof?

Mother Schulzen had already opened the first door on the left, and I entered a large room with two windows. In the center stood a piano, a number of plain, rush-bottomed chairs were ranged along the walls, a rack containing music-books stood on the table between the clean white curtains. "She gave her singing-lessons here," the old dame said; "the next room was her sleeping-chamber, where she died."

She opened the door of the adjoining room as gently as if she feared to wake some sleeper, and let me stand on the threshold.

I saw a light, square chamber, through whose one window the sun was shining. These walls, too, were merely whitewashed, but they were adorned with a few engravings in dark wooden frames, and the simple but tasteful furniture, a sofa with a bright calico cover, a book-case, a chest of drawers, a bed with white curtains, the flowers on the window-sill, would have made a cheerful impression, had not a coffin stood on a low trestle in the middle of the room. Over the shining boards was flung a large, gayly embroidered rug, whose artistically wrought flowers and vines were almost entirely concealed by garlands of natural blossoms. The dead woman was attired in a plain white shroud; the head was toward the window; at the feet lay a large laurel wreath tied with a broad white satin bow; the hands, which were large, but very beautiful in shape, rested on the bosom, but were not clasped; the head inclined a little to the right, so that I could see it perfectly from the threshold.

There was nothing to inspire horror; a quiet, mysterious charm pervaded the features, which, spite of the silvery hue of the smoothly brushed hair, still wore a look of youth: it was the face of a beautiful woman in her prime, who had lain down on her last couch in the full vigor of life. I said to myself that to have known this sleeper, while living, must have been no ordinary happiness, and those whom she had chosen for her friends had been most fortunate. A feeling of regret stole over me that I had never pressed that firm hand, nor heard a word from those calmly closed lips, never seen the face brightened by a smile.

Who was she? How had this noble woman condescended to make one of the number of the inmates of the almshouse, and who had laid the laurel wreath at her feet?

My eyes quitted the pallid face a moment and wandered to the sunny window. There I saw the mute figure, clad in black, still gazing fixedly in. He did not even seem to see me, but stood motionless, watching the lifeless form, of which only the head and the tips of the feet were visible to him. I now distinctly saw large tears gush from his dilated, motionless eyes, and course down his pale cheeks.

"Mother," I asked softly, "who is the man outside of the window?"

I had forgotten that her deafness would prevent her understanding me. Just at that moment a clear little bell began to ring from the steeple of the chapel. The old dame looked up.

"It is four o'clock," she said; "the services will begin. You can't stay here any longer, sir; the pastor and the others will come directly. But if you stand by the trellis outside you can see everything. Oh, dear! Now the sad end is coming! But God's will be done! Only, may it be my turn soon. Come, sir, there are the bearers."

Six men in long black coats entered, and I was obliged to leave the room. In the corridor I met the pastor in his robes, and a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a sorrowful face--the burgomaster, the old dame whispered. Outside the house a large crowd of people had assembled, who eyed me with surprise and curiosity. Most of them were women in mourning-garments, but in their midst was a group of young girls dressed in white, with large black bows, and black veils on their heads. Each carried a garland of flowers on her arm, and the eyes of all were full of tears. I perceived that, as a total stranger, I ought to keep myself as much out of sight as possible, and hurried around the house to a post by the garden-fence, whence I could overlook the chapel and the cemetery.

The solitary man in the black coat had disappeared.

The bell continued to toll, the birds twittered in the linden boughs, but spite of the surging throng the spot was otherwise so still that we could distinctly hear the coffin-lid screwed on. A few minutes after, the funeral procession began to move, headed by the pastor; then came the bearers with the coffin, over which hung the gay rug covered with garlands, close behind it the aged paupers, six in number, then the young girls, two by two, carrying their wreaths, and behind them the burgomaster and many stately men, evidently the dignitaries of the little place. Last of all came the women and less important citizens, in such a throng that the open space between the house and the chapel was filled with the crowd. But scarcely had the pastor entered the consecrated ground, when, from behind a dense clump of elderberry-bushes on the edge of the cemetery, floated the notes of a chant, a beautiful, simple melody, wholly unfamiliar to me, which did not sound as if it came from a hymn-book. Clear, boyish voices, well-trained, fresh, and pure, as children alone sing ere they have learned to understand the solemnity of death and can not belie their joyousness even in a dirge.

There were only three verses, then the clergyman began his address, of which I could distinguish but a few words in my distant corner. But it must have been very touching, for all present showed the deepest emotion, and the suppressed sobbing was communicated to the farthest ranks. I regretted that I had not ventured nearer, I so much desired to know who this noble woman was, and why she had enjoyed such universal reverence and love.

But I could only indistinctly see the pastor raise his hand to bless first the open grave and then the mourning parish, the young girls approach and throw their wreaths upon the coffin, and the whole assembly press forward to scatter a handful of earth upon the flowers. During this ceremony, which occupied some time, the boys' voices were again raised, and this time I plainly heard the words:

and, as a sunbeam now pierced the elder-bushes, I saw the bared head of the man at the window, who was standing among the young singers, slowly and solemnly beating time with his hand.

The little bell had stopped ringing, the throng noiselessly dispersed without the unfeeling buzz and murmur which usually rise at once when people have merely dutifully paid the last honors to one who has departed from their midst. I remained quietly in my place watching the throng move off in the direction of the town, while the old dames, coughing and panting, returned home. My intention was to approach the lonely man, who I thought would be the last to quit the grave, and modestly express my desire to learn some particulars of the dead woman. But when I entered the cemetery and glanced toward the elder-bushes, there was no trace of him.

It was now quite time for me to return to the hotel, where my carriage must already be waiting. I consoled myself by the belief that the postmaster would undoubtedly be fully informed about the Canoness. The pale, still face, with the silvery halo around the head, in the mysterious twilight, still hovered before me, and I quickened my pace to obtain a solution of the mystery.

The path I took through the grain-fields, along whose edges grew small cherry-trees, did not lead me back to the city-gate, but to a different part of the wall, which I found entirely deserted. There was not a single baby-carriage, nor a pedestrian resting on any of the benches. Yet it was pleasant to saunter along in the shade, and I lapsed into a comfortable, dreamy state, which is really the greatest advantage of travel, because we shake off our daily dull routine of occupation, and, in some strange manner, feel as if we had just dropped from the moon and were strangers in this world, to whom the most trivial thing appears new and wonderful.

Suddenly I stopped. Sitting on the next bench, in front of me, I saw the man in the black coat whom I had just vainly sought. He was evidently so much absorbed in his own thoughts that he did not hear me, but sat gazing out over the open country and the waters of the lake, or rather at the little chapel and the small portion of the almshouse cemetery visible from this point. I could now obtain a near view of his delicate, regular features, and was particularly struck by the beautiful arch of the brow, and the character expressed in the nose, which was by no means small. His hat lay on the bench at his side, and his clasped hands rested on his knee.

He now perceived me, but remained perfectly motionless, as if he could thereby render himself invisible and induce me to pass on.

But I was not disposed to let the favorable chance slip.

"Allow me to sit with you a moment, sir," I said. "I am passing through here on a journey, and am somewhat fatigued by rambling about. I must set out again in fifteen minutes, much as I regret not becoming more familiar with the pretty town. A walk on the walls like this can not be easily found, far or near."

He made no reply, merely bent his head slightly and took up his hat to give me the other half of the bench. I sat down, and we remained silent for a time.

"Pardon me," I said at last, "if I seem intrusive, and perhaps disturb you in a mood in which one prefers to be entirely alone. But I was a witness of the funeral that has just taken place, and, as the image of the lifeless form I saw just before in the coffin has haunted me ever since, and I fancied I read a remarkable destiny on the noble brow, you can probably understand that I am reluctant to leave here without learning some particulars of her fate. One of the old women in the almshouse below gave me some information which, though very vague and insufficient, only increased my interest. You seem to have been on more intimate terms with this universally respected woman. If you would see a better motive in my question than idle curiosity, I should be very grateful to you for any details of her life you might be willing to give."

I saw a faint flush mount into his face. He gazed steadily into vacancy for a while, as if irresolute what to answer. Suddenly he seized his hat, rose, and, bowing to me, said:

"Pardon me, sir--I have--my time will not permit--I wish you a pleasant journey."

Then he turned and walked away with long, but not hurried steps, while I remained on the bench in a mood of painful discomfiture.

At first I was uncertain whether I had done wrong, or merely applied to the wrong person. But I soon distinctly perceived that the fault was mine. This resident of the provinces, on whose deep grief I had intruded with a bold question, as if he must consider it an honor to afford a traveler information about anything worthy of note, even if it concerned his most sacred private feelings, had given me a well-merited lesson. How indelicate to put the question point-blank, without any introduction, like a police-officer inspecting a passport, and, ere the tears were fairly dry on his lashes, request from him an obituary of the dead woman, such as a newspaper reporter would unfeelingly insert in a daily journal. Perhaps, had I been more considerate of his feelings, cautiously gained his confidence without revealing my object--! But, as it was, I ought not to complain of having received a refusal, whose manner showed that I had addressed a cultivated man.

At last, very much displeased with myself, I rose and tried to reach my hotel by the shortest cut. Even the desire to question the postmaster had deserted me. I would gladly have driven the Canoness--who was now associated with a humiliating remembrance--entirely out of my mind, and, in fact, at that time I was to learn nothing more about her. My light carriage stood waiting in front of the house, but the landlord had been suddenly called away on some business; so I remained no longer than to drink a little wine and seltzer-water, for my tongue was parched, and then urged the driver to hurry that I might reach my destination before night.

Even at my friend's house I did not mention my experiences in St. ----. As he had only lived in the neighborhood a short time, and was completely engrossed by his immediate duties and occupations, he had scarcely had an opportunity to become familiar with the local history of the place. Only it chanced to be mentioned that the dismantled coasting-steamer had belonged to a bankrupt firm and been taken by one of the creditors, who had hoped to sell it again for the value of the material. As it did not immediately find a purchaser, he had had the worn-out invalid brought to the inland lake, where it was now enjoying rest from its labors.

I spent a few refreshing days in my friend's pretty house, which unfortunately was situated in a most prosaic neighborhood, and when I returned to Berlin the memory of the hour in the cemetery had already become considerably fainter.

But, like every reminder of our weaknesses and follies, it never wholly vanished. So no one will marvel that I was most agreeably surprised when, a year afterward, I received by mail a heavy parcel, accompanied by the following lines:

MOST HONORED SIR: Unfortunately, I am not so happy as to be able to present myself as a total stranger. For I must commence my letter by apologizing for an offense committed more than a year ago, when I had the honor of making your acquaintance, if this word can be applied to a meeting in which both persons remained wholly unknown to each other.

True, I am ignorant whether you have retained any recollection of the uncourteous person who had no other reply to a friendly question than to quit you so abruptly. You are living in the current of the world, which washes away so many trivial things, and effaces old impressions with a thousand new ones. An inhabitant of the provinces, of my temperament, has nothing to interrupt him in the unpleasant task of thrusting still deeper into his flesh, in the endeavor to withdraw them, the thorns implanted by a fleeting moment.

Directly after leaving you I had, it is true, no other unpleasant feeling than that a total stranger had disturbed me amid the indulgence of a fresh sorrow. But at the end of an hour, when I recalled your words and tones, and the gestures accompanying them, I was seized with shame for my boorish conduct. You had been present at the funeral, had even gazed with deep interest at the face of the dead: what was more natural than that you should marvel how that queenly head could rest on the hard pillow of an almshouse coffin, though the mourning of a whole city followed it? And how could you suspect that the man to whom you applied for information suffered most keenly from the universal loss, and at that hour had so bitter a taste of the earth-mold on his tongue that he could not have uttered a word, had his own brother accosted him?

When I clearly perceived this, and had partly regained my calmness, I hurried to the hotel, firmly intending to apologize for my incivility and tell you at least enough to have enabled you to understand my sorrowful obduracy. You had already continued your journey. I only found your name in the landlord's book, and doubly regretted my unseemly conduct. I was familiar with some of your books, and said to myself that you, of all men, could not have spoken from mere empty curiosity, but from genuine interest in everything relating to human nature, and you, if any one, would have been capable of feeling with me that the death of such a woman is a loss to the whole world.

What had happened could not be altered, but, to somewhat alleviate the discomfort of my regrets, I began the very next day to write down, for my justification and penance, everything I had left unsaid, intending to lay it before you and thereby obtain absolution for the sin of silence I had formerly committed.

I meant to be very brief. But my heart took possession of my pen, and the short narrative of this remarkable life has become a shapeless "history in detail," whose swelling daily alarmed me, though I was unable to confine the overflowing torrent of memories into a narrower channel.

I have spent a whole year in writing, as I only found leisure for it during a few evening hours, and often for weeks together could not find courage to summon up the spirits of the departed. Will you have patience to read to the end? Far more important persons and destinies have passed before your notice, and you will more than once have occasion to smile at the value attached to apparently trivial incidents by a person whose horizon is so limited as that of my insignificant self. Besides, I am a clumsy writer, and do not understand the literary art of polishing even a pebble till in the sunlight it looks like a costly gem.

Yet, even if you merely cast a pitying glance at these memoranda, I think I can venture to promise that the principal character in this true story will fix your interest and win from you the acknowledgment that it was worth while to follow her unusual life-path with the care of a truth-loving chronicler.

So I trustfully commit to you the clumsy manuscript, which I entreat you to burn after you have read it. It owes its existence solely to my purpose of paying my debt to you, and with sincere respect, I am

Your devoted

Johannes Theodor Weissbrod,

ex-Cand. Theol.

I confess that, in spite of this letter, whose simple, amiable style recalled to me every feature of the writer's face, so full of feeling, I took up the bulky manuscript with a certain dread. More than three hundred closely written pages--who could tell with how much theological speculation the simple life-history had been garnished. But the very first pages dispelled the doubt, and the farther I read the more eager was my interest in both contents and narrative. When I laid the last sheets down, I said to myself aloud: Yes, it was indeed worth while.

With this opinion I instantly wrote to the author, begging him not to confine this confession to ourselves, but by its publication edify all who, in our hurried and corrupt age, had preserved minds capable of appreciating simple grandeur of soul and the natural nobility of humanity.

He did not keep me waiting long for his answer.

"Dearest sir and friend," he wrote--"for the friends of our friends are ours, and the warmth with which you speak of my departed friend justifies me in believing that you cherish a kindly feeling toward me also--no, I can not bring myself to regard this account of my most private experiences as a literary production, and appear in it before the cold eyes of the public. Apart from all other considerations, however, the careless, thoroughly untrained literary style appears to me an unconquerable obstacle. Yet, if you would undertake to subject these pages to a thorough revision, provide the splendid kernel which is no merit of mine, with a new and more fitting husk! But, even then, I could not wholly conquer my secret reluctance. I live in complete seclusion; those who know me best, with the exception of one friend of my youth, regard me as a mere commonplace day-laborer in the shape of a pedagogue. The publication of such a work would suddenly render me an 'object of notice,' and nothing is less readily forgiven in a provincial sphere than any departure from the every-day routine of existence.

"But I will say this, my honored friend: If my unpretending story really seems to you so valuable that you desire to save it from a fiery death, keep the volume till I am no more. You will then be at liberty to publish it--of course, with the abridgment necessary where my personal interest has made me unwarrantably garrulous, and the omission of the guide-posts that would point out persons still living, or the descendants of certain families. The names of cities and communities ought also in justice to be suppressed. Nothing appears to me more contemptible than the modern effort to attain, by the disclosure of actual events, a success which mere skillful literary invention could not have hoped to secure.

"For the rest, I am entirely of your opinion that a life like the one described here is well fitted to set an example, and that it seems almost a duty to transmit the memory of so rare and lofty a human character to future generations."

This was the last direct communication I had from the admirable man. I did not venture to make any further effort to shake his resolution, and for two decades his manuscript was carefully treasured in my desk.

Early this year I received a letter, written by an unknown hand, and bearing the postmark of the city in the Mark. The principal of the grammar-school there informed me that his friend, after having enjoyed the best possible health to the last, had been found one morning dead in his bed! He had been buried, according to the directions of his will, in the almshouse church-yard, by the side of the Canoness, amid the sincere grief of the whole community. Among his papers had been found the request that I should be informed of his demise.

So I may doubtless consider myself as his executor in at least bringing the following pages from their concealment. While re-reading them I have made only the most modest use of the authority to erase and alter at pleasure--only here and there a certain inequality of style will show that another hand has interposed to make some obscure passage clearer, or correct some awkward expression. In the main, I have left everything as I found it; for it seems to me that the unassuming series of pictures in this biographical romance, as it may be called, would scarcely have gained greater vivacity and charm by a more careful grouping or more artistic execution, while the impression of simple truthfulness might have been impaired. With little art, clear wit and sense suggest their own delivery; and, I may add, that as the love of a warm and noble heart transfigures even the most insignificant countenance from whose eyes it shines, much more does it illuminate features as expressive and beautiful as those that look forth at us from between the lines of this narrative.