105 Redensarten erklärt (German Edition)

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Her brother and two other boys were fighting for their caps and I was alone at the railings. She held one of the spikes, bowing her head towards me. The light from the lamp opposite our door caught the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and, falling, lit up the hand upon the railing. It fell over one side of her dress and caught the white border of a petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease. James Joyce 23 What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts after that evening!

I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days. I chafed against the work of school. At night in my bedroom and by day in the classroom her image came between me and the page I strove to read. The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over me. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night.

My aunt was surprised and hoped it was not some Freemason affair. I answered few questions in class. I watched my master's face pass from amiability to sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child's play, ugly monotonous child's play.

He was fussing at the hallstand, looking for the hat-brush, and answered me curtly: "Yes, boy, I know. I left the house in bad humour and walked slowly towards the school. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart misgave me. When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. Still it was early. I sat staring at the clock for some time and.

I mounted the staircase and gained the upper part of the house. The high cold empty gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the front window I saw my companions playing below in the street. Their cries reached me weakened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I looked over at the dark house where she lived.

I may have stood there for an hour, seeing nothing but the brown-clad figure cast by my imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the curved neck, at the hand upon the railings and at the border below the dress. When I came downstairs again I found Mrs. Mercer sitting at the fire. I had to endure the gossip of the tea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond an hour and still my uncle did not come.

Mercer stood up to go: she was sorry she couldn't wait any longer, but it was after eight o'clock and she did not like to be out late as the night air was bad for her. When she had gone I began to walk up and down the room, clenching my fists. My aunt said: "I'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord. I heard him talking to himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had received the weight of his overcoat.

I could interpret these signs. When he was midway through his dinner I asked him to give me the money to go to the bazaar. He had forgotten. I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically: "Can't you give him the money and let him go? You've kept him late enough as it is. He said he believed in the old saying: "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. When I left the kitchen he was about to recite the opening lines of the piece to my aunt.

I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham Street towards the station. The sight of the streets thronged with buyers and glaring with gas recalled to me the purpose of my journey. I took my seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train. After an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station slowly. It crept onward among ruinous house and over the twinkling river. At Westland Row Station a crowd of people pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters moved them back, saying that it was a special train for the bazaar.

I remained alone in the bare carriage. In a few minutes the train drew up beside an improvised wooden platform. James Joyce 25 the lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front of me was a large building which displayed the magical name. I found myself in a big hall girdled at half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were closed and the greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognised a silence like that which pervades a church after a service.

I walked into the centre of the bazaar timidly. A few people were gathered about the stalls which were still open. I listened to the fall of the coins. Remembering with difficulty why I had come I went over to one of the stalls and examined porcelain vases and flowered tea- sets. At the door of the stall a young lady was talking and laughing with two young gentlemen. I remarked their English accents and listened vaguely to their conversation. I heard her. The tone of her voice was not encouraging; she seemed to have spoken to me out of a sense of duty.

I looked humbly at the great jars that stood like eastern guards at either side of the dark entrance to the stall and murmured: "No, thank you. They began to talk of the same subject. Once or twice the young lady glanced at me over her shoulder. German accents: Akzente, Betont, Schwerpunkte. Then I turned away slowly and walked down the middle of the bazaar. I allowed the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in my pocket.

I heard a voice call from one end of the gallery that the light was out. The upper part of the hall was now completely dark. Her head was leaned against the window curtains and in her nostrils was the odour of dusty cretonne. She was tired. The man out of the last house passed on his way home; she heard his footsteps clacking along the concrete pavement and afterwards crunching on the cinder path before the new red houses.

One time there used to be a field there in which they used to play every evening with other people's children.

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Then a man from Belfast bought the field and built houses in it--not like their little brown houses but bright brick houses with shining roofs. The children of the avenue used to play together in that field --the Devines, the Waters, the Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers and sisters. Ernest, however, never played: he was too grown up. Her father used often to hunt them in out of the field with his blackthorn stick; but usually little Keogh used to keep nix and call out when he saw her father coming.

Still they seemed to have been rather happy then. Her father was not so bad then; and besides, her mother was alive. That was a long time ago; she and her brothers and sisters were all grown up her mother was dead. Tizzie Dunn was dead, too, and the Waters had gone back to England. Everything changes. Now she was going to go away like the others, to leave her home. Perhaps she would never see again those familiar objects from which she had never dreamed of being divided.

And yet during all those years she had never found out the name of the priest whose yellowing photograph hung on the wall above the broken harmonium beside the coloured print of the promises made to Blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque. He had been a school friend of her father. Whenever he showed the photograph to a visitor her father used to pass it with a casual word: "He is in Melbourne now. Was that wise? She tried to weigh each side of the question.

Dubliners (Webster's German Thesaurus Edition)

In her home anyway she had shelter and food; she had those whom she had known all her life about her. O course she had to work hard, both in the house and at business. What would they say of her in the Stores when they found out that she had run away with a fellow? Say she was a fool, perhaps; and her place would be filled up by advertisement. Miss Gavan would be glad. She had always had an edge on her, especially whenever there were people listening. But in her new home, in a distant unknown country, it would not be like that.

Then she would be married--she, Eveline. People would treat her with respect then. She would not be treated as her mother had been. Even now, though she was over nineteen, she sometimes felt herself in danger of her father's violence. She knew it was that that had given her the palpitations. When they were growing up he had never gone for her like he used to go for Harry and Ernest, because she was a girl but latterly he had begun to threaten her and say what he would do to her only for her dead mother's sake.

And no she had nobody to protect her. James Joyce 29 business, was nearly always down somewhere in the country. Besides, the invariable squabble for money on Saturday nights had begun to weary her unspeakably. She always gave her entire wages--seven shillings--and Harry always sent up what he could but the trouble was to get any money from her father. He said she used to squander the money, that she had no head, that he wasn't going to give her his hard-earned money to throw about the streets, and much more, for he was usually fairly bad on Saturday night.

In the end he would give her the money and ask her had she any intention of buying Sunday's dinner. Then she had to rush out as quickly as she could and do her marketing, holding her black leather purse tightly in her hand as she elbowed her way through the crowds and returning home late under her load of provisions. She had hard work to keep the house together and to see that the two young children who had been left to hr charge went to school regularly and got their meals regularly. It was hard work--a hard life--but now that she was about to leave it she did not find it a wholly undesirable life.

Frank was very kind, manly, open-hearted. She was to go away with him by the night-boat to be his wife and to live with him in Buenos Ayres where he had a home waiting for her. How well she remembered the first time she had seen him; he was lodging in a house on the main road where she used to visit. It seemed a few weeks ago. He was standing at the gate, his peaked cap pushed back on his head and his hair tumbled forward over a face of bronze. Then they had come to know each other. He used to meet her outside the Stores every evening and see her home.

He took her to see The Bohemian Girl and she felt elated as she sat in an unaccustomed part of the theatre with him. He was awfully fond of music and sang a little. People knew that they were courting and, when he sang about the lass that loves a sailor, she always felt pleasantly confused. He used to call her Poppens out of fun. First of all it had been an excitement for her to have a fellow and then she had begun to like him. He had tales of distant countries.

He had started as a deck boy at a pound a month on a ship of the Allan Line going out to Canada. He told her the names of the ships he had been on and the names of the different services. He had sailed through the Straits of Magellan and he told her stories of German awfully: furchtbar, schrecklich. He had fallen on his feet in Buenos Ayres, he said, and had come over to the old country just for a holiday. Of course, her father had found out the affair and had forbidden her to have anything to say to him. One day he had quarrelled with Frank and after that she had to meet her lover secretly.

The evening deepened in the avenue. The white of two letters in her lap grew indistinct. One was to Harry; the other was to her father. Ernest had been her favourite but she liked Harry too. Her father was becoming old lately, she noticed; he would miss her. Sometimes he could be very nice. Not long before, when she had been laid up for a day, he had read her out a ghost story and made toast for her at the fire. Another day, when their mother was alive, they had all gone for a picnic to the Hill of Howth. She remembered her father putting on her mothers bonnet to make the children laugh.

Her time was running out but she continued to sit by the window, leaning her head against the window curtain, inhaling the odour of dusty cretonne. Down far in the avenue she could hear a street organ playing. She knew the air Strange that it should come that very night to remind her of the promise to her mother, her promise to keep the home together as long as she could.

She remembered the last night of her mother's illness; she was again in the close dark room at the other side of the hall and outside she heard a melancholy air of Italy. The organ-player had been ordered to go away and given sixpence. She remembered her father strutting back into the sickroom saying: "Damned Italians!

She trembled as she heard again her mother's voice saying constantly with foolish insistence: "Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun! James Joyce 31 She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. She must escape! Frank would save her. He would give her life, perhaps love, too. But she wanted to live.

Why should she be unhappy? She had a right to happiness. Frank would take her in his arms, fold her in his arms. He would save her. He held her hand and she knew that he was speaking to her, saying something about the passage over and over again. The station was full of soldiers with brown baggages. Through the wide doors of the sheds she caught a glimpse of the black mass of the boat, lying in beside the quay wall, with illumined portholes.

She answered nothing. She felt her cheek pale and cold and, out of a maze of distress, she prayed to God to direct her, to show her what was her duty. The boat blew a long mournful whistle into the mist. If she went, tomorrow she would be on the sea with Frank, steaming towards Buenos Ayres. Their passage had been booked. Could she still draw back after all he had done for her? Her distress awoke a nausea in her body and she kept moving her lips in silent fervent prayer.

A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand: "Come! He was drawing her into them: he would drown her. She gripped with both hands at the iron railing. It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy. Amid the seas she sent a cry of anguish. He was shouted at to go on but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition.

German awoke: erwachte, geweckt. At the crest of the hill at Inchicore sightseers had gathered in clumps to watch the cars careering homeward and through this channel of poverty and inaction the Continent sped its wealth and industry. Now and again the clumps of people raised the cheer of the gratefully oppressed. Their sympathy, however, was for the blue cars--the cars of their friends, the French. The French, moreover, were virtual victors. Their team had finished solidly; they had been placed second and third and the driver of the winning German car was reported a Belgian.

Each blue car, therefore, received a double measure of welcome as it topped the crest of the hill and each cheer of welcome was acknowledged with smiles and nods by those in the car. In one of these trimly built cars was a party of four young men whose spirits seemed to be at present well above the level of successful Gallicism: in fact, these four young men were almost hilarious. James Joyce 33 were cousins were also in good humour because of the success of the French cars.

Villona was in good humour because he had had a very satisfactory luncheon; and besides he was an optimist by nature. The fourth member of the party, however, was too excited to be genuinely happy. His father, who had begun life as an advanced Nationalist, had modified his views early. He had made his money as a butcher in Kingstown and by opening shops in Dublin and in the suburbs he had made his money many times over. He had also been fortunate enough to secure some of the police contracts and in the end he had become rich enough to be alluded to in the Dublin newspapers as a merchant prince.

He had sent his son to England to be educated in a big Catholic college and had afterwards sent him to Dublin University to study law. Jimmy did not study very earnestly and took to bad courses for a while. He had money and he was popular; and he divided his time curiously between musical and motoring circles. Then he had been sent for a term to Cambridge to see a little life. His father, remonstrative, but covertly proud of the excess, had paid his bills and brought him home. They were not much more than acquaintances as yet but Jimmy found great pleasure in the society of one who had seen so much of the world and was reputed to own some of the biggest hotels in France.

Such a person as his father agreed was well worth knowing, even if he had not been the charming companion he was. Villona was entertaining also--a brilliant pianist--but, unfortunately, very poor. The car ran on merrily with its cargo of hilarious youth. The two cousins sat on the front seat; Jimmy and his Hungarian friend sat behind.

Decidedly Villona was in excellent spirits; he kept up a deep bass hum of melody for miles of the road The Frenchmen flung their laughter and light words over their shoulders and often Jimmy had to strain forward to catch the quick phrase. This was not altogether pleasant for him, as he had nearly always to make a deft guess at the meaning and shout back a suitable answer in the face of a high wind. Besides Villona's humming would confuse anybody; the noise of the car, too.

German acquaintances: Bekannte, Bekanntschaften, die Bekanntschaft, Reisebekanntschaften. These were three good reasons for Jimmy's excitement. He had been seen by many of his friends that day in the company of these Continentals. It was pleasant after that honour to return to the profane world of spectators amid nudges and significant looks.

Then as to money--he really had a great sum under his control. This knowledge had previously kept his bills within the limits of reasonable recklessness, and if he had been so conscious of the labour latent in money when there had been question merely of some freak of the higher intelligence, how much more so now when he was about to stake the greater part of his substance! It was a serious thing for him. Jimmy had a respect for his father's shrewdness in business matters and in this case it had been his father who had first suggested the investment; money to be made in the motor business, pots of money.

Jimmy set out to translate into days' work that lordly car in which he sat. How smoothly it ran. In what style they had come careering along the country roads! The journey laid a magical finger on the genuine pulse of life and gallantly the machinery of human nerves strove to answer the bounding courses of the swift blue animal. They drove down Dame Street. The street was busy with unusual traffic, loud with the horns of motorists and the gongs of impatient tram-drivers.

A little knot of people collected on the footpath to pay homage to the snorting motor. The car steered out German alighted: landete. James Joyce 35 slowly for Grafton Street while the two young men pushed their way through the knot of gazers. They walked northward with a curious feeling of disappointment in the exercise, while the city hung its pale globes of light above them in a haze of summer evening. A certain pride mingled with his parents' trepidation, a certain eagerness, also, to play fast and loose for the names of great foreign cities have at least this virtue.

Jimmy, too, looked very well when he was dressed and, as he stood in the hall giving a last equation to the bows of his dress tie, his father may have felt even commercially satisfied at having secured for his son qualities often unpurchaseable. His father, therefore, was unusually friendly with Villona and his manner expressed a real respect for foreign accomplishments; but this subtlety of his host was probably lost upon the Hungarian, who was beginning to have a sharp desire for his dinner.

The dinner was excellent, exquisite. The young men supped in a snug room lit by electric candle lamps. They talked volubly and with little reserve. Jimmy, whose imagination was kindling, conceived the lively youth of the Frenchmen twined elegantly upon the firm framework of the Englishman's manner. A graceful image of his, he thought, and a just one. He admired the dexterity with which their host directed the conversation. The five young men had various tastes and their tongues had been loosened. Villona, with immense respect, began to discover to the mildly surprised Englishman the beauties of the English madrigal, deploring the loss of old instruments.

Here was congenial ground for all. Jimmy, under generous influences, felt the buried zeal of his father wake to life within him: he aroused the torpid Routh at last. The alert host at an opportunity lifted his glass to Humanity and, when the toast had been drunk, he threw open a window significantly. The five young men strolled along Stephen's Green in a faint cloud of aromatic smoke. They talked loudly and gaily and their cloaks dangled from their shoulders. The people made way for them.

At the corner of Grafton Street a short fat man was putting two handsome ladies on a car in charge of another fat man. The car drove off and the short fat man caught sight of the party. Farley was an American. No one knew very well what the talk was about. They got up on a car, squeezing themselves together amid much laughter. They drove by the crowd, blended now into soft colours, to a music of merry bells. They took the train at Westland Row and in a few seconds, as it seemed to Jimmy, they were walking out of Kingstown Station.

The ticketcollector saluted Jimmy; he was an old man: "Fine night, sir! They proceeded towards it with linked arms, singing Cadet Roussel in chorus, stamping their feet at every: "Ho! There was to be supper, music, cards. Villona said with conviction: "It is delightful! Then an impromptu square dance, the men devising original figures. What merriment! Jimmy took his part German amid: inmitten. Then Farley got out of breath and cried "Stop! They drank, however: it was Bohemian.

Jimmy made a speech, a long speech, Villona saying: "Hear! There was a great clapping of hands when he sat down. It must have been a good speech. Farley clapped him on the back and laughed loudly. What jovial fellows! What good company they were! The table was cleared.

Villona returned quietly to his piano and played voluntaries for them. The other men played game after game, flinging themselves boldly into the adventure. They drank the health of the Queen of Hearts and of the Queen of Diamonds. Jimmy felt obscurely the lack of an audience: the wit was flashing. Play ran very high and paper began to pass. Jimmy did not know exactly who was winning but he knew that he was losing.

But it was his own fault for he frequently mistook his cards and the other men had to calculate his I. They were devils of fellows but he wished they would stop: it was getting late. Someone gave the toast of the yacht The Belle of Newport and then someone proposed one great game for a finish. The piano had stopped; Villona must have gone up on deck. It was a terrible game. They stopped just before the end of it to drink for luck.

What excitement! Jimmy was excited too; he would lose, of course. How much had he written away? The men rose to their feet to play the last tricks. Talking and gesticulating. Routh won. The cabin shook with the young men's cheering and the cards were bundled together. They began then to gather in what they had won. Farley and Jimmy were the heaviest losers. He knew that he would regret in the morning but at present he was glad of the rest, glad of the dark stupor that would cover up his folly.

He leaned his elbows on the table and rested his head between his hands, counting the beats of his temples. The streets, shuttered for the repose of Sunday, swarmed with a gaily coloured crowd. Like illumined pearls the lamps shone from the summits of their tall poles upon the living texture below which, changing shape and hue unceasingly, sent up into the warm grey evening air an unchanging unceasing murmur. Two young men came down the hill of Rutland Square. On of them was just bringing a long monologue to a close.

The other, who walked on the verge of the path and was at times obliged to step on to the road, owing to his companion's rudeness, wore an amused listening face. He was squat and ruddy. A yachting cap was shoved far back from his forehead and the narrative to which he listened made constant waves of expression break forth over his face from the corners of his nose and eyes and mouth. Little jets of wheezing laughter followed one another out of his convulsed body. His eyes, twinkling with cunning enjoyment, glanced at every moment towards his companion's face. Once or twice he rearranged the light waterproof which he had slung over one shoulder in toreador fashion.

His breeches, his white rubber shoes and his jauntily slung waterproof expressed youth. But his figure fell into rotundity at the waist, his hair was scant and grey and his face, when the waves of expression had passed over it, had a ravaged look. German breeches: Kniehosen, Reithosen. Then he said: "Well! That takes the biscuit! His tongue was tired for he had been talking all the afternoon in a public-house in Dorset Street.

Most people considered Lenehan a leech but, in spite of this reputation, his adroitness and eloquence had always prevented his friends from forming any general policy against him. He had a brave manner of coming up to a party of them in a bar and of holding himself nimbly at the borders of the company until he was included in a round. He was a sporting vagrant armed with a vast stock of stories, limericks and riddles.

He was insensitive to all kinds of discourtesy. No one knew how he achieved the stern task of living, but his name was vaguely associated with racing tissues. Corley ran his tongue swiftly along his upper lip. So we went for a walk round by the canal and she told me she was a slavey in a house in Baggot Street. I put my arm round her and squeezed her a bit that night. Then next Sunday, man, I met her by appointment. We vent out to Donnybrook and I brought her into a field there. She told me she used to go with a dairyman It was fine, man.

Cigarettes every night she'd bring me and paying the tram out and back. And one night she brought me two bloody fine cigars--O, the real cheese, you know, that the old fellow used to smoke I was afraid, man, she'd get in the family way. But she's up to the dodge. German adroitness: Gewandtheit. James Joyce 41 "I told her I was out of a job," said Corley. She doesn't know my name. I was too hairy to tell her that. But she thinks I'm a bit of class, you know.

The swing of his burly body made his friend execute a few light skips from the path to the roadway and back again. Corley was the son of an inspector of police and he had inherited his father's frame and gut. He walked with his hands by his sides, holding himself erect and swaying his head from side to side. His head was large, globular and oily; it sweated in all weathers; and his large round hat, set upon it sideways, looked like a bulb which had grown out of another. He always stared straight before him as if he were on parade and, when he wished to gaze after someone in the street, it was necessary for him to move his body from the hips.

At present he was about town. Whenever any job was vacant a friend was always ready to give him the hard word. He was often to be seen walking with policemen in plain clothes, talking earnestly. He knew the inner side of all affairs and was fond of delivering final judgments. He spoke without listening to the speech of his companions. He works on iphigeitie, Tasso, Egmont, Faust.

He applies himself to the practice of painting and sculpture, to the study of Vitru- vius and Palladio, i. At the same time he is haunted by the problem of the morphology of the plant, and fascinated by the subject and its study ; everywhere he is on the lookout for impressions, and nowhere is he satisfied with anything at second hand. His activity is extraordinary, and that short period of less than two years ripens his" Zpkigenie, Tasso and Egmont, advances his Faust ; enables him to form a remarkable, and in the main accurate, theory of the evolution of the plant, and to enrich his mind by an extraordinary number of clear, definite and profound impressions in the world of art and nature.

While doing all this he was, in a sense, experi- menting, but the more proper term would be : he was gathering experience. It would be putting the truth on its head to speak here of aimless wanderings, for the whole movement was, in one sense at least, intended to be aimless. He means this as praise, because Germans, unlike so many writers of the French and other nationalities, do not write for literary effect, but in order to express exactly and individually whatever engages their attention. In other words, there is no attempt at posing with the rep- resentative German authors.

Many of the remarks which Professor D. One of the reasons why Moliere ranks as a truly great poet is that he, unlike so many of his countrymen, never poses. I might stop here and leave the subject to the judgment of the reader whose studies have no doubt enabled him to see at once the shallowness of this arraignment of a great poet.

But there are a few points in this arraignment which deserve special attention, because they express, to some extent, an undisputed fact. The one is that Goethe wrote some of his poems in imitation, though but rarely in conscious imitation, of Greek, Latin or French authors ; that he translated some of Voltaire's works, and that he found no great tradition in his own country to urge him on.

It would be difficult to prove that the fame of a poet, or his real originality, suffers on account of having occasionally imitated another author, especially one who has long been dead. Whether that poet be Martial or Catullus, Propertius or Voltaire, can make but little difference. Much of the best Latin literature is an imitation of the Greek ; the Greek authors themselves used earlier models, and it may be truly said that even - succeeding phase of literature is in some degree influenced by some preceding phase. Thus English literature grew by imitating Italian and French models. Shakespeare fertilized German literature, and Lessing, Herder, Schiller, Goethe and other German authors have in their turn left their mark on the literature of England, France and other countries.

It is not at all true that a literary tradition in the country of the poet is needed to urge him on. He will be urged on by his own genius, by the example of the literatures of other nations, by his contemporaries, in fact by the entire magnificent bequest of past ages. To call all the works of a poet ' tentative,' because some of them are not as perfect or as important as others, or to deny superiority to any, because some fall below the highest standard, is to play with words, or, at best, a most unfortunate attempt to enlighten the public on a subject in regard to which the speaker himself is sorely in need of light.

Chailes A. Are the authors that preceded Shakespeare of more importance than Lessing and Wieland? Was the influence of Herder of less consequence than that of the whole lot of tragedy writers whose pieces were swept into oblivion by Shakespeare? What tradition operated in the case of Shake- speare that was not active also in the case of Goethe?

Might we not much more justly say that in this respect Goethe had unquestionably an advantage over the British poet? Had Goethe experimented for a new literature, it would have been easy for him to write twice as many dramas as he did — to produce an epic with all the paraphernalia of gods and goddesses, or of angels and archangels, and to imitate any successful composition under the sky. But he did his work in a very different spirit. He claimed emphatically and repeatedly that poetry was inspiration, and in this sense he looked upon his productions as the necessary outcome of instinctive mental action, the relation between poet and poem, to use his own simile, being like that between the bird and the egg she laid.

This inward force that made him write was independent of caprice and wilfulness. The subject took hold of his mind, stayed there a while and was finally detached in a poetic form. How is it possible to speak of a writer of such spontaneity and naturalness as an experimenter?

This characteristic feature in Goethe appeared early and is so persistent throughout his poetical career that it has been noticed by every fairly careful reader. It is just as evident in his prose writings as it is in his poetry. Among the former we might specially mention the ' Campaign in France ; ' among the latter his elegy on Schiller and the four stanzas which bear the superscription Urworte ' Orphisch '. In all these compositions, from the concrete, matter-of-fact descriptions of the ' Campaign' to the philosophical elevation of the Urworte we find the direct, individual and 38 Goethe.

The idea of experimenting is utterly incompatible with such a process of composition. To speak of imitations of Martial, etc. A poet who reaches the age which Goethe did might have imitated every poet that ever wrote without incurring the risk of being judged by his imitations. Did Goethe imitate Euripides in his Iphigenia? Did he, as Professor Dowden says, falsify the Greek iphigenia? He imitated the Greek poet as to the general outline of the drama — and he was original in every essential feature of his own drama.

But because he was original, i. A remark- able way of arguing — which would leave a new poet no choice as to the use of an ancient subject! Euripides, representing the thoughts and feelings of a later generation, both imitated and changed — or must we say with Professor Dowden falsified the maiden and the goddess and the furies? Difficile est satiram non scribere.

I have felt compelled to use the great name of Shakespeare in order to point out the illogical character of the ' Case against Goethe,' because there is no other poet of modern, and perhaps of ancient times also, who compares with Goethe in the power and universality of genius pure and simple. But it has never occurred to me to compare the two great poets in other respects. In Shakespeare's great dramas the passionate element prevails, hence they are eminently fit to fix the attention and to engage the sympathy of the spectators, both high and low, edu- cated and uneducated.

This peculiar dramatic quality Goethe does not show, if we except the first part of Faust, and Egmont, in any of his dramas. What he shows may to some appear as of a higher order, appealing to the aristocrats of culture rather than to the masses ; at any rate, it must be classed separately from such soul-stirring pictures of passion as Macbeth, Othello, King Lear. At the same time we find that the most pathetic tragedy ever written is nevertheless the work of Goethe, i. It is even more popular outside of Eng- land than any of the great tragedies of Shakespeare, but Goethe composed it, so to speak, by a happy accident tradition and personal experience joined , and he approached its interest, without quite equaling it, only in Egmont.

The circumstance deserves to be particularly considered as long as such utterances as we find in the ' Case against Goethe ' can be prominently displayed before a Goethe Society. The delicate fancy, the graceful sentiment and the easy flow of animated, infinitely varied and suggestive language in Shakespeare's comedies and other dramas have justly elicited the admiration and praise of the best critics.

The theatrical work of Shakespeare impresses us as the basis of Shakespeare's fame, and as something that, taken as a whole, has never been equaled. We overlook blemishes and faults and judge from the general and overwhelming impression. With Goethe the case is different.

In their own way such dramas as Tasso, Iphigenie, Egmont, Faust are possibly as per- fect and as successful as any that were ever written. Shake- speare approaches the style of Goethe's dramas in his Hamlet, a drama in which action is subordinate to thought and fancy, as it is in the dramas of Goethe. But Goethe's character as a poet and a thinker is not completely and solely revealed in his dramas as Shakespeare's is in his, and as was nearly the case 40 Goethe.

Perhaps, as some maintain, his genius was epic or lyric rather than dramatic ; at any rate, the proof of his unrivaled and undisputed superiority as a poet is found in his lyrics rather than in his dramas, and even in the latter the lyric passages are distinguished by such a glow of feeling and beauty of form and coloring that we are often carried away by them, instead of feeling the impulse of the dramatic action.

It would nevertheless be a great mistake to deny that Goethe ranks among the very greatest masters of personal characterization. His creations of characters have never been surpassed and but rarely equaled. And what infinite variety there is in them! What delicacy of shading!

What felicity in often revealing a whole character by a single trait! From Werther to Faust, from Gretchen to Iphigenie — what a wealth of delineation! What fidelity of painting! In the interest of fairness one might be tempted to ask : "How did a scholar like Professor Dowden arrive at his state- ments and conclusions? It is not probable that he expressed views without previous examination; what, then, was the nature of this examination? He found Goethe much admired by men to whom he could not deny the capacity of profound critical insight, and he was forced to admit that the great man was an original thinker of great force, an excellent judge of human nature, and unquestionably a poet and finished writer.

Goethe wrote a few epigrams in the style of Martial — forth- with his critic puts him down as an experimenter ' who follows foreign models,' as though it were possible to do anything what- ever in the line of art of which there could not be found parallel attempts in the past ; as though the using of a form once in- vented deprived the one who used this form afterward of the right to be called original, no matter how individually new his work may be!

Professor Dowden surely knows that the iambic lines which we call blank verse and which were used by Shakespeare were imitated from the French and Italians ; that he borrowed the form of his sonnets from the Italians, and that, if we may say that Goethe occasionally imitated some one in the matter of form, we are forced to say the same of Shakespeare and every other poet.

And right here our critic gets entangled. On the one hand he charges Goethe with being an experimenter who follows foreign mcdels, because he wrote in the style of Martial and of Homer ; and on the other, he pities him because he lacked a great tradition, as though there could be a greater tradition than the tradition of the best poets of all the ages.

He virtually says to him : "If you write a novel like Werther, I count for nothing the note of individual truth which rings through the work — but I condemn the whole work as an imita- tion, because I find that the author used the epistolary form made popular by Richardson and Rousseau, and showed that he was greatly impressed with the characteristics of Rousseau and Ossian. In conclusion one general remark.

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A truth that underlies nearly all the shallow criticism of this sort remains to be stated, though it is a truism rather than a new statement. Goethe spent the greater part of his life in a small town, at a petty court and amid surroundings that would not allow the expansion of great tragic force, even if this had been the poet's specialty. When we compare, in respect to their fate and the conditions of their lives, poets like Shakespeare, Racine, Corneille and Moliere with Goethe, we notice at once that the former sought and found the centre of their poetic activity in the capital of their country, and in close proximity to the court, while Goethe lived in a country which was yet far from having attained that unity which made a common capital and a single prominent court possible.

There was no public for tragedy in a small place like Weimar, the stimulus to write tragedy was therefore wanting, and the same was true of the higher comedy. Germany had not yet recovered from the terrible fate brought upon her by foreigners as a consequence of the great reformation. The glory of Luther's mighty work his people paid for, in the thirty years' war, by the most terrible ruin that ever befell a great nation. Subsequently, divided into hundreds of little states, Germany fell an easy prey, at the beginning of this century, to the most skillful general of the age who had sole control of the immense resources, not only of France, but of a large number of allied German and Italian states.

The national regeneration, though it was only a partial one, which caused and followed the expulsion of the French in , found Goethe too old a man to be stimulated by it. His Charles A. Schiller, who was ten years younger and endowed with a different temper, was far more under the influence of the events of his time, especially the French revo- lution ; his tendency was more readily fixed, because he lacked the wide range of the older poet and was less likely to be diverted from the line of work which gave him at once such brilliant promise of success.

Schiller had suffered oppression, hence his fiery outburst of suppressed feeling in the Robbers. Goethe had more or less enjoyed life — he had been rather fortunate in all he had undertaken, hence his temper remained genial ; it never became revolutionary ; and while he very well saw that with the success of the French revolution, after the cannonade of Valmy, a new era of history had begun cf. Cam- pagne in Frankreich he judged rightly that the fanatical fury of the French did not suit the Germans.

His life became con- templative, because no great misfortune stirred his indignation ; his poetry epic and lyric rather than dramatic, because the con- flicts in which he was involved were of an inward, personal nature, and he stood aloof from the greater political life that goes on in a great state and throbs at a great capital. Hence the absence of violent contrasts in his dramas, of passion un- controlled, and wickedness pure and simple.

His Mephistopheles even is not a devil of such incarnate wickedness as Shakespeare's Iago. There is not a ray of humanity in Iago, but Goethe's Mephistopheles is at least humorous at times, and he never tries to appear better than he is. Is Iago, therefore, a more artistic figure than Mephistopheles?

I doubt that greatly, but he is undoubtedly a more dramatic one. Goethe was imbued with the modern view of natural history which sees in the world an infinite series of transitions, and nowhere an abrupt contrast. He did not believe in com- pletely bad men as Shakespeare did, and, therefore, he did not paint such. In this we cannot help finding his undoubted superiority over Shakespeare and almost all other poets of the 44 Goethe. But he knew that men can be very weak when tempted, and he painted such men with the irresistible truthful- ness of genius.

This is already clearly visible in his Werther and his Goets. The striking originality of these two works can be denied only by a doctrinaire of the worst type — and by Professor Dowden, let us add, when he is not quite himself. But in all of these we meet with not a single character that is thoroughly bad or so moved by passion, or by a wicked purpose, as to excite our indignation. They satisfy the demands of the highest intelligence, and it is true that the highest intelligence, any more than the best taste, is not found with the multitude. It is, however, also true, and deserves to be noted as a proof of the marvelous power of the poet's genius, that, though devoid of the popular elements of intense passion and ferocious hatred, some of his works have had a popular success of the most pronounced type.

No play on the stage is more successful, even in a popular sense, than Faust ; few equal Egmont in effectiveness — one must have seen the play well acted to appreciate this — ; while Hermann und Dorothea has always been dear to the whole German people, and has been praised by other nations wherever it has become known. Tasso and Iphigenie as dramas are great and perfect works of art, but they appeal to the cultured few rather than the masses ; and the same may be said of the two great novels.

Whether or not Goethe might have produced more dramas of a type to attract the masses, if he had been placed in a city like London in the stirring age of Elizabeth, or in Paris at the court of a luxurious and glory-loving king like Louis XIV. If Professor Dowden, or any one else, should answer it in the negative, I should feel that no particular injustice were done to Goethe.

Goethe would not be Charles A. The dramatic intensity of Othello and Macbeth is very different from the moral and soulful pathos in Faust, Egmont, Tasso, Iphigenie ; but to say that the former is necessarily superior to the latter is to assume that one knows to the very core the art and the genius of both Shakespeare and Goethe. Professor Dowden may be justified in his assumption of such a knowledge, but that it is an assumption and nothing else will scarcely be doubted by any one who will take the pains to study the works of Goethe.

Chicago, Iu,. In the library of the University of Gottingen, under the cipher Cod. PhiloL, , is to be found the manuscript of a Low German ballad, which according to the introductory title had been composed to commemorate the futile attempt of Gen- eral Piccolomini to take the town of Gottingen during the thirty years' war in The ballad had been composed by a Gottingen student and seems to have enjoyed much popularity among the townspeople. A further search revealed the fact that there existed also a printed copy of the poem upon a sheet of coarse unsized paper, and, further, that the manuscript was only a copy of the printed text made evidently by some one who desired to obtain the words and was unable to purchase a printed copy, the edition having been most likely very limited.

This I judge to be the case as the title of the piece clearly states, that it was printed at the request of many good friends by a local printer and presumably, therefore, had a very limited circulation. Be that, however, as it may, the MS. As alluring as it is to imagine that the song was written shortly after the events it describes and sung by the happy burghers in gratitude for their deliverance, the length of time which elapsed before it was printed in renders this im- probable.

It is more likely that its student author was not a contemporary of Piccolomini but that he lived a century later and being perhaps a native of Gottingen, had become interested in this episode of the town's history and so worked it up into ballad form. This is, however, only a theory and it is possible that further search might reveal additional evidence which would definitely settle the date of composition. The manuscript was purchased for the Gottingen library by Professor Roessler in together with various other manuscripts and original documents.

The ballad does not appear in Ditfurth's collection of Historische Volkslieder and, as far as I have been able to discover, has never been reprinted. Before giving the text of the poem, it will perhaps be well to describe in brief the events which it commemorates. It was toward the close of the thirty years' war when the imperial forces laid siege to the town of Gottingen.

The Arch- duke inarched with his entire army to Einbeck, a 'small town about twenty miles north of Gottingen, which he captured in a few days. Taking up his headquarters at Northeim, about twelve miles from Gottingen, he sent a summary demand to this latter place to surrender. This the magistrates refused to do, pleading as an excuse their duty and oath to their sovereign the Duke of Braunschweig-Liineburg.

Thereupon Archduke Leopold, with the Bavarian general Octavio Piccolomini and the imperial army, made his appearance before the town. This was on October 21 of the year In all probability Pic- colomini was the actual leader of the forces as in the ballad he plays the principal role. In the surrounding villages they threw up breastworks and dug trenches. The inhabitants of the town courageously made two sorties, in both of which they were successful, capturing among others a lieutenant-colonel, a captain and a lieutenant.

The besiegers replied by a pro- longed bombardment of the town, lasting from between eight and nine in the evening to two o'clock in the morning. In spite of the fact that large fire-balls weighing about one hundred and fifty pounds were thrown into the town, but comparatively little damage was done, especially by fire, owing to the vigilance of the citizens. During the bombardment, says the historian, there was visible between eleven and twelve o'clock, as a special token of the grace of God, directly over the town, a clearly defined rainbow adorned with the appropriate colors.

After vainly attempting to take the town, in the night of the sixth of November, the imperial army abandoned the siege and stole silently away. So much for the historical account of the siege. Without stopping long to inquire into the veracity of the historian or as to the probability of such an extraordinary phenomenon as a rainbow at midnight, it might be said in passing that such an occurrence is not impossible. Provided only that the moon was Daniel B.

Nah sihner eigenen Meldie. Picclemin, wat wuttu dauhn, Wuttu verdeinen dat Kayser L,ohn, En grater Generahl blieven, Sau maustu henna Gbttingen thein, Un maust sei da verdrieven. Asze hei nun boven Elligehusen kam, Da deen dei Kayserschen gegen ohiri stahn, Sei wohren hahch vermahten, Sei deen tau Boveden ower marcheren, Sei wollen den Rosen upfraten. Oberste Rose sprack sine Saldaten an, Jii Brunswikker daut nah Gottingen gahn, Un daut jock tapper wehren, Un wenn dei Kayserscben acbter jock kobmen, Will eck meek bable iimkahren.

Asze recbt dei Scharmiitzel soil ergabn, Un nun ein Kabrl bihn annern stahn, Da deen dei Kaysersclien uhtrihten; Sei leipen uht der ersten in dei annern Scbantze, Dat Gewehr deen sei wegschmihten. Hei siilwenst wohrt gefangen nohinen, Dat dorfft hei neimand klagen. Asze hei dei Schantze un weer flickt, Un naher nah der Stadt herruckt, Woll hei nich langer teufen. Hei brochte achte Stiicke an der Thahl, Dei sollen Gottingen bedreufen. Dat hett meek leider Wunder. Wat was 6t doch vor Einbeck gauth, Dei Borgers hadden ennen schlechten Mauth, Asze wie dat Fiier nin schmehten, Dei Gottingers lachet osk noch dartau uht, Soil osk dat nich verdreiten.

Isz denn nun hier kein mann bekand, Dei osk brocht in ein anner Land, Wie mochten hie werden erschlagen, Un wenn dei Schweden achter osk kohmen, Konne wie dat nich verdragen. Sau geht denn hen den Brick den Brack, Vor Gottingen konne wie nich blieven. Dei Papen hadden nich gerne vernohmen, Dat sey nich wohrn in Gottingen kohmen.

For as is well known, and has been very ably expressed in an article Der Bauer und die Kunst Preussiscke Jahrbiicher, January, , the gulf which education and refinement has to-day placed between the cultured classes and the peasants did not formerly exist. In physiognomy and in nature the upper classes and peasants during the Middle Ages and down almost to the eighteenth century were practically identical. This humor is especially instanced in one passage of our poem which, however, because of its broadness is offensive to modern ears. Still it is entirely free from cynicism and illustrates only the naive standpoint of a man who is accustomed to call a spade a spade.

Although beneath the title of the poem stand the words, Nah sihner eignen Meldie, the unknown author owed the metre of the song and the very rhymes of the opening stanzas to another Low German song very popular at the time. The opening stanzas are as follows : Due Krequi, hor, wat wultu dohn? Wultu verwarft'n dat grote L,ohn, En got Frantzose bliefen? So mostu hen na Trier gahn De Dutschen dar weg driefen. Ach setestu biem Griitte-Pott, Et mochte dick wol baten. The similarity of this song to the other is too obvious to be overlooked and one is at once tempted to consider one as an imitation of the other.

If we assume that the Gottingen poem was written but a short time before the date of its printing, the poem on the battle of Treves might very well have served as a model for the former. The similarity, however, is confined mainly to the opening stanza and this leads us to consider a second possibility, namely, that each poem arose independently of the other but in imitation of an older poem whose popularity and circulation were such as to cause it to be taken as the model for many poems of like nature. An investigation has shown that this is, in fact, the case, the model being the famous ballad of Henneke Knecht, published by Bohme, Altdeutsches Liederbtich, as No.

The author of the poem on the battle of Treves puts us on the right track by remarking under the title of the poem: "To singen na der Wiese: Henneke Knecht wat wultu dohn," etc. This ballad of Henneke Knecht is a capitally humorous account of a young farmer's lad, who runs away to sea in the belief that the life of a sailor must be infinitely superior to the dull drudgery of the farm.

No sooner, however, does he begin to feel the discomforts of that woeful malady seasickness than he wishes himself once more home. It is, as Bohme says, a good example of the failure to observe the advice of the old proverb: "Schuster bleib bei deinem Leisten.

Baring, who was the first to rescue it from oblivion, speaks of it as follows: "Es ist das Henneke Knechts-Lied vor Jahren so bekannt gewesen, dass es Dayiiel B. Skumway, 55 fast bei alien Zusamrnenkunften, bey der Wiegen, und von den Kindern auf der Gassen auch sogar denen Vogeln vorgepfiffen und gesungen worden ist. A comparison of the three ballads shows that the author of the one on the battle of Treves followed the Hcnneke Knecht closely in the first two stanzas and then, inspired by his own theme, struck out on independent lines and does not seem to have glanced at or thought of the model again.

The result is a poem of decided merit, perfectly original with the exception of the opening stanzas. The unknown Gottingen student, who described the siege of the town, evidently considered his muse too feeble to attempt an independent flight, or else felt that the very similarity of his poem to the original might guarantee its popularity, and followed the older poem so slavishly that almost every stanza bears evidence of copying. Ik geve dek en par nier schoh, den plog kanst du wol driven. Compare with that the first stanza of our poem : Picclemin, wat wuttu dauhn, Wuttu verdeinen dat Kayser L,ohn, En grater Generahl blieven, Sau maustu henna Gottingen thein, Un maust sei da verdrieven.

It will be noticed that each stanza consists of five lines, the first two rhyming with each other, then the third and fifth rhyming, while the fourth is in all cases unrhymed. With the 56 A Low German Ballad. The first half of the second stanza is similarly identical. In Henneke Knecht it runs : Henneke sprak sek en trotzich wort ' ' Ik wil nenen buren deinen vort solk arbeit wil ek haten. This our author has retained as follows : Picclemin sprak en hastig Wohrt Eck will deu Kayser deiuen fohrt Den Brunswikker helpen kahten. Even the word Jiastig which he substituted for trotzich occurs in the next stanza of H.

The first line of the fourth stanza of H. Similarly the beginning of the fourth stanza : Asze hei nun boven Elligehusen kam Da deen dei Kayserschen gegen ohm stahn seems to have been modeled on the sixth stanza of H. For the thirteenth stanza our author borrows the rhyme Sakk: Drakk from the eighth of H.

The remainder of the poem is freer from imitation of the older one. Only in two places is a similarity to be found. The twelfth stanza of H. This we find reproduced in the nineteenth stanza of our poem: Isz denn nu hier kein mann bekand Dei bsk brocht in ein anner land The opening line of the concluding stanza is likewise copied from H.

With reference to the dialect, the two poems are quite inde- pendent. This is, of course, to be expected as the form of so popular a ballad as H. Most probably he had learnt it orally and in the forms of his native dialect. The dialect of our poem is as well as I can make out that of Gottingen. Older 6 appears in the Gottingen poem as an, e. The vowel of the pret. Old at appears in H. The diphthong io appears in H. In both poems, however, verdienen appears as verdeinen.

Original e before r appears in Gottingen as a: harte Herz as usual in Plattdeutsch ; in H. This would seem to point to a dialect bordering on the Midland German as does also the retention of the old qu in the preterite of kommen. Jellinghaus, Zur Einteilnng der niederdeutschen Mundartcn, p. An exception to this is found in the pret. This agrees with Jellinek's description of the dialect p.

The rhyme with schot may have influenced the spelling of grot, as older au generally appears as 5, cf. In the case of Lohn, High German may have influenced the spelling, as it rhymes with dauhn. The Gottingen poem is not entirely free from High German forms. In many cases these are proper names or technical terms, such as Oberste y Daniel B. In one or two cases, however, High German forms occur where no good reason exists. This is especially the case in the rhyme Seiten: gleiten, where H. The name of the deity also occurs in High German form : Gott.

This is, however, to be expected as the L,ow German had yielded before this time to the High German as the language of the Church. University of Pennsylvania. The play gained great popularity from the very start, so that it made conquest of the stage throughout Germany and Austria-Hungary in an astonishingly short time.

I have before me the thirty- fourth edition S. Fischer, Berlin , published in , when the play was hardly one year old. Woerner in her excellent little book on Gerhart Hauptmann. It is indeed the mysterious maiden from the strange land of romanticism, the Mignon of the end of the nineteenth century, who offers the treasures of symbolism, fairy tale and wilful fancy to our work-a-day world. This is the only one of Hauptmann's plays entirely in metrical form ; the metres employed are the tragic iambic verse of five stresses ; the heroic couplet ; Knittelvers, and irregular lyrical metres.

It has five acts, and following the example of Ibsen no divi- sion into scenes within the acts. In the subsequent narrative of the action of the play I shall take the liberty of forming somewhat arbitrary groups of events according to dramatic con- sanguinity, if that term may be permitted, instead of the tradi- tional and merely formal division according to the entries and exits of the characters. In Act I we are at once introduced into the atmosphere which pervades the whole play, that of mountain and forest, meadow and fountain, and the mysteries of its teeming life in the guise of the creations of the fairy tale.

There is a little gold-haired elf, Rautendelein Red Annie , mischievous, careless, eager for life, concerned only about the sunshine and the joys of her present existence ; there is Nickelmann, the watersprite, who inhabits a fountain, ugly, old, froglike, whose " Brekekekex, quorax, quorax " reminds us of Aristophanes' Frogs. He wants the lovely Rautendelein for his wife, but is scorned by her.

Next appears the Waldschrat, the traditional satyr, the goatlike wanton of the woods, representing the baser side of animal existence, sensual, vulgar, fond of any kind of mischief regard- less of the consequences. The second scene begins with Heinrich, severely injured, dragging himself upon the mountain. He is still a young man, surely not beyond the thirties, a bell founder by profes- sion. We learn his story from his conversation with the other persons of the scene, Rautendelein and Wittichen, the old woman of the forest, who is the only one speaking a dialect — the dialect of the Silesian mountains, Hauptmann's native place — and is full of homely wisdom and woodcraft.

While hauling a bell that he had cast for a church on the top of the mountain to its place of destination, wagon, bell and himself had suddenly been hurled down a precipice into a lake which had swallowed up the bell. A mystery surrounds the event. Heinrich has no distinct recollection of it. We are left to infer that the spirits of the woods, hating the bell and the religious tendencies symbolized by it, caused the disaster. At the same time we are made to feel that Heinrich's suffering, perhaps even his fall, is due to some mysterious psychic cause.

As Rautendelein speaks to him, a strange transformation takes place in him. A glow of warmth, passion, hope and enthusiasm comes over him. He entreats her not to leave him — to kiss him. In this scene lies the beginning of the dramatic action. Rautendelein cannot 62 Die Vcrsunkenc Glocke. She sees his tears and is perplexed, for being an elf she does not know tears. Heinrich falls asleep exhausted, and Rautendeleiu draws a magic circle about him to keep off intruders. In the third scene appear, allured by the Waldschrat's mock- ing cries of help, the preacher, schoolmaster and barber from Heinrich's village, who have gone forth to seek him.

The three are typical representatives of life in a small village ; the preacher of the comfortable conventional Christianity, intolerant to fanaticism, determined to maintain the existing order under all circumstances. The schoolmaster stands for shallow and pedantic rationalism. He does not believe in witchcraft or ghosts, but charges his manifest dread to the possible presence of thieves, murderers and smugglers in the woods. The barber is the vicious, vulgar gossip monger that makes him a familiar figure in popular stories in Germany. They find Heinrich and Wittichen. There is an encounter between them and Wittichen in which their two conflicting views of life are plainly exposed.

They take Heinrich with them. In a closing scene fairy life holds full sway again as in the beginning. After a chorus of elves the dramatic action moves one step farther. Rautendelein suddenly discovers tears dropping from her eyes : the symbol of her transformation. She now feels sympathy, yearning for human society, and determines to follow Heinrich. Nickelmann tries vainly to dissuade her.

She wanted it to be prescribed, and felt as a duty. She rated Lady Russell's influence highly; and as to the severe degree of self-denial which her own conscience prompted, she believed there might be little more difficulty in persuading them to a complete, than to half a reformation.

Her knowledge of her father and Elizabeth inclined her to think that the sacrifice of one pair of horses would be hardly less painful than of both, and so on, through the whole list of Lady Russell's too gentle reductions. Lady Russell's had no success at all: could not be put up with, were not to be borne. Journeys, London, servants, horses, table-- contractions and restrictions every where!

To live no longer with the decencies even of a private gentleman! No, he would sooner quit Kellynch Hall at once, than remain in it on such disgraceful terms. It did not appear to him that Sir Walter could materially alter his style of living in a house which had such a character of hospitality and ancient dignity to support. In any other place Sir Walter might judge for himself; and would be looked up to, as regulating the modes of life in whatever way he might choose to model his household.

There had been three alternatives, London, Bath, or another house in the country. All Anne's wishes had been for the latter. A small house in their own neighbourhood, where they might still have Lady Russell's society, still be near Mary, and still have the pleasure of sometimes seeing the lawns and groves of Kellynch, was the object of her ambition. Jane Austen 13 her, in having something very opposite from her inclination fixed on. She disliked Bath, and did not think it agreed with her; and Bath was to be her home. It was a much safer place for a gentleman in his predicament: he might there be important at comparatively little expense.

Two material advantages of Bath over London had of course been given all their weight: its more convenient distance from Kellynch, only fifty miles, and Lady Russell's spending some part of every winter there; and to the very great satisfaction of Lady Russell, whose first views on the projected change had been for Bath, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were induced to believe that they should lose neither consequence nor enjoyment by settling there.

Lady Russell felt obliged to oppose her dear Anne's known wishes. It would be too much to expect Sir Walter to descend into a small house in his own neighbourhood. Anne herself would have found the mortifications of it more than she foresaw, and to Sir Walter's feelings they must have been dreadful. And with regard to Anne's dislike of Bath, she considered it as a prejudice and mistake arising, first, from the circumstance of her having been three years at school there, after her mother's death; and secondly, from her happening to be not in perfectly good spirits the only winter which she had afterwards spent there with herself.

Lady Russell was fond of Bath, in short, and disposed to think it must suit them all; and as to her young friend's health, by passing all the warm months with her at Kellynch Lodge, every danger would be avoided; and it was in fact, a change which must do both health and spirits good. Anne had been too little from home, too little seen. Her spirits were not high. A larger society would improve them.

She wanted her to be more known. The undesirableness of any other house in the same neighbourhood for Sir Walter was certainly much strengthened by one part, and a very material part of the scheme, which had been happily engrafted on the beginning. He was not German circumstance: Umstand, Bewandtnis. Kellynch Hall was to be let. This, however, was a profound secret, not to be breathed beyond their own circle.

Mr Shepherd had once mentioned the word "advertise," but never dared approach it again. Sir Walter spurned the idea of its being offered in any manner; forbad the slightest hint being dropped of his having such an intention; and it was only on the supposition of his being spontaneously solicited by some most unexceptionable applicant, on his own terms, and as a great favour, that he would let it at all. How quick come the reasons for approving what we like!

Lady Russell had another excellent one at hand, for being extremely glad that Sir Walter and his family were to remove from the country. Elizabeth had been lately forming an intimacy, which she wished to see interrupted. It was with the daughter of Mr Shepherd, who had returned, after an unprosperous marriage, to her father's house, with the additional burden of two children.

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She was a clever young woman, who understood the art of pleasing--the art of pleasing, at least, at Kellynch Hall; and who had made herself so acceptable to Miss Elliot, as to have been already staying there more than once, in spite of all that Lady Russell, who thought it a friendship quite out of place, could hint of caution and reserve.

Lady Russell, indeed, had scarcely any influence with Elizabeth, and seemed to love her, rather because she would love her, than because Elizabeth deserved it. She had never received from her more than outward attention, nothing beyond the observances of complaisance; had never succeeded in any point which she wanted to carry, against previous inclination. Jane Austen 15 decided opposition to Lady Russell than in this selection of Mrs Clay; turning from the society of so deserving a sister, to bestow her affection and confidence on one who ought to have been nothing to her but the object of distant civility.

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This peace will be turning all our rich naval officers ashore. They will be all wanting a home. Could not be a better time, Sir Walter, for having a choice of tenants, very responsible tenants. Many a noble fortune has been made during the war. If a rich admiral were to come in our way, Sir Walter--" "He would be a very lucky man, Shepherd," replied Sir Walter; "that's all I have to remark.

A prize indeed would Kellynch Hall be to him; rather the greatest prize of all, let him have taken ever so many before; hey, Shepherd? I have had a little knowledge of their methods of doing business; and I am free to confess that they have very liberal notions, and are as likely to make desirable tenants as any set of people one should meet with. Therefore, Sir Walter, what I would take leave to suggest is, that if in consequence of any rumours getting abroad of your intention; which must be contemplated as a possible thing, because we know how difficult it is to keep the actions and designs of one part of the world from the notice and curiosity of the other; consequence has its tax; I, John Shepherd, might conceal any family- German admiral: Admiral.

Jane Austen 17 matters that I chose, for nobody would think it worth their while to observe me; but Sir Walter Elliot has eyes upon him which it may be very difficult to elude; and therefore, thus much I venture upon, that it will not greatly surprise me if, with all our caution, some rumour of the truth should get abroad; in the supposition of which, as I was going to observe, since applications will unquestionably follow, I should think any from our wealthy naval commanders particularly worth attending to; and beg leave to add, that two hours will bring me over at any time, to save you the trouble of replying.

But soon afterwards, rising and pacing the room, he observed sarcastically-"There are few among the gentlemen of the navy, I imagine, who would not be surprised to find themselves in a house of this description. I have known a good deal of the profession; and besides their liberality, they are so neat and careful in all their ways!

These valuable pictures of yours, Sir Walter, if you chose to leave them, would be perfectly safe. Everything in and about the house would be taken such excellent care of! The gardens and shrubberies would be kept in almost as high order as they are now.

You need not be afraid, Miss Elliot, of your own sweet flower gardens being neglected. I am not particularly disposed to favour a tenant. The park would be open to him of course, and few navy officers, or men of any other description, can have had such a range; but what restrictions I might impose on the use of the pleasure-grounds, is another thing. I am not fond of the idea of my shrubberies being always approachable; and I should recommend Miss Elliot to be on her guard with respect to her flower garden.

Your interest, Sir Walter, is in pretty safe hands. Depend upon me for taking care that no tenant has more than his just rights. I venture to hint, that Sir Walter Elliot cannot be half so jealous for his own, as John Shepherd will be for him. Sailors work hard enough for their comforts, we must all allow. First, as being the means of bringing persons of obscure birth into undue distinction, and raising men to honours which their fathers and grandfathers never dreamt of; and secondly, as it cuts up a man's youth and vigour most horribly; a sailor grows old sooner than any other man.

I have observed it all my life. A man is in greater danger in the navy of being insulted by the rise of one whose father, his father might have disdained to speak to, and of becoming prematurely an object of disgust himself, than in any other line. One day last spring, in town, I was in company with two men, striking instances of what I am talking of; Lord St Ives, whose father we all know to have been a country curate, without bread to eat; I was to give place to Lord St Ives, and a German assure: versichern, versichere, versicherst, versichert, versichre, zusichern, sichere zu, sichre zu, sichert zu, sicherst zu, sichern zu.

Jane Austen 19 certain Admiral Baldwin, the most deplorable-looking personage you can imagine; his face the colour of mahogany, rough and rugged to the last degree; all lines and wrinkles, nine grey hairs of a side, and nothing but a dab of powder at top. What do you take his age to be? I never saw quite so wretched an example of what a sea-faring life can do; but to a degree, I know it is the same with them all: they are all knocked about, and exposed to every climate, and every weather, till they are not fit to be seen.

It is a pity they are not knocked on the head at once, before they reach Admiral Baldwin's age. Have a little mercy on the poor men. We are not all born to be handsome. The sea is no beautifier, certainly; sailors do grow old betimes; I have observed it; they soon lose the look of youth. But then, is not it the same with many other professions, perhaps most other? Soldiers, in active service, are not at all better off: and even in the quieter professions, there is a toil and a labour of the mind, if not of the body, which seldom leaves a man's looks to the natural effect of time.

The lawyer plods, quite care-worn; the physician is up at all hours, and travelling in all weather; and even the clergyman--" she stopt a moment to consider what might do for the clergyman;--"and even the clergyman, you know is obliged to go into infected rooms, and expose his health and looks to all the injury of a poisonous atmosphere.

In fact, as I have long been convinced, though every profession is necessary and honourable in its turn, it is only the lot of those who are not obliged to follow any, who can live in a regular way, in the country, choosing their own hours, following their own pursuits, and living on their own property, without the torment of trying for more; it is only their lot, I say, to hold the blessings of health and a good appearance to the utmost: I know no other set of men but what lose something of their personableness when they cease to be quite young. By the report which he hastened over to Kellynch to make, Admiral Croft was a native of Somersetshire, who having acquired a very handsome fortune, was wishing to settle in his own country, and had come down to Taunton in order to look at some advertised places in that immediate neighbourhood, which, however, had not suited him; that accidentally hearing-- it was just as he had foretold, Mr Shepherd observed, Sir Walter's concerns could not be kept a secret, -- accidentally hearing of the possibility of Kellynch Hall being to let, and understanding his Mr Shepherd's connection with the owner, he had introduced himself to him in order to make particular inquiries, and had, in the course of a pretty long conference, expressed as strong an inclination for the place as a man who knew it only by description could feel; and given Mr Shepherd, in his explicit account of himself, every proof of his being a most responsible, eligible tenant.

Mr Shepherd answered for his being of a gentleman's family, and mentioned a place; and Anne, after the little pause which followed, added-"He is a rear admiral of the white. He was in the Trafalgar action, and has been in the East Indies since; he was stationed there, I believe, several years. Jane Austen 21 surprised if Sir Walter had asked more; had inquired about the manor; would be glad of the deputation, certainly, but made no great point of it; said he sometimes took out a gun, but never killed; quite the gentleman.

He was a married man, and without children; the very state to be wished for. A house was never taken good care of, Mr Shepherd observed, without a lady: he did not know, whether furniture might not be in danger of suffering as much where there was no lady, as where there were many children. A lady, without a family, was the very best preserver of furniture in the world.

He had seen Mrs Croft, too; she was at Taunton with the admiral, and had been present almost all the time they were talking the matter over. Bless me! At this moment I cannot recollect his name, though I have heard it so lately. Penelope, my dear, can you help me to the name of the gentleman who lived at Monkford: Mrs Croft's brother? I shall forget my own name soon, I suppose. A name that I am so very well acquainted with; knew the gentleman so well by sight; seen him a hundred times; came to consult me once, I remember, about a trespass of one of his neighbours; farmer's man breaking into his orchard; wall torn down; apples stolen; caught in the fact; and afterwards, contrary to my judgement, submitted to an amicable compromise.

Very odd indeed! Mr Wentworth was the very man. He had the curacy of Monkford, you know, Sir Walter, some time back, for two or three years. Came there about the year , I take it. You remember him, I am sure. You misled me by the term gentleman. I thought you were speaking of some man of property: Mr Wentworth was nobody, I remember; quite unconnected; nothing to do with the Strafford family.

One wonders how the names of many of our nobility become so common. It succeeded, however; and though Sir Walter must ever look with an evil eye on anyone intending to inhabit that house, and think them infinitely too well off in being permitted to rent it on the highest terms, he was talked into allowing Mr Shepherd to proceed in the treaty, and authorising him to wait on Admiral Croft, who still remained at Taunton, and fix a day for the house being seen. Sir Walter was not very wise; but still he had experience enough of the world to feel, that a more unobjectionable tenant, in all essentials, than Admiral Croft bid fair to be, could hardly offer.

So far went his understanding; and his vanity supplied a little additional soothing, in the Admiral's situation in life, which was just high enough, and not too high. Jane Austen 23 save, perhaps, some half dozen in the nation, always needs a note of explanation. An admiral speaks his own consequence, and, at the same time, can never make a baronet look small. In all their dealings and intercourse, Sir Walter Elliot must ever have the precedence. Mr Shepherd was completely empowered to act; and no sooner had such an end been reached, than Anne, who had been a most attentive listener to the whole, left the room, to seek the comfort of cool air for her flushed cheeks; and as she walked along a favourite grove, said, with a gentle sigh, "A few months more, and he, perhaps, may be walking here.

He was, at that time, a remarkably fine young man, with a great deal of intelligence, spirit, and brilliancy; and Anne an extremely pretty girl, with gentleness, modesty, taste, and feeling. Half the sum of attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for he had nothing to do, and she had hardly anybody to love; but the encounter of such lavish recommendations could not fail. They were gradually acquainted, and when acquainted, rapidly and deeply in love. It would be difficult to say which had seen highest perfection in the other, or which had been the happiest: she, in receiving his declarations and proposals, or he in having them accepted.

A short period of exquisite felicity followed, and but a short one. Troubles soon arose. Sir Walter, on being applied to, without actually withholding his consent, or saying it should never be, gave it all the negative of great astonishment, great coldness, great silence, and a professed resolution of doing nothing for his daughter.

He thought it a very degrading alliance; and Lady German appearances: Erscheinungen. Jane Austen 25 Russell, though with more tempered and pardonable pride, received it as a most unfortunate one. Anne Elliot, so young; known to so few, to be snatched off by a stranger without alliance or fortune; or rather sunk by him into a state of most wearing, anxious, youth-killing dependence!

It must not be, if by any fair interference of friendship, any representations from one who had almost a mother's love, and mother's rights, it would be prevented. Captain Wentworth had no fortune. He had been lucky in his profession; but spending freely, what had come freely, had realized nothing. But he was confident that he should soon be rich: full of life and ardour, he knew that he should soon have a ship, and soon be on a station that would lead to everything he wanted.

He had always been lucky; he knew he should be so still. Such confidence, powerful in its own warmth, and bewitching in the wit which often expressed it, must have been enough for Anne; but Lady Russell saw it very differently. His sanguine temper, and fearlessness of mind, operated very differently on her. She saw in it but an aggravation of the evil. It only added a dangerous character to himself. He was brilliant, he was headstrong.

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Lady Russell had little taste for wit, and of anything approaching to imprudence a horror. She deprecated the connexion in every light. Such opposition, as these feelings produced, was more than Anne could combat. Young and gentle as she was, it might yet have been possible to withstand her father's ill-will, though unsoftened by one kind word or look on the part of her sister; but Lady Russell, whom she had always loved and relied on, could not, with such steadiness of opinion, and such tenderness of manner, be continually advising her in vain.

But it was not a merely selfish caution, under which she acted, in putting an end to it. Had she not imagined herself consulting his good, even more than her own, she could hardly have given him up. The belief of being prudent, and self-denying, principally for his advantage, was her chief consolation, under the misery of a parting, a final parting; and every consolation was required, for she had to encounter all the additional pain of opinions, on his side, totally unconvinced and unbending, and of his feeling himself ill used by so forced a relinquishment.

He had left the country in consequence. Her attachment and regrets had, for a long time, clouded every enjoyment of youth, and an early loss of bloom and spirits had been their lasting effect. More than seven years were gone since this little history of sorrowful interest had reached its close; and time had softened down much, perhaps nearly all of peculiar attachment to him, but she had been too dependent on time alone; no aid had been given in change of place except in one visit to Bath soon after the rupture , or in any novelty or enlargement of society.

No one had ever come within the Kellynch circle, who could bear a comparison with Frederick Wentworth, as he stood in her memory. No second attachment, the only thoroughly natural, happy, and sufficient cure, at her time of life, had been possible to the nice tone of her mind, the fastidiousness of her taste, in the small limits of the society around them.

She had been solicited, when about two-andtwenty, to change her name, by the young man, who not long afterwards found a more willing mind in her younger sister; and Lady Russell had lamented her refusal; for Charles Musgrove was the eldest son of a man, whose landed property and general importance were second in that country, only to Sir Walter's, and of good character and appearance; and however Lady Russell might have asked yet for something more, while Anne was nineteen, she would have rejoiced to see her at twenty-two so respectably removed from the partialities and injustice of her father's house, and settled so permanently near herself.

Jane Austen 27 Russell, as satisfied as ever with her own discretion, never wished the past undone, she began now to have the anxiety which borders on hopelessness for Anne's being tempted, by some man of talents and independence, to enter a state for which she held her to be peculiarly fitted by her warm affections and domestic habits. She did not blame Lady Russell, she did not blame herself for having been guided by her; but she felt that were any young person, in similar circumstances, to apply to her for counsel, they would never receive any of such certain immediate wretchedness, such uncertain future good.

She was persuaded that under every disadvantage of disapprobation at home, and every anxiety attending his profession, all their probable fears, delays, and disappointments, she should yet have been a happier woman in maintaining the engagement, than she had been in the sacrifice of it; and this, she fully believed, had the usual share, had even more than the usual share of all such solicitudes and suspense been theirs, without reference to the actual results of their case, which, as it happened, would have bestowed earlier prosperity than could be reasonably calculated on.

All his sanguine expectations, all his confidence had been justified. His genius and ardour had seemed to foresee and to command his prosperous path. He had, very soon after their engagement ceased, got employ: and all that he had told her would follow, had taken place. He had distinguished himself, and early gained the other step in rank, and must now, by successive captures, have made a handsome fortune. She had only navy lists and newspapers for her authority, but she could not doubt his being rich; and, in favour of his constancy, she had no reason to believe him married.

How eloquent could Anne Elliot have been! She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she German affections: Neigungen, Zuneigungen. She often told herself it was folly, before she could harden her nerves sufficiently to feel the continual discussion of the Crofts and their business no evil. She was assisted, however, by that perfect indifference and apparent unconsciousness, among the only three of her own friends in the secret of the past, which seemed almost to deny any recollection of it. She could do justice to the superiority of Lady Russell's motives in this, over those of her father and Elizabeth; she could honour all the better feelings of her calmness; but the general air of oblivion among them was highly important from whatever it sprung; and in the event of Admiral Croft's really taking Kellynch Hall, she rejoiced anew over the conviction which had always been most grateful to her, of the past being known to those three only among her connexions, by whom no syllable, she believed, would ever be whispered, and in the trust that among his, the brother only with whom he had been residing, had received any information of their short-lived engagement.

That brother had been long removed from the country and being a sensible man, and, moreover, a single man at the time, she had a fond dependence on no human creature's having heard of it from him. The sister, Mrs Croft, had then been out of England, accompanying her husband on a foreign station, and her own sister, Mary, had been at school while it all occurred; and never admitted by the pride of some, and the delicacy of others, to the smallest knowledge of it afterwards.

With these supports, she hoped that the acquaintance between herself and the Crofts, which, with Lady Russell, still resident in Kellynch, and Mary fixed only three miles off, must be anticipated, need not involve any particular awkwardness. Jane Austen 29 CHAPTER 5 On the morning appointed for Admiral and Mrs Croft's seeing Kellynch Hall, Anne found it most natural to take her almost daily walk to Lady Russell's, and keep out of the way till all was over; when she found it most natural to be sorry that she had missed the opportunity of seeing them.

Each lady was previously well disposed for an agreement, and saw nothing, therefore, but good manners in the other; and with regard to the gentlemen, there was such an hearty good humour, such an open, trusting liberality on the Admiral's side, as could not but influence Sir Walter, who had besides been flattered into his very best and most polished behaviour by Mr Shepherd's assurances of his being known, by report, to the Admiral, as a model of good breeding.

The house and grounds, and furniture, were approved, the Crofts were approved, terms, time, every thing, and every body, was right; and Mr Shepherd's clerks were set to work, without there having been a single preliminary difference to modify of all that "This indenture sheweth. The Baronet will never set the Thames on fire, but there seems to be no harm in him. Lady Russell, convinced that Anne would not be allowed to be of any use, or any importance, in the choice of the house which they were going to secure, was very unwilling to have her hurried away so soon, and wanted to make it possible for her to stay behind till she might convey her to Bath herself after Christmas; but having engagements of her own which must take her from Kellynch for several weeks, she was unable to give the full invitation she wished, and Anne though dreading the possible heats of September in all the white glare of Bath, and grieving to forego all the influence so sweet and so sad of the autumnal months in the country, did not think that, everything considered, she wished to remain.

It would be most right, and most wise, and, therefore must involve least suffering to go with the others. Something occurred, however, to give her a different duty. Mary, often a little unwell, and always thinking a great deal of her own complaints, and always in the habit of claiming Anne when anything was the matter, was indisposed; and foreseeing that she should not have a day's health all the autumn, entreated, or rather required her, for it was hardly entreaty, to come to Uppercross Cottage, and bear her company as long as she should want her, instead of going to Bath.

Jane Austen 31 to have anything marked out as a duty, and certainly not sorry to have the scene of it in the country, and her own dear country, readily agreed to stay. So far all was perfectly right; but Lady Russell was almost startled by the wrong of one part of the Kellynch Hall plan, when it burst on her, which was, Mrs Clay's being engaged to go to Bath with Sir Walter and Elizabeth, as a most important and valuable assistant to the latter in all the business before her.

Lady Russell was extremely sorry that such a measure should have been resorted to at all, wondered, grieved, and feared; and the affront it contained to Anne, in Mrs Clay's being of so much use, while Anne could be of none, was a very sore aggravation. Anne herself was become hardened to such affronts; but she felt the imprudence of the arrangement quite as keenly as Lady Russell. With a great deal of quiet observation, and a knowledge, which she often wished less, of her father's character, she was sensible that results the most serious to his family from the intimacy were more than possible.

She did not imagine that her father had at present an idea of the kind. Mrs Clay had freckles, and a projecting tooth, and a clumsy wrist, which he was continually making severe remarks upon, in her absence; but she was young, and certainly altogether well-looking, and possessed, in an acute mind and assiduous pleasing manners, infinitely more dangerous attractions than any merely personal might have been.

Anne was so impressed by the degree of their danger, that she could not excuse herself from trying to make it perceptible to her sister. She had little hope of success; but Elizabeth, who in the event of such a reverse would be so much more to be pitied than herself, should never, she thought, have reason to reproach her for giving no warning. Elizabeth could not conceive how such an absurd suspicion should occur to her, and indignantly answered for each party's perfectly knowing their situation.

And as to my father, I really should not have thought that he, who has kept himself single so long for our sakes, need be suspected now. If Mrs Clay were a very beautiful woman, I grant you, it might be wrong to have her so much with me; not that anything in the world, I am sure, would induce my father to make a degrading match, but he might be rendered unhappy. But poor Mrs Clay who, with all her merits, can never have been reckoned tolerably pretty, I really think poor Mrs Clay may be staying here in perfect safety.

One would imagine you had never heard my father speak of her personal misfortunes, though I know you must fifty times. That tooth of her's and those freckles. Freckles do not disgust me so very much as they do him. I have known a face not materially disfigured by a few, but he abominates them.

You must have heard him notice Mrs Clay's freckles. However, at any rate, as I have a great deal more at stake on this point than anybody else can have, I think it rather unnecessary in you to be advising me. Elizabeth, though resenting the suspicion, might yet be made observant by it. The party drove off in very good spirits; Sir Walter prepared with condescending bows for all the afflicted tenantry and cottagers German abominates: verabscheut. Jane Austen 33 who might have had a hint to show themselves, and Anne walked up at the same time, in a sort of desolate tranquillity, to the Lodge, where she was to spend the first week.

Lady Russell felt this breakup of the family exceedingly. Their respectability was as dear to her as her own, and a daily intercourse had become precious by habit. It was painful to look upon their deserted grounds, and still worse to anticipate the new hands they were to fall into; and to escape the solitariness and the melancholy of so altered a village, and be out of the way when Admiral and Mrs Croft first arrived, she had determined to make her own absence from home begin when she must give up Anne.

Accordingly their removal was made together, and Anne was set down at Uppercross Cottage, in the first stage of Lady Russell's journey. Uppercross was a moderate-sized village, which a few years back had been completely in the old English style, containing only two houses superior in appearance to those of the yeomen and labourers; the mansion of the squire, with its high walls, great gates, and old trees, substantial and unmodernized, and the compact, tight parsonage, enclosed in its own neat garden, with a vine and a pear-tree trained round its casements; but upon the marriage of the young 'squire, it had received the improvement of a farm-house elevated into a cottage, for his residence, and Uppercross Cottage, with its veranda, French windows, and other prettiness, was quite as likely to catch the traveller's eye as the more consistent and considerable aspect and premises of the Great House, about a quarter of a mile farther on.

Here Anne had often been staying. She knew the ways of Uppercross as well as those of Kellynch. The two families were so continually meeting, so much in the habit of running in and out of each other's house at all hours, that it was rather a surprise to her to find Mary alone; but being alone, her being unwell and out of spirits was almost a matter of course.

Though better endowed than the elder sister, Mary had not Anne's understanding nor temper. While well, and happy, and properly attended to, she had great good humour and excellent spirits; but any indisposition sunk her completely. In person, she was inferior to both sisters, and had, even in her bloom, only reached the dignity of being "a fine girl. I began to think I should never see you. I am so ill I can hardly speak. I have not seen a creature the whole morning! Suppose I were to be seized of a sudden in some dreadful way, and not able to ring the bell!

So, Lady Russell would not get out. I do not think she has been in this house three times this summer. Charles is out shooting. I have not seen him since seven o'clock. He would go, though I told him how ill I was. He said he should not stay out long; but he has never come back, and now it is almost one. I assure you, I have not seen a soul this whole long morning. Little Charles does not mind a word I say, and Walter is growing quite as bad. How are your neighbours at the Great House? I have not seen one of them to-day, except Mr Musgrove, who just stopped and spoke through the window, but German appearing: Erscheinend, auftretend.

Jane Austen 35 without getting off his horse; and though I told him how ill I was, not one of them have been near me. It did not happen to suit the Miss Musgroves, I suppose, and they never put themselves out of their way. It is early. They talk and laugh a great deal too much for me. Anne, I am so very unwell! It was quite unkind of you not to come on Thursday. You wrote in the cheerfullest manner, and said you were perfectly well, and in no hurry for me; and that being the case, you must be aware that my wish would be to remain with Lady Russell to the last: and besides what I felt on her account, I have really been so busy, have had so much to do, that I could not very conveniently have left Kellynch sooner.

More than I can recollect in a moment; but I can tell you some. I have been making a duplicate of the catalogue of my father's books and pictures. I have been several times in the garden with Mackenzie, trying to understand, and make him understand, which of Elizabeth's plants are for Lady Russell. I have had all my own little concerns to arrange, books and music to divide, and all my trunks to repack, from not having understood in time what was intended as to the waggons: and one thing I have had to do, Mary, of a more trying nature: going to almost every house in the parish, as a sort of take-leave.

I was told that they wished it. But all these things took up a great deal of time. I have made no enquiries, because I concluded you must have been obliged to give up the party.