"Say, rather, his majesty has twice forced me to marry two unloved and unknown princesses, when he knew that I already loved this certain person. Twice I have married, because the command of his king is law to the crown prince of Prussia. For my love and my sympathy there is no law but that of my own heart, and this alone have I followed."

"His majesty does not reproach you. The philosopher of Sans-Souci understands human nature, and he feels indulgent toward your weakness. He is quite satisfied that you have chosen this person, as friend and favorite, to console yourself for an unhappy marriage. Her low birth is a guaranty that she will never mingle in politics, an act which would be visited with his majesty's highest displeasure. While his majesty permits you to continue this intimacy, and recognizes the existence of this woman, he wishes her to be provided for as becomes the mistress of a crown prince, and not as the grisette of a gentleman. She should have her own house, and the livery of her lord."

"As if it were my fault that this has not already been arranged!" cried the prince. "Am I not daily and hourly tormented with poverty, and scarcely know how to turn, between necessary expenses and urgent creditors? You know well yourself, your excellency, how stingy and parsimonious the king is to the crown prince. He scarcely affords me the means to support my family in a decent, to say nothing of a princely, manner. How dependent we all are, myself, my wife, and my children upon the king, whose economy increases, while our wants and expenses also increase every year! It is sufficiently sad that I cannot reward those who have proved to me during ten years their fidelity and love, but I must suffer them to live in dependence and want."

"His majesty understands that, and thinks that as your royal highness is to go to the field, and will be exposed, as a brave commander, to the uncertain fate of battle, that you should assure the future of all those who are dear to you, and arrange a certain competency for them. A good opportunity now offers to you. Count Schmettau will sell his villa at Charlottenburg, and it would be agreeable to his majesty that you should purchase it, and assign it to those dearest to you. In order to give you as little trouble as possible, his majesty has had the matter already arranged, through his equerry, Count Schmettau, and the purchase can be made this very hour. Here is the bill of sale; only the name of the present possessor is wanting, the signature of the purchaser, and the payment of seven thousand five hundred thalers."

"The names can be quickly written; but, your excellency," cried the prince, "where will the money come from?"

"I have just given your royal highness the key to the little box: have the goodness to press hard upon the rosette."

The prince touched the spring, the cover flew back—it contained only a strip of paper! Upon it was written, in the king's own handwriting, "Bill of exchange upon my treasurer. Pay to the order of the Prince of Prussia twenty thousand thalers." [Footnote: "Memoirs of the Countess Lichtenau," vol.1] The prince's face lighted up with joy. "Oh! the king has indeed given me a miraculous elixir, that compensates for all misfortunes, heals all infirmities, and is a balsam for all possible griefs. I will bring it into use immediately, and sign the bill of sale." He signed the paper, and filled with haste the deficiency in the contract. "It is done!" he cried, joyfully, "the proprietress, Wilhelmine Enke; purchaser, Frederick William of Prussia. Nothing remains to be done but to draw upon the king's treasury, and pay Count Schmettau."

"Your royal highness is spared even that trouble. Here are twenty rolls, and each roll contains one hundred double Fredericks d'or, and, when your highness commands it, I will reserve seven rolls and pay Count Schmettau; then there remain thirteen for yourself. Here is the contract, which you will give in person to the possessor."

"First, I must go to the king," said the prince; "my heart urges me to express my gratitude to him, and my deep sense of his goodness and tenderness. I feel ashamed without being humbled, like a repentant son, who has doubted the generosity and goodness of his father, because he has sometimes severely reprimanded his faults. I must go at once to the king."

"He will not receive your royal highness," answered Herzberg, smiling. "You know our sovereign, who so fully deserves our admiration and love. His favor and goodness beam upon us all, and he desires neither thanks nor acknowledgment. He performs his noble, glorious deeds in a harsh manner, that he may relieve the recipients of his bounty from the burden of gratitude; and often when he is the most morose and harsh, is he at heart the most gracious and affectionate. You and yours have experienced it to-day. He appeared to be angry, and enveloped himself in the toga of a severe judge of morals; but, under this toga, there beat the kind, noble heart of a friend and father, who punishes with rigorous words, and forgives with generous, benevolent deeds."

"For this I must thank him—he must listen to me!" cried the prince.

"He will be angry if your royal highness forces him to receive thanks when he would avoid them. He has expressly commanded me to entreat you never to allude to the affair, and never to speak of it to others, as it would not be agreeable to his majesty to have the family affairs known to the world. You would best please his majesty by following exactly his wishes, and when you meet him never allude to it. As I have said, this is the express wish and command of the king."

"Which I must naturally follow," sighed the prince, "although I acknowledge that it is unpleasant to me to receive so much kindness from him without at least returning my most heart-felt thanks. Say to the king, that I am deeply, sensibly moved with his tender sympathy and generosity. And now I will hasten to Wilhelmine Enke; but, it occurs to me that it may not be possible; the king has made her a prisoner in her own house."

"Do not trouble yourself about that. If it is your royal highness's pleasure, drive at once to Charlottenburg. You will find the new possessor there and she will relate to you her interview with the mayor of Berlin."

"Oh! I shall drive at once to the villa. I am curious to learn what Von Kircheisen has told her."

"I imagined that you would be, and ordered your carriage here, as you could not well ride upon horseback with the heavy rolls of gold; and if it is your pleasure, I will order the footman to place the box, into which I have put them, in the carriage."

"No, no; I beg you to let me carry them," cried the prince, seizing the box with both hands. "It is truly heavy, but an agreeable burden, and if it lames my arm I shall bethink myself of the miraculous elixir, which will give me courage and strength. Farewell, your excellency; I shall hurry on to Charlottenburg!"

The prince hastened to his carriage, and ordered the coachman to drive at full speed to the villa. Thanks to this order, he reached it in about an hour. No one was there to receive him upon his arrival. The hall was empty, and the rooms were closed. The prince passed on to the opposite end, where there was a door open, and stood upon a balcony, with steps descending into the garden, which, with its flower-beds, grass-plots, shrubbery, and the tall trees, formed a lovely background. The birds were singing, the trees rustled, and variegated butterflies fluttered over the odorous flowers. Upon the turf, forming a beautiful group, was Wilhelmine playing with her daughter, and the nurse with the little boy upon her lap, who laughingly stretched out his arms toward his mother.

"Wilhelmine—Wilhelmine!" cried the prince.

With a cry of joy she answered, and flew toward the house. "You have come at last, my beloved lord," she cried, almost breathless, mounting the steps. "I beg you to tell me what all this means? I am dying of curiosity!"

"I also," said the prince, smiling. "Have the goodness to lead me to one of the rooms, that I may set down this box."

"What does that hobgoblin contain, that it prevents your embracing me?"

"Do not ask, but hasten to assist me to relieve myself of the burden." They entered the house, and Wilhelmine opened the wide folding-doors, which led into a very tastefully-furnished room. Frederick William set the box upon the marble table, and sank upon a divan with Wilhelmine in his arms. "First of all, tell me what Von Kircheisen said to you?"

"He commanded me, in the name of the king, to give up my dwelling at Berlin and at Potsdam, and to avoid showing myself in public at both places, that those who had the right to the love and fidelity of the Prince of Prussia should not be annoyed at the sight of me; that I should live retired, and leave the appointed residence as little as possible, for then the king would be inclined to ignore my existence, and take no further notice of me. But, if I attempted to play a role, his majesty would take good care that it should be forever played out."

"Those were harsh, cruel words," sighed Frederick William.

"Harsh, cruel words," repeated Wilhelmine, sorrowfully. "They pierced my soul, and I shrieked at last from agony. Herr von Kircheisen was quite frightened, and begged me to excuse him, that he must thus speak to me, but the king had commanded him to repeat his very words. The carriage was at the door, he said, ready to convey me to my future dwelling, for I must immediately leave Berlin, and the king be informed of my setting out. The coachman received the order, and here I am, without knowing what I am to do, or whether I shall remain here."

"Yes, Wilhelmine, you are to remain here; at last we have a home, and a resting-place for our love and our children. This house is yours—you are mistress here, and you must welcome me as your guest."

"This house is mine!" she cried, joyfully. "Did you give it to me? How generous, and how extravagant you are! Protect me with the gift of your love, as if you were Jupiter and I Danae!"

"A beautiful picture, and, that it may be a reality, I will play the role of Jupiter and open the box."

He took a roll of gold, and let it fall upon Wilhelmine's head, her beautiful shoulders, and her arms, like a shower of gold. She shrieked and laughed, and sought to gather up the pieces which rolled ringing around her upon the floor. The prince seized another roll, and another still, till she was flooded with the glistening pieces. Then another and another, until Wilhelmine, laughing, screamed for grace, and sprang up, the gold rolling around her like teasing goblins.



CHAPTER IX. GERMAN LITERATURE AND THE KING.

The Minister Herzberg had, in the mean time, an interview with the king, informing him of the concluded purchase of the Schmettau villa, and of the emotion and gratitude of the crown prince at his royal munificence.

"That affair is arranged, then," said Frederick. "If Fate wills that the prince should not return from this campaign, then this certain person and the two poor worms are provided for, who are destined to wander through the world nameless and fatherless."

"Let us hope that fate will not deal so harshly with the prince, or bring such sorrow upon your majesty."

"My dear sir, Fate is a hard-hearted creature, the tears of mankind are of no more importance to her than the raindrops falling from the roof. She strides with gigantic power over men, crushing them all in dust—the great as well as the little—the king as well as the beggar. For my part I yield to Fate without a murmur. Politicians and warriors are mere puppets in the hands of Providence. We act without knowing why, for we are unknowingly the tools of an invisible hand. Often the result of our actions is the reverse of our hopes! Let all things take their course, as it best pleases God, and let us not think to master Fate. [Footnote: The king's words.—"Posthumous Works," vol. x., p. 256.] That is my creed, Herzberg, and if I do not return from this infamous campaign, you will know that I have yielded to Fate without murmuring. You understand my wishes in all things; the current affairs of government should go on regularly. If any thing extraordinary occurs, let me be informed at once. Is there any news, Herzberg?"

"Nothing worth recounting, sire, except that the young Duke of Weimar is in town."

"I know it; he has announced himself. I cannot speak with him. I have asked my brother Henry to arrange the conditions under which he will allow us to enlist men for my army in his duchy. I hope he will be reasonable, and not prevent it. That is no news that the Duke of Weimar has arrived!"

"Not only the duke has arrived, but he has brought his dear friend with him whom the people in Saxe-Weimar say makes the good and bad weather."

"Who is the weather-maker?"

"Your majesty, this weather-maker is the author of 'The Sorrows of Young Werther,' Johann Wolfgang Goethe, who for four years has aroused the hearts and excited the imaginations of all Germany. If I am not deceived, a great future opens for this poet, and he will be a star of the first magnitude in the sky of German literature. I believe it would be well worth the trouble for your majesty to see him."

"Do not trouble me with your German literature, and your stars of the first magnitude! We must acknowledge our poverty with humility; belles-lettres have never achieved success upon our soil. Moreover, this star of the first magnitude—this Herr Goethe—I remember him well; I wish to know nothing of him. He has quite turned the heads of all the love-sick fools with his 'Sorrows of Young Werther.' You cannot count that a merit. The youth of Germany were sufficiently enamoured, without the love-whining romances of Herr Goethe to pour oil on the fire."

"Pardon me, sire, that I should presume to differ from you; but this book which your majesty condemns has not only produced a furor in Germany, but throughout Europe—throughout the world even. That which public opinion sustains in such a marked manner cannot be wholly unworthy. 'Vox populi, vox dei,' is a true maxim in all ages."

"It is not true!" cried the king. "The old Roman maxim is not applicable to our effeminate, degraded people. Nowadays, whoever flatters the people and glorifies their weaknesses, is a good fellow, and he is extolled to the skies. Public opinion calls him a genius and a Messiah. Away with your nonsense! The 'Werther' of Herr Goethe has wrought no good; it has made the healthy sick, and has not restored invalids to health. Since its appearance a mad love-fever has seized all the young people, and silly sentimentalities and flirtations have become the fashion. These modern Werthers behave as if love were a tarantula, with the bite of which they must become mad, to be considered model young men. They groan and sigh, take moonlight walks, but they have no courage in their souls, and will never make good soldiers. This is the fault of Herr Werther, and his abominable lamentations. It is a miserable work, and not worth the trouble of talking about, for no earnest man will read it!"

"Pardon me, sire; your majesty has graciously permitted me to enter the lists as knight and champion of German literature, and sometimes to defend the German Muse, who stands unnoticed and unknown under the shadow of your throne; while the French lady, with her brilliant attire and painted cheeks, is always welcomed. I beg your majesty to believe that, although this romance may have done some harm, it has, on the other hand, done infinite service. A great and immortal merit cannot be denied to it."

"What merit?" demanded the king, slowly taking a pinch of snuff; "I am very curious to know what merit that crazy, love-sick book has."

"Sire, it has the great merit to have enriched the German literature with a work whose masterly language alone raises it above every thing heretofore produced by a German author. It has emancipated our country's literature from its clumsy, awkward childhood, and presented it as an ardent, inspired youth, ready for combat, upon the lips of whom the gods have placed the right word to express every feeling and every thought—a youth who is capable of probing the depths of the human heart."

"I wish all this might have remained in the depths," cried Frederick, annoyed. "You have defended the German Muse before; but you remember that I am incorrigible. You cannot persuade me that bungling is master-work. It is not the poverty of the mind, but the fault of the language, which is not capable of expressing with brevity and precision. For how could any one translate Tacitus into German without adding a mass of words and phrases? In French it is not necessary; one can express himself with brevity, and to the point."

"Sire, I shall permit myself to prove to you that the brevity of Tacitus can be imitated in the German language. I will translate a part of Tacitus, to give your majesty a proof."

"I will take you at your word! And I will answer you in a treatise upon German literature, its short-comings, and the means for its improvement. [Footnote: This treatise appeared during the Bavarian war of succession, in the winter of 1779] Until then, a truce. I insist upon it—good German authors are entirely wanting to us Germans. They may appear a long time after I have joined Voltaire and Algarotti in the Elysian Fields." [Footnote: The king's words.—See "Posthumous Works," vol. II., p. 293.]

"They are already here," cried Herzberg, zealously. "We have, for example, Lessing, who has written two dramas, of which every nation might be proud—'Minna von Barnhelm, and Emilia Calotti.'"

"I know nothing of them," said the king, with indifference. "I have never heard of your Lessing."

"Your majesty, this wonderful comedy, 'Minna von Barnhelm,' was written for your majesty's glorification."

"The more the reason why I should not read it! A German comedy! That must be fine stuff for the German theatre, the most miserable of all. In Germany, Melpomene has untutored admirers, some walking on stilts, others crawling in the mire, from the altars of the goddess. The Germans will ever be repulsed, as they are rebels to her laws, and understand not the art to move and interest the heart."

"But, sire, you have never deigned to become acquainted with 'Minna von Barnhelm' nor 'Emilia Calotti.'"

"Well, well, Herzberg, do not be so furious; you are a lover of German literature, and some allowance must be made for those who are in love. You will not persuade me to read your things which you call German comedies and tragedies. I will take good care; my teeth are not strong enough to grind such hard bits. Now do not be angry, Herzberg. The first leisure hours that I have in this campaign I shall employ on my treatise."

"And the first leisure hours that I have," growled the minister, "I shall employ to translate a portion of Tacitus into our beautiful German language, to send to your majesty."

"You are incorrigible," said Frederick, smiling. "We shall see, and until then let us keep the peace, Herzberg. When one is about to go to war, it is well to be at peace with one's conscience and with his friends; so let us be good friends."

"Your majesty, your graciousness and kindness make me truly ashamed," said the minister, feelingly. "I beg pardon a thousand times, if I have allowed myself to be carried away with unbecoming violence in my zeal for our poor neglected German literature."

"I approve of your zeal, and it pleases me that you are a faithful knight, sans peur et sans reproche. I do not ascribe its poverty to the German nation, who have as much spirit and genius as any nation, the mental development of which has been retarded by outward circumstances, which prevented her rising to an equality with her neighbors. We shall one day have classical writers, and every one will read them to cultivate himself. Our neighbors will learn German, and it will be spoken with pleasure at courts; and it can well happen that our language, when perfectly formed, will spread throughout Europe. We shall have our German classics also." [Footnote: The king's words—see "Posthumous Works," vol. III.]

The king smiled, well pleased, as he observed by stolen glances the noble, intelligent face of Herzberg brighten, and the gloomy clouds dispersed which had overshadowed it.

"Now, is it not true that you are again contented?" said the king, graciously.

"I am delighted with the prophecy for the German language, your majesty; and may I add something?"

"It will weigh on your heart if you do not tell it," said the king.

"I prophesy that this Goethe will one day belong to the classic authors, and therefore I would beg once more of your majesty to grant him a gracious look, and invite him to your presence. If you find no pleasure in 'The Sorrows of Werther,' Goethe has created other beautiful works. He is the author of the tragedy of 'Stella.'"

"That sentimental, immoral piece, which we forbid the representation of in Berlin, because it portrays a fellow who made love to two women at once, playing the double role of lover to his wife and his paramour, while he had a grown-up daughter! It is an immoral piece, which excites the tear-glands, and ends as 'Werther,' by the hero blowing his brains out. It is directed against all morals, and against marriage; therefore it was forbidden." [Footnote: The tragedy of "Stella" was represented in Berlin with great applause, and denounced by the king as immoral, in the year 1776, and the further representation forbidden.—See Plumke, "History of the Berlin Theatres."]

"But, sire, Herr Goethe has not only written 'Stella,' but 'Clavigo' also, which—"

"Which he has copied exactly from the 'Memoires de Beaumarchais,'" interrupted the king. "That is not a German, but a French production."

"Allow me to cite a genuine German production, which Johann Wolfgang Goethe has written. I mean the drama 'Gotz von Berlichingen.'"

"Stop!—it is sufficient. I do not wish to hear any thing more," cried the king, indignant, and rising. "It is bad enough that such pieces should appear upon the German stage as this 'Gotz von Berlichingen.' They are nothing less than abominable imitations of the bad English pieces of Shakespeare! The pit applauds them, and demands with enthusiasm these very disgusting platitudes. [Footnote: The king's own words.—See "Posthumous Works," vol. iii.] Do not be angry again, you must have patience with the old boy! I shall rejoice heartily if this Herr Goethe becomes a classic writer one day, as you say. I shall not live to witness it. I only see the embryo where you see the full-grown author. We will talk further about it when we meet in the Elysian Fields; then we will see, when you present this Herr Johann Wolfgang Goethe, as a German classic writer, to Homer, Horace, Virgil, and Corneille, if they do not turn their backs upon him. Now adieu, Herzberg! So soon as circumstances permit, I shall send for you to go to Silesia, and then you can give me your German translation of Tacitus."

The king nodded in a friendly manner to his minister, and slowly walked back and forth, while he took leave and withdrew. After a few moments he rang, and the summons was immediately answered by the footman Schultz.

The king fixed upon him one of those searching glances of his fiery eyes which confounded and confused the footman. He remained standing and embarrassed, with downcast look.

"What are you standing there for?" asked the king. "Did I not ring for you, and do you not know what you have to do?" Frederick continued to regard him, with flashing eyes, which increased the lackey's confusion.

He forgot entirely that the summons was for his majesty's lunch, and all that he had to do was to open the door to the adjoining room, where it stood already prepared.

Frederick waited a moment, but the footman still stood irresolute, when his majesty indicated to him to approach.

He approached, staggering under the puzzling glance of his master.

"Oh! I see what it is," said Frederick, shrugging his shoulders; "you are drunk again, as you often are, and—"

"Your majesty," cried Schultz, amazed, "I drunk!"

"Silence!—will you be bold enough to reason with me? I say that you are drunk, and I want no drunken footmen. They must be well-behaved, sober fellows, who keep their ears open and their mouths shut—who are neither drunkards nor gossips, and do not take for truth what they have experienced in their drunken fits. I do not want such fellows as you are at all; you are only fit food for cannon, and for that you shall serve. Go to General Alvensleben, and present yourself to enter the guards. You are lucky to go to the field at once; to-morrow you will set off. Say to the general that I sent you, and that you are to enter as a common soldier."

"But, your majesty, I do not know what I have done," cried Schultz, whiningly. "I really am not drunk. I—"

"Silence!" thundered the king. "Do as I command you! Go to General Alvensleben, and present yourself to enter the guards at once. Away with you! I do not need drunken, gossiping footmen in my service. Away with you!"

The footman slunk slowly away, his head hanging down, with difficulty restraining the tears which stood in large drops in his eyes.

The king followed him with his glance, which softened and grew gentler from sympathy. "I pity him, the poor fellow! but I must teach him a lesson. I want no gossips around me. He need only wear the uniform two weeks or so, that will bring him to reason. Then I will pardon him, and receive him into my service again. He is a good-natured fellow, and would not betray any one as Kretzschmar betrayed him."

The king stepped to the window to look at the gentleman who was eagerly engaged in conversation with the castellan of Sans-Souci. At this instant the footman entered with a sealed note for the king. "From his royal highness Prince Henry," said he.

"Who brought it?"

"The gentleman who speaks with the castellan upon the terrace. I wait your majesty's commands."

"Wait, then." The note ran thus: "Your majesty, my dearly-beloved brother: The bearer, Johann Wolfgang Goethe, one of the literati, and a poet, and at this time secretary of legation to the duchy of Saxe-Weimar, is a great favorite of the duke's, our nephew. I met him returning from the parade in company with the duke, who expressed to me the strong desire his secretary had to visit the celebrated house of the great philosopher of Sans-Souci, and see the room once occupied by Voltaire. I could not well refuse, and therefore address these few lines to your majesty before returning to Berlin with the duke, who will dine with me, accompanied by his secretary. I am your majesty's most humble servant and brother, HENRY."

"Tell the castellan that I grant him permission to show the house and park to the stranger; he shall take care not to come in my way, so that I shall be obliged to meet him. Tell this aside, that you may not be overheard. Hasten, for they have already been waiting some time."

The king walked again to the window, and, hidden by the curtain, peeped out. "So, this is Herr Goethe, is it? What assurance! There he stands, sketching the house. What wonderful eyes the man has! With what a proud, confident manner he looks around! What a brow! Truly he is a handsome fellow, and Herzberg may be right after all. That brow betokens thought, and from those eyes there flashes a divine light. But he looks overbearing and proud. Now, I am doubly pleased that I refused Herzberg to have any thing to do with him. Such presumptive geniuses must be rather kept back; then they feel their power, and strive to bring themselves forward. Yes! I believe that man has a future. He looks like the youthful god Apollo, who may have condescended to descend to earth! He shall not entrap me with his beautiful head. If he is the man who makes good and bad weather in Weimar, he shall learn that rain and sunshine at Sans-Souci do not depend upon him; that the sun and clouds here do not care whether Herr Goethe is in the world or not. For sunshine and storm we depend upon the Great Weather-Maker, to whom we must all bow; evil and good days in Prussia shall emanate from me, so long as I live. Sometimes I succeed in causing a little sunshine," continued the king. "I believe the Prince of Prussia has to-day felt the happy influence of the sun's rays; and while it is dull and lonely at Sans-Souei, may it be brighter and more cheerful at Charlottenburg! Eh bien! old boy," said the king, stopping, "you are playing the sentimental, and eulogizing your loneliness. Well, well, do not complain.—Oh, come to me, spirits of my friends, and hold converse with me! Voltaire, D'Argens, and my beloved Lord-Marshal Keith! Come to me, departed souls, with the memories of happier days, and hover with thy cheering, sunny influence over the wrinkled brow of old Fritz!"

While the lonely king implored the spirits of his friends, to brighten with their presence the quiet, gloomy apartment at Sans-Souci, the sun shone in full splendor at Charlottenburg—the sunshine beaming from the munificence of Frederick. Wilhelmine Enke had passed the whole day in admiring the beautiful and tasteful arrangement of the villa. Every piece of furniture, every ornament, she examined attentively—all filled her with delight. The prince, who accompanied her from room to room, listened to her outbursts of pleasure, rejoicing.

"I wish that I could often prepare such happiness for you, dearest, for my heart is twice gladdened to see your beaming face."

"Reflected from your own. You are my good genius upon earth. You have caused the poor, neglected child to become the rich and happy woman. To you I owe this home, this foot of earth, which I can call my own. Here blossom the flowers for me—here I am mistress, and those who enter must come as my guests, and honor me. All this I owe to you."

"Not to me," said the prince, smiling; "I only gave to you what was given to me! To the king belong your thanks. Harsh in words, but gentle in deeds, he has given you this refuge, freeing you from the slavery of poverty, from the sorrow of being homeless. But tell it not, Wilhelmine. The king would be angry if it were known that he not only tolerated but showed great generosity to you. It is a secret that I ought not even to disclose to you. I could not receive your thanks, for I have not deserved them. From the king comes your good fortune, not from me. The day will come when I can requite you, when the poor crown prince becomes the rich king. On that day the golden rain shall again shower upon you, never to cease, and, vying with the shower of gold, the brightest sunbeams play continually around you. As king, I will reward your fidelity and love, which you have proved to the poor crown prince, with splendor, power, and riches. Until then rejoice with the little that his grace has accorded you, and await the much that love will one day bring you. Farewell, Wilhelmine, the evening sets in, and I must forth to Potsdam. The king would never pardon me if I did not pass the last evening with my wife in the circle of my family. Farewell!"

He embraced her tenderly, and Wilhelmine accompanied the prince to the carriage, and returned to survey anew the beautiful rooms which were now her own possession. An unspeakable, unknown feeling was roused in her, and voices, which she had never heard, spoke to her from the depths of her heart. "You are no longer a despised, homeless creature," they whispered. "You have a home, a foot of earth to call your own. Make yourself a name, that you may be of consequence in the world. You are clever and beautiful, and with your prudence and beauty you can win a glorious future! Remember the Marquise de Pompadour, neglected and scorned as you, until a king loved her, and she became the wife of a king, and all France bowed down to her. Even the Empress Maria Theresa honored her with her notice, and called her cousin. I am also the favorite of a future king, and I will also become the queen of my king!"

Wilhelmine had remained standing in the midst of the great drawing-room, which she was passing through, listening to these seductive voices, to these strange pictures of the future. In her imagination she saw herself in this room surrounded with splendor and magnificence, and sparkling with gems. She saw around her elegantly-attired ladies and gentlemen, in brilliant uniforms, glittering with orders; saw every-where smiling faces, and respectful manners. She saw all eyes turned to her, and heard only flattering words, which resounded for her from every lip—for her, once so despised and scorned! "It shall be, yes, it shall be," cried she aloud. "I will be the queen of my king! I will become the Prussian Marquise de Pompadour; that I swear by the heads of my children, by—"

"Rather swear by thy own beautiful head, Wilhelmine," said a voice behind her. Startled, she turned, and beheld the tall figure of a man, wrapped in a long cloak, who stood in the open door.

"Who are you?" she cried, amazed. "How dare you enter here?"

The figure closed the door, without answering, and, slowly approaching Wilhelmine, fixed his black eyes upon her with a searching gaze. She tried to summon help, but the words died on her lips; her cheeks blanched with terror, and, as if rooted to the floor, she stood with outstretched arms imploring the approaching form. The figure smiled, but there was something commanding in its manner, and in the fiery eyes, which rested upon her. When quite near her, it raised its right hand with an impatient movement. Immediately her arms fell at her side, her cheeks glowed, and a bright smile lighted up her face. Then it lifted the three-cornered, gold-bordered hat which shaded its face, nodding to her.

"Do you recognize me, Wilhelmine?" he asked, in a sweet, melodious voice.

"Yes," she answered, her eyes still fixed upon him. "You are Cagliostro, the great ruler and magician."

"Where did we meet?"

"I remember; it was in Paris, at the house of the governor of the Bastile, M. Delaunay. You caused me to read in a glass the future—a bright, glorious future. I was surrounded with splendor and magnificence. I saw myself glittering with gems; a king knelt at my feet. I was encircled by richly-attired courtiers, who bowed before me, and honored me, whispering: 'We salute you, O beautiful countess; be gracious to us, exalted princess!' It sounded like heavenly music, and I shouted with delight."

"Was that all?" said Cagliostro, solemnly, "that the crystal showed you."

Shuddering, she murmured: "The splendor, glory, and power vanished, and all was changed to a fearful picture. I saw myself in a plain, dark dress, in a deserted, lonely room, with iron-barred windows, and a small iron door closed in the dreary white walls—it was a prison! And I heard whispered around me: 'Woe to you, fallen and dethroned one! You have wasted away the days of your splendor, submit in patience to the days of your shame and humiliation.' I could not endure to behold it, and screamed with terror, fainting."

"You demanded to see the future, and I showed it to you," said Cagliostro, earnestly. "Though I let the light shine into your soul, still it was dark within; you pursued the way of unbelief, and desired not to walk in the way of knowledge. I sent messengers twice to you to lead you in the right path, and you sent them laughing away. Recall what I told you in Paris. I will it!"

"I remember, master; you said that in the most important days of my life you would come to me, and extend to me a helping hand: if I seized it, the first picture would be fulfilled; if I refused it, the prison awaited me!"

"I have kept my word: to-day is an eventful day in your life; you have risen from want and degradation—you have mounted the first rounds of the ladder of your greatness and power. You are the mistress of this house." "How did you know it?" asked Wilhelmine, astonished. With a pitying smile he answered: "I know every thing that I will, and I see many things that I would willingly close my eyes upon. I see your future, and my soul pities you, unhappy one; you are lost if you do not seize the hand extended to you. You see not the abyss which opens before you, and you will fall bleeding and with broken limbs."

"Mercy, mercy!" she groaned—"stretch out your hand and protect me." Wilhelmine sank as if crushed to the earth. Cagliostro bent over her, and stroked her cold, pale face, breathing upon her the hot breath of his lips. "I will pity you—I will protect you. Rise, my daughter!" He assisted her to rise, and imprinted a passionate kiss upon her hand. "From this hour I count you as one of mine," he said; "you shall be received into the holy band of spirits! You shall be consecrated, and enter the Inner Temple. Are you prepared?" "I am, master," she humbly replied.

"To-morrow the Temple brothers will open the temple of bliss to you. You shall hear, see, and be silent." "I will see, hear, and be silent," she murmured.

"When evening sets in, send away your servants," commanded Cagliostro. "Let the doors stand open; they shall be guarded, that no one may enter but the summoned. Art thou prepared?"

"I am, master!"

"Withdraw now to your room, Wilhelmine, and elevate your thoughts in devotion and contrition, and await the future. Kneel, my daughter, kneel!" She sank upon her knees. "Bless me, master, bless me!" "I bless you!"

She felt a hot, burning sensation upon her forehead, and suddenly a bright light shone in the obscure room. Wilhelmine screamed, and covered her eyes. When she ventured to look up, only soft moonlight penetrated from the high window into the apartment, and she was alone. "To-morrow—to-morrow, at midnight!" she murmured, shuddering, and casting a timid look around.



BOOK II. ROSICRUCIANS AND POWERFUL GENIUSES

CHAPTER X. GOETHE IN BERLIN.

"I wish I only knew whether it were a man, or whether the god Apollo has really appeared to me in human form," sighed Conrector Moritz, as he paced his room—a strange, gloomy apartment, quite in keeping with the singular occupant—gray walls, with Greek apothegms inscribed upon them in large letters—dirty windows, pasted over with strips of paper; high, open book-shelves, containing several hundred books, some neatly arranged, others thrown together in confusion. In the midst of a chaos of books and papers stood a colossal bust of the Apollo-Belvedere upon a table near the window, the whiteness and beauty of which were in singular contrast, to the dust and disorder which surrounded it.

At the back of the room was an open wardrobe, filled with gay-colored garments. A beautiful carpet of brilliant colors covered the middle of the dirty floor, and upon this paced to and fro the strange occupant of this strange room, Philip Charles Moritz, conrector of the college attached to the Gray Monastery. There was no trace of the bearing and demeanor which distinguished him at the parade at Potsdam yesterday—no trace of the young elegant, dressed in the latest fashion. To-day he wore a white garment, of no particular style, tied at the neck with a red ribbon (full sleeves, buttoned at the wrist with lace-cuffs); and, falling from the shoulders in scanty folds to just below the knees, it displayed his bare legs, and his feet shod with red sandals.

His hair was unpowdered, and not tied in a cue, according to the fashion, but hung in its natural brown color, flowing quite loosely, merely confined by a red ribbon wound in among his curls, and hanging down in short bows at each temple like the frontlet of the old Romans. Thus, in this singular costume, belonging half to old Adam, and half to the old Romans, Philip Moritz walked back and forth upon the carpet, ruminating upon the beaming beauty of the stranger whose acquaintance he had so recently made, and whom he could not banish from his thoughts. "What wicked demon induced me to go to Potsdam yesterday?" said he to himself. "I who hate mankind, and believe that they are all of vulgar, ordinary material, yield to the longing for society, and am driven again into the world."

A loud knocking at the door interrupted this soliloquy, and the door opened at the commanding "Come in!"

"It is he, it is Apollo," cried Moritz, joyfully. "Come in, sir, come in—I have awaited you with the most ardent desire."

Moritz rushed to the young gentleman, who had just closed the door, and whose beautiful, proud face lighted up with a smile at the singular apparition before him. "Pardon me, I disturb you, sir; you were about to make your toilet. Permit me to return after you have dressed."

"You are mistaken," cried Moritz, eagerly. "You find me in my usual home-dress—I like my ease and freedom, and I am of opinion that mankind will never be happy and contented until they return to their natural state, wearing no more clothing, but glorying in the beauty which bountiful Nature has bestowed upon her most loved and chosen subjects."

"Sir," cried the other, laughing, "then benevolent Nature should adapt her climate accordingly, and relieve her dear creatures from the inclination to take cold."

"You may be right," said Moritz, earnestly, "but we will not quarrel about it. Will you not keep your promise to reveal to me your name?"

"Tell me your own once more. Tell me if this youth, whom I see before me in this ideal dress, is the same modest young man whom I met at the parade yesterday, and who presented himself as Philip Moritz? Then please to inform me whether you are the Philip Moritz who wrote a spirited and cordial letter to Johann Wolfgang Goethe some years since about the tragedy of 'Stella,' the representation of which had been forbidden at that time?"

"Yes, I am the same Philip Moritz, who wrote to the poet Goethe to prove to him, with the most heart-felt sympathy, that we are not all such stupid fellows in Berlin as Nicolai, who pronounced the tragedy 'Stella' immoral; that it is only, as Goethe himself called it, 'a play for lovers.'"

"And will you not be kind enough to tell me what response the poet made to your amiable letter?"

"Proud and amiable at the same time, most gracefully he answered me, but not with words. He sent me his tragedy 'Stella' bound in rose-colored satin. [Footnote: "Goethe in Berlin,"—Sketches from his life at the anniversary of his one hundredth birthday.] See there! it is before the bust of Apollo on my writing-table, where it has lain for three years!"

"What did he write to you at the same time?"

"Nothing—why should he? Was not the book sufficient answer?"

"Did he write nothing? Permit me to say to you that Goethe behaved like a brute and an ass to you!"

"Sir," cried Moritz, angrily, "I forbid you to speak of my favorite in so unbecoming a manner in my room!"

"Sir," cried the other, "you dare not forbid me. I insist upon it that that man is sometimes a brute and an ass! I can penitently acknowledge it to you, dear Moritz, for I am Johann Wolfgang Goethe himself!"

"You, you are Goethe!" shouted Moritz, as he seized him with both hands, drawing him toward the window, and gazing at him with the greatest enthusiasm and delight. "Yes, yes," he shouted, "you are either Apollo or Goethe! The gods are not so stupid as to return to this miserable world, so you must be Goethe. No other man would dare to sport such a godlike face as you do, you favorite of the gods!"

He then loosed his hold upon the smiling poet, and sprang to the writing-table. "Listen, Apollo," he cried, with wild joy. "Goethe is here, thy dear son is here! Hurrah! long live Goethe!"

He took the rose-colored little book, and shouting tossed it to the ceiling, and sprang about like a mad bacchant, and finally threw himself upon the carpet, rolling over and over like a frolicksome, good-natured child upon its nurse's lap.

Goethe laughed aloud. "What are you doing, dear Moritz? What does this mean?" he asked.

Moritz stopped a moment, looking up to Goethe with a face beaming with joy. "I cannot better express my happiness. Language is too feeble—too poor!"

"If that is the case, then I will join you," said Goethe, throwing himself upon the carpet, rolling and tumbling about. [Footnote: This scene which I relate, and which Teichman also mentions in his "Leaves of Memory of Goethe in Berlin," has been often related to me by Ludwig Tieck exactly in this manner. Teichman believes it was the poet Burman. But I remember distinctly that Ludwig Tieck told me that it was the eccentric savant, Philip Moritz, with whom Goethe made the acquaintance in this original manner.—The Authoress.]

All at once Moritz jumped up without saying a word, rushed to the wardrobe, dressed himself in modest attire in a few moments, and presented himself to Goethe, who rose from the carpet quite astounded at the sudden metamorphosis. Then he seized his three-cornered hat to go out, when Goethe held him fast.

"You are not going into the street, sir! You forget that your hair is flying about as if unloosed by a divine madness."

"Sir, people are quite accustomed to see me in a strange costume, and the most of them think me crazy."

"You are aware that insane people believe that they only are sane, and that reasonable people are insane. You will grant me that it is much more like a crazy person to strew his hair with flour, and tie it up in that ridiculous cue, than to wear it as God made it, uncombed and unparted, as I do my beautiful hair, and for which they call me crazy! But, for Heaven's sake, where are you going?" asked Goethe, struggling to retain him.

"I am going to trumpet through every street in Berlin that the author of 'Werther,' of 'Clavigo,' of 'Gotz von Berlichingen,' of 'Stella,' of the most beautiful poems, is in my humble apartment. I will call in all the little poets and savants of Berlin; I will drag Mammler, Nicolai, Engel, Spaulding, Gedicke, Plumicke, Karschin, and Burman here. They shall all come to see Wolfgang Goethe, and adore him. The insignificant poets shall pay homage to thee, the true poet, the favorite of Apollo."

"My dear Moritz, if you leave me for that, I will run away, and you will trouble yourself in vain."

"Impossible; you will be my prisoner until I return. I shall lock you in, and you cannot escape by the window, as I fortunately live on the third story."

"But I shall not wait to be looked in," answered Goethe, slightly annoyed. "I came to see you, and if you run away I shall go also, and I advise you not to try to prevent me." His voice resounded through the apartment, growing louder as he spoke, his cheeks flushed, and his high, commanding brow contracted.

"Jupiter Tonans!" cried Moritz, regarding him, "you are truly Jupiter Tonans in person, and I bow before you and obey your command. I shall remain to worship you, and gaze at you."

"And it may be possible to speak in a reasonable manner to me," said Goethe, coaxingly. "Away with sentimentality and odors of incense! We are no sybarites, to feed on sweet-meats and cakes; but we are men who have a noble aim in view, attained only by a thorny path. Our eyes must remain fixed upon the goal, and nothing must divert them from it."

"What is the aim that we should strive for?" asked Moritz, his whole being suddenly changing, and his manner expressing the greatest depression and sadness.

Goethe smiled. "How can you ask, as if you did not know it yourself. Self-knowledge should be our first aim! The ancient philosophers were wise to have inscribed over the entrances to their temples, 'Know thyself,' in order to remind all approaching, to examine themselves before they entered the halls of the gods. Is not the human heart equally a temple? only the demons and the gods strive together therein, unfortunately. To drive the former out, and give place to the latter, should be our aim; and when once purified, and room is given for good deeds and great achievements, we shall not rest satisfied simply to conquer, but rise with gladness to build altars upon those places which we have freed from the demons; for that, we must steadily keep in view truth and reality, and not hide them with a black veil, or array them in party-colored rags. Our ideas must be clear about the consequences of things, that we may not be like those foolish men who drink wine every evening and complain of headache every morning, resorting to preventives."

Did Goethe know the struggles and dissensions which rent the heart of the young man to whom he spoke? Had his searching eyes read the secrets which were hidden in that darkened soul? He regarded him as he spoke with so much commiseration that Moritz's heart softened under the genial influence of sympathy and kindness. A convulsive trembling seized him, his cheeks were burning red, and his features expressed the struggle within. Suddenly he burst into tears. "I am very, very wretched," he sighed, with a voice suffocated by weeping, and sank upon a chair, sobbing aloud, and covering his face with his hands.

Goethe approached him, and laid his hand gently upon his shoulder. "Why are you so miserable? Is there any human being who can help you?" he kindly inquired.

"Yes," sobbed Moritz; "there are those who could, but they will not, and I am lost. I stand upon the brink of a precipice, with Insanity staring at me, grinning and showing her teeth. I know it, but cannot retreat. I wear the mask of madness to conceal my careworn face. Your divine eyes could not be deceived. You have not mistaken the caricature for the true face. You have penetrated beneath the gay tatters, and have seen the misery which sought to hide itself there."

"I saw it, and I bewailed it, as a friend pities a friend whom he would willingly aid if he only knew how to do it."

"No one can help me," sighed Moritz, shaking his head mournfully. "I am lost, irremediably lost!"

"No one is lost who will save himself. He who is wrecked by a storm and tossed upon the raging sea, ought to be upon the watch for a plank by which he can save himself. He must keep his eyes open, and not let his arms hang idly; for if he allows himself to be swallowed up he becomes a self-murderer, who, like Erostratus, destroyed the holy temple, and gained eternal fame through eternal shame."

"What are you saying?" cried Moritz, "you, the author of 'Werther,' of that immortal work which has drunk the tears of the whole world, and has become the Holy Testament for unhappy souls!"

"Rather say for lovers," replied Goethe, "and add also those troubled spirits who think themselves poetical when they whine and howl; who cry over misfortune if Fate denies them the toy which their vanity, their ambition, or their amorousness, had chosen. Do not burden me with what I am not guilty of; do not say that wine is a poison, because it is not good for the sick. It is intended for well people; it animates and inspires them to fresh vigor. Now please to consider yourself well, and not ill."

"I am ill, indeed I am ill," sighed Moritz. "Oh! continue to regard me with those eyes, which shine like stars into my benighted soul. I feel like one who has long wandered through the desert, his feet burnt with the sand, his hair scorched with the sun, and, exhausted with hunger and thirst, feels death approaching. Suddenly he discovers a green oasis, and a being with outstretched arms calling to him with a soft, angel-like voice: 'Come, save thyself in my arms; feel that thou art not alone in the desert, for I am with thee, and will sustain thee!'"

"And I say it to you from the bottom of my heart," said Goethe, affectionately. "Yes, here is one, who is only too happy to aid you, who can sympathize with every sorrow, because he has himself felt it in his own breast, who may even say of himself, like Ovid: 'Nothing human is strange to me.' If I can aid you, say so, and I will willingly do it."

"No, you cannot," murmured Moritz.

"At least confide your grief to me; that is an alleviation."

"Oh, how kind and generous you are!" Moritz said, pressing the hand of his new-made friend to his bosom. "How much good it does me to listen to you, and look at your beautiful face! I believed myself steeled against every thing that could happen to mortals; that the fool which I would be had killed within me the higher man. I was almost proud to have succeeded in deceiving men; that they mistook my grotesque mask for my real face; that they point the finger at me, and laugh, saying to each other: 'That is a fool, an original, whom Nature herself has chosen as a kind of court fool to society.' No one has understood the cry of distress of my soul. Those who laughed at the comical fellow by day, little dreamed of the anguish and misery in which he sighed away the night."

"You not only wrong yourself, but you wrong mankind," said Goethe, kindly. "In the world, and in literature, you bear an honored name; every one of education is familiar with your excellent work on 'Prosody of the German Language'—has read also your spirited Journey to England. You have no right to ask that one should separate the kernel from the shell in hastily passing by. If you surround yourself with a wall bedaubed with caricatures, you cannot expect that people will look behind what seems an entrance to a puppet-show, to find holy temples, blooming gardens, or a church-yard filled with graves."

"That is just what I resemble," said Moritz, with a melancholy air. "From the depths of my soul it seems so. Nothing but buried hopes, murdered ideals, and wishes trodden under foot. From childhood I have exerted myself against circumstances; I have striven my whole life—a pledge of my being against unpropitious Fate. Although the son of a poor tradesman, Nature had given me a thirst for knowledge, a love for science and art. On account of it I passed for a stupid idler in the family, who would not contribute to his own support. Occupation with books was accounted idleness and laziness by my father. I was driven to work with blows and ill-treatment; and, that I might the sooner equal my father as a good shoemaker, I was bound to the stool near his own. During the long, fearful days I was forced to sit and draw the pitched, offensive thread through the leather, and when my arms were lame, and sank weary at my side, then I was invigorated to renewed exertion with blows. Finally, with the courage of despair, I fled from this life of torture. Unacquainted with the world, and inexperienced, I hoped for the sympathy of men, but in vain. No one would relieve or assist me! Days and weeks long I have wandered around in the forest adjoining our little village, and lived like the animals, upon roots and herbs. Yet I was happy! I had taken with me in my flight two books which I had received as prizes, in the happy days that my father permitted me to go to the Latin school. The decision of the teacher that I was created for a scholar, so terrified my father, that he took me from the school, to turn the embryo savant, who would be good for nothing, into a shoemaker, who might earn his bread. My two darling books remained to me. In the forest solitude I read Ovid and Virgil until I had memorized them, and recited them aloud, in pathetic tones, for my own amusement. To-day I recall those weeks in the forest stillness as the happiest, purest, and most beautiful of my life."

"And they undoubtedly are," said Goethe, kindly. "The return to Nature is the return to one's self. Who will be an able, vigorous man and remain so, must, above all things, live in and with Nature."

"But oh! this happy life did not long continue," sighed Moritz. "My father discovered my retreat, and came with sheriffs and bailiffs to seize me like a criminal—like a wild animal. With my hands bound, I was brought back in broad day, amid the jeers of street boys. Permit me to pass in silence the degradation, the torture which followed. I became a burden to myself, and longed for death. The ill-treatment of my father finally revived my courage to run away the second time. I went to a large town near by, and decided to earn my living rather than return to my father. To fulfil the prophecy of my teacher was my ambition. The privations that I endured, the life I led, I will not recount to you. I performed the most menial service, and worked months like a beast of burden. For want of a shelter, I slept in deserted yards and tumble-down houses. Upon a piece of bread and a drink of water I lived, saving, with miserly greediness, the money which I earned as messenger or day-laborer. At the end of a year, I had earned sufficient to buy an old suit of clothes at a second-hand clothing-store, and present myself to the director of the Gymnasium, imploring him to receive me as pupil. Bitterly weeping, I opened my heart to him, and disclosed the torture of my sad life as a child, and begged him to give me the opportunity to educate myself. He repulsed me with scorn, and threatened to give me over to the police, as a runaway, as a vagabond, and beggar. 'I am no beggar!' I cried, vehemently, 'I will be under obligation to no one. I have money to pay for two years in advance, and during this time I shall be able to earn sufficient to pay for the succeeding two years.' This softened the anger of the crabbed director; he was friendly and kind, and promised me his assistance."

"Poor boy!" sighed Goethe. "So young, and yet forced to learn that there is a power to which not only kings and princes, but mind must bow; to which science and art have submitted, as to their Maecenas! This power opened the doors of the Gymnasium to you."

"It was even thus. The director took pity upon me, and permitted me to enter upon my studies at once; he did more, he assured my future. Oh, he was a humane and kind man! When he learned that I possessed nothing but the little sum to which the drops of blood of a year's toil still clung, then—"

"He returned it to you," interrupted Goethe, kindly.

"No, he offered me board, lodging, and clothing, during my course at the Gymnasium."

"That was well," cried Goethe. "Tell me the name of this honorable man, that I may meet him and extend to him my hand."

A troubled smile spread over Philip's face. "Permit me for the time being to conceal the name," he replied. "I received the generous proposal gratefully, and asked, deeply moved, if there were no services which I could return for so much kindness and generosity. It proved that there were, and the director made them known to me. He was unmarried, hence the necessity of men's service. I should be society for him—be a companion, in fact; I should do what every grateful son would do for his father—help him dress, keep his room in order, and prepare his breakfast."

"That meant that you should be his servant!" cried Goethe, indignant.

"Only in the morning," replied Moritz, smiling. "Evenings and nights I should have the honor to be his amanuensis; I should look over the studies of the scholars, and correct their exercises; and when I had made sufficient progress, it should be my duty to give two hours to different classes, and I should read aloud or play cards with the director on leisure evenings. Besides, I was obliged to promise never to leave the house without his permission; never to speak to, or hold intercourse with, any one outside the hours of instruction. All these conditions were written down, and signed by both parties, as if a business contract."

"A transaction by which a human soul was bargained for!" thundered Goethe. "Reveal to me, now, the name of this trader of souls, that I may expose him to public shame!"

"He died a year since," replied Moritz, softened. "God summoned him to judgment. When the physician announced to him that the cancer was incurable, when he felt death approaching, he sent for me, and begged my forgiveness, with tears and deep contrition. I forgave him, so let me cease to recall the life I passed with him. By the sweat of my brow I was compelled to serve him; for seven long years I was his slave. I sold myself for the sake of knowledge, I was consoled by progress. I was the servant, companion, jester, and slave of my tyrant, but I was also the disciple, the priest of learning. In my own room my chains fell off. In the lonely night-watches I communed with the great, the immortal spirits of Horace, Virgil, and even the proud Caesar, and the divine Homer. Those solitary but happy hours of the night are never to be forgotten, never to be portrayed; they refreshed me for the trials of the day, and enabled me to endure them! At the close of seven years I was prepared to enter the university, and the bargain between my master and myself was also at an end. Freed from my tyrant, I bent my steps toward Frankfort University, to feel my liberty enchained anew. For seven years I had been the slave of the director; now I became the slave of poverty, forced to labor to live! Oh, I cannot recall those scenes! Suffice it to say, that during one year I had no fixed abode, never tasted warm food. But it is passed—I have conquered! After years of struggle, of exertion, of silent misery, only relieved by my stolen hours of blissful study, I gained my reward. I was free! My examination passed, I was honored with the degrees of Doctor of Philosophy and Master of Arts. After many intervening events, I was appointed conrector of the college attached to the Gray Monastery, which position now supports me."

"God be praised, I breathe freely!" answered Goethe, with one of those sunny smiles which, in a moment of joyful excitement, lighted up his face. "I feel like one shipwrecked, who has, at last, reached a safe harbor. I rejoice in your rescue as if it were my own. Now you are safe. You have reached the port, and in the quiet happiness of your own library you will win new laurels. Why, then, still dispirited and unhappy? The past, with its sorrows and humiliations, is forgotten, the present is satisfactory, and the future is full of hope for you."

"Full of misery is the present," cried Philip, angrily, "and filled with despair I glance at the future. You do not see it with your divine eyes, you do not perceive it, poet with the sympathetic soul. You, too, thought that Philip Moritz had only a head for the sciences, and forgot that he had a heart to love. I tell you that he has a warm, affectionate heart, torn with grief and all the tortures of jealousy; that disappointed happiness maddens him. I was not created to be happy, and my whole being longs for happiness. Oh! I would willingly give my life for one day by the side of the one I love."

"Do not trifle," said Goethe, angrily. "He who has striven and struggled as you have, dare not offer, for any woman, however beautiful and seductive, to yield his life, which has been destined to a higher aim than mere success in love. Perhaps you think that God has infused a ray of His intelligence into the mind of man, created him immortal, and breathed upon him with His world-creating breath only, to make him happy, and find that happiness in love! No! my friend, God has given to man like faculties with Himself, and inspired him, that he might be a worthy representative of Him upon the earth; that he should prove, in his life, that he is not only the blossom, but the fruit also, of God's creation. Love is to man the perfume of his existence. She may intoxicate him for a while, may inspire him to poetical effusions, to great deeds, even; but he should hesitate to let her become his mistress, to let her be the tyrant of his existence. If she would enchain him, he must tear himself away, even if he tear out his own heart. Man possesses that which is more ennobling than mere feeling; he has intellect—soul."

"Ah!" cried Moritz, "it is easy to see that you have never loved madly, despairingly. You have never seen the woman whom you adore, and who perhaps reciprocates your passion, forced to marry another."

A shadow flitted over Goethe's brow, and the flashing brilliancy of his eyes was changed to gloomy sadness. Gently, but quickly, he laid his hand upon Moritz's shoulder, saying: "In this hour, when two souls are revealed to each other, will I acknowledge to you that which I have never spoken of. I, too, love a woman, who loves me, and yet can never be mine, for she is married to another. I love this sweet woman as I have never loved a mortal being. For years my existence has belonged to her, she has been the centre of all my thoughts. It would seem to me as if the earth were without a sun, heaven without a God, if she should vanish from life. I even bless the torture which her prudery, her alternate coldness and friendliness cause me, as it comes from her, from the highest bliss of feeling. This passion has swept through my soul, as if uniting in itself all my youthful loves, till, like a torrent, ever renewing itself, ever moving onward, it has become the highway of my future. Upon this stream floats the bark laden with all my happiness, fame, and poetry. The palaces which my fancy creates rise upon its shore. Every zephyr, however slight, makes me tremble. Every cloud which overshadows the brow of my beloved, sweeps like a tempest over my own. I live upon her smile. A kind word falling from her lips makes me happy for days; and when she turns away from me with coldness and indifference, I feel like one driven about as Orestes by the Furies."

"You really are in love!" cried Moritz. "I will take back what I have said. You, the chosen of the gods, know all the human heart can suffer, even unhappy love."

Almost angry, and with hesitation, Goethe answered him: "I do not call this passion of mine an unhappy one, for in the very perception of it lies happiness. We are only wretched when we lose self-control. To this point Love shall never lead me. She yields me the highest delight, but she shall never bring me to self-destruction. Grief for her may, like a destructive whirlwind, crush every blossom of my heart; but she shall never destroy me. The man, the poet, must stand higher than the lover; for where the latter is about to yield to despair, the former will rise, and, with the defiance of Prometheus, challenge the gods to recognize the godlike similitude, that man can rise superior to sorrow, never despairing, never cursing Fate if all the rosy dreams of youth are not realities, but with upturned gaze stride over the waste places of life, consoling himself with the thought that only magnanimous souls can suffer and conquer magnanimously. Vanquished grief brings us nearer to the immortal, and gradually bears us from this vale of sorrow up to the brighter heights, nearer to God—the earth with her petty confusion lying like a worthless tool at our feet!"

"It is heavenly to be able to say that, and divine to perceive it," cried Moritz, bursting into tears. "The miseries of life chain me to the dust, and do not permit me to mount to the heights which a hero like Goethe reaches victorious. It is indeed sublime to conquer one's self, and be willing to resign the happiness which flees us. But see how weak I am—I cannot do it! I can never give up the one I love. It seems as if I could move heaven and earth to conquer at last, and that I must die if I do not succeed—die like Werther."

Goethe's eyes flashed with anger, and with heightened color he exclaimed: "You all repeat the same litany—do not make me answerable for all your weaknesses, and blame poor Werther for the creations of your own imagination. I, who am the author of Werther, am free from this abominable sentimentality. Why cannot others be, who only read what I have conceived? But pardon my violence," he continued, with a milder voice and gentler manner. "Never did an author create a work which brought him at the same time so great fame and bitter reproach as this work has brought to me. 'The Sorrows of Young Werther' have indeed been transformed into the sorrows of young Goethe, and I even fear that old Goethe will have to suffer for it. I have spoken to you as a friend to a friend: cherish my words, take them to heart, and arise from the dust; shake off the self-strewn ashes from your head. Enter again as a brave champion the combat of life—summon to your aid cunning, power, prudence, and audacity, to conquer your love. Whether you succeed or not, then you aim at the greatest of battles—that of mind over matter—then remember my farewell words. From the power which binds all men he frees himself who conquers himself.—Farewell! If ever you need the encouragement of a friend, if ever a sympathizing soul is necessary to you, come to Weimar; sympathy and appreciation shall never fail you there."

"Oh! I will surely go," answered Moritz, deeply moved, and pressing heartily Goethe's offered hand.

"One thing more I have to say to you: Live much with Nature; accustom yourself to regard the sparrow, the flower, or the stone, as worthy of your attention as the wonderful phoenix or the monuments of the ancients with their illegible inscriptions. To walk with Nature is balsam for a weary soul; gently touched by her soft hands, the recovery is most rapid. I have experienced it, and do experience it daily. Now, once more, farewell; in the true sense of the word fare-thee-well! I wish that I could help you in other ways than by mere kind words. It pains me indeed that I can render you no other aid or hope. You alone can do what none other can do for you.—Farewell!"

He turned, and motioning to Moritz not to follow him, almost flew down the stairs into the street. Drawing a long breath, he stood leaning against the door, gazing at the crowd—at the busy passers-by—some merrily chatting with their companions, others with earnest mien and in busy haste. No one seemed to care for him, no one looked at him. If by chance they glanced at him, Johann Wolfgang Goethe was of no more consequence to them than any other honest citizen in a neighboring doorway.

Without perhaps acknowledging it to himself, Goethe was a little vexed that no one observed him; that the weather-maker from Weimar, who was accustomed to be greeted there, and everywhere, indeed, with smiles and bows, should here in Berlin be only an ordinary mortal—a stranger among strangers. "I would not live here," said he, as he walked slowly down the street. "What are men in great cities but grains of sand, now blown together and then asunder? There is no individuality, one is only a unit in the mass! But it is well occasionally to look into such a kaleidoscope, and admire the play of colors, which I have done, and with a glad heart I will now fly home to all my friends—to you, beloved one—to you, Charlotte!"



CHAPTER XI. THE INNER AND THE MIDDLE TEMPLE.

Wilhelmine Enke had passed the day in great anxiety and excitement, and not even the distraction of her new possession had been able to calm the beating of her heart or allay her fears. Prince Frederick William had arrived early in the morning, to bid her farewell, as he was to march in the course of the day with his regiments from Potsdam. With the tenderest assurances of love he took leave of Wilhelmine, and with tears kissed his two children, pressing them to his heart. As he was about to enter his carriage he returned to the house to embrace his weeping mistress, and reassure her of his fidelity, and make her promise him again and again that she would remain true to him, and never love another.

It was not alone the farewell to her beloved prince which caused Wilhelmine such anxiety and made her so restless. Like a dark cloud the remembrance of Cagliostro's mysterious appearance arose in her mind, overshadowing her every hour more and more, filling her soul with terror. In vain did she seek refuge near her children, trying to cheer and forget herself in their innocent amusement—one moment running about the garden with them, then returning to the house to reexamine it. Her thoughts would revert to Cagliostro, and the solemnities which were to take place at her house that night. The thought terrified her that at nightfall she was obliged to send away all her servants, and not even be permitted to lock herself in the lonely, deserted house. For the great magician had commanded her to let the doors of her house stand open; he would place sentinels at every entrance, and none but the elect would be allowed to enter. Wilhelmine had not the courage to resist this command. As evening approached, she sent the cook, with other servants, to her apartment at Berlin, ordering them to pack her furniture and other effects, and send them by a hired wagon to Charlottenburg the following morning. An hour previous to this she had sent the nurse and two children to Potsdam with a similar commission, ordering them to return early the next day. Alone she now awaited with feverish anxiety Cagliostro's appearance. Again and again she wandered through the silent, deserted rooms frightened at the sound of her own footsteps, and peering into each room as if an assassin or robber were lurking there. She had many enemies—many there were who cursed her, and, alas! none loved her—she was friendless, save the prince, who was far away. The tears which the princess had shed on her account weighed like a heavy burden upon her heart, burning into her very soul in this hour of lonely, sad retrospection. She tried in vain to excuse herself, in the fact that she had loved the prince before his marriage; that she had sacrificed herself to him through affection, and that she was not entitled to become his wife, as she was not born under the canopy of a throne.

From the depths of her conscience there again rose the tearful, sad face of the princess, accusing her as an adulteress—as a sinner before God and man! Terrified, she cried: "I have truly loved him, and I do still love him; this is my excuse and my justification. She is not to be pitied who can walk openly by the side of her husband, enjoying the respect and sympathy of all to whom homage is paid, and who, one day, will be queen! I am the only one, I alone! I stand in the shade, despised and scorned, avoided and shunned by every one. Those who recognize me, do so with a mocking smile, and when I pass by they contemptuously shrug their shoulders and say to one another, 'That was Enke, the mistress of the Prince of Prussia!' All this shall be changed," she cried aloud; "I will not always be despised and degraded! I will be revenged on my crushed and scorned youth! I will have rank and name, honor and position, that I will—yes, that I will, indeed!"

Wilhelmine wandered on through the silent rooms, all brilliantly illuminated, a precaution she had taken before dismissing her servants. The bright light was a consolation to her, and, at least, she could not be attacked by surprise, but see her enemy, and escape. "I was a fool," she murmured, "to grant Cagliostro this reception to-night. I know that he is a charlatan! There are no prophets or wizards! Yet, well I remember, though a stranger to me, in Paris, how truthfully he brought before me my past life; with what marvellous exactness he revealed to me secrets known only to my Maker and myself. Cagliostro must be a wizard, then, or a prophet; he has wonderful power over me also, and reads my most secret thoughts. He will assist me to rise from my shame and degradation to an honored position. I shall become a rich and influential woman! I will confide in him, never doubting him—for he is my master and savior! Away with fear! He has said that the house should be guarded, and it will be! Onward then, Wilhelmine, without fear!"

She hastened to the large drawing-room, in order to see the effect of the numerous wax-lights in the superb chandeliers of rock crystal. The great folding-doors resisted all her efforts to open them. "Who is there?" cried a loud, threatening voice. Trembling and with beating heart Wilhelmine leaned against the door, giddy with fear, when a second demand, "Who is there? The watchword! No one can pass without the countersign!" roused her, and she stole back on tiptoe to her room. "He has kept his word, the doors are guarded!" she whispered. "I will go and await him in my sitting-room." She stepped quickly forward, when suddenly she thought she heard footsteps stealing behind her; turning, she beheld two men wrapped in black cloaks, with black masks, stealthily creeping after her. Wilhelmine shrieked with terror, tore open the door, rushed across the next room into her own boudoir. As she entered a glance revealed to her that the two masks approached nearer and nearer. She bolted the door quickly, sinking to the floor with fright and exhaustion. "What are they going to do? Will they force open the door and murder me? How foolish, how fearfully foolish to have sent away all my servants. Now I understand it: Cagliostro is not only an impostor—a charlatan, but he is a thief and an assassin. I have been caught in the trap set for me, like a credulous fool! He and his associates will rob me and plunder my beautiful villa, but just given to me, and, when they have secured all, murder me to escape betrayal." With deep contrition, weeping and trembling, Wilhelmine accused herself of her credulity and folly. For the first time in her life she was dismayed and cowardly, for it was the first time that she had had to tremble for her possessions. It was something so new, so unaccustomed to her to possess any thing, that it made her anxious, and she feared, as in the fairy tale, that it would dissolve into nothing. By degrees her presence of mind and equanimity were restored. The stillness was unbroken—and no one forced the door, to murder the mistress of this costly possession. Gathering courage, she rose softly and stole to the window. The moon shone brightly and clearly. The house stood sideways to the street, and separated from it, first by thick shrubbery, and then a trellised lawn. Whoever would enter, directly turned into a path leading from the street into the shrubbery. Just upon this walk, Wilhelmine perceived masked men approaching, one by one, as in a procession—slowly, silently moving on, until they neared the gate of the trellised square, where two tall, dark forms were stationed to demand the countersign, which being given, they passed over the lawn into the house.

"I will take courage; he has told me the truth, the house is well guarded," murmured Wilhelmine. "None but the summoned can enter; I belong to the number, and when it is time Cagliostro will come and fetch me. Until then, let me await quietly the result," said she, as she stretched herself comfortably upon the sofa, laughing at her former cowardice and terror. "No one can enter this room unless I open the door, and fortunately there is but one exit. The wizard himself could not gain admittance unless the walls should open or the bolt drive hack for him. Hark! it strikes eleven, one tedious hour longer to wait. I must try to rest a little." She laid her head upon the cushion, closing her eyes. The calm and the quiet were refreshing after the excitement of the day. Gradually her thoughts became confused—dim pictures floated past her mental vision, her breathing became shorter, and she slept. The stillness was unbroken, save the clock striking the quarters of every hour. Scarcely had the last quarter to midnight sounded, when the window was softly opened, and a dark form descended into the room. He listened a moment, looking at the sleeping one, who moved not; then extinguished the light, creeping toward the door. Wilhelmine slept on. Suddenly it seemed to her as if sunbeams blinded her, and she started up from a profound sleep. It was indeed no dream. A white form stood before her of dazzling brilliancy, as if formed of sun-rays.

"Rise and follow me!" cried a commanding voice. "The Great Kophta commands you. Mask yourself, and, as your life is dear to you, do not raise it for one instant!" Wilhelmine took the mask, upon which flickered a little blue flame, and held it close to her face. "Pray in spirit, then follow me." Wilhelmine followed without opposition the bright form which moved before her through the dark rooms. She felt as if under the influence of a charm; her heart beat violently, her feet trembled, but still she felt no more wavering or fear; a joyous confidence filled her whole being. With her eyes bent upon the moving form of light, she went onward in the obscurity, and entered the great drawing-room, where profound darkness and silence reigned. A slight murmur, as of those in prayer, fell on her car, and it seemed as if numberless black shadows were moving about. "Kneel and pray," whispered a voice near her. Her conductor had disappeared, and the gloom of night surrounded her. Wilhelmine knelt as she was bidden, but she could not pray; breathless expectation and eager curiosity banished all devotion and composure. Occasionally was heard, amid the silence and darkness, a deep sigh, a suppressed groan, or a shriek, which died away in the murmuring of prayer. Suddenly a strange music broke the stillness—sharp, piercing tones, resonant as bells, and increasing in power, sometimes as rich and full as the peals of an organ, then gentle and soft as the murmuring wind, or a sorrow-laden sigh. Then, human voices joined the music, swelling it to a wonderful and harmonious choir—to an inspired song of aspiration, Of fervent expectation, and imploring the coming of him who would bring glory and peace, filling the hearts of believers with godliness. The chorus of the Invisibles had not ceased, when a strange blue light began to glimmer at the farther end of the room; then it shot like a flash through the dark space. As their dazzled eyes were again raised, they saw in a kind of halo, in the midst of golden clouds, a tall, dazzling figure, in a long, flowing robe, sparkling with silver. The lovely bust, the beautiful arms and shoulders, were covered with a transparent golden tissue, over which fell the long, curly hair to the waist. A glittering band, sparkling like stars, was wound through the hair, which surrounded a feminine face of surpassing beauty. Perpetual youth glowed upon her full, rosy cheeks; bright intelligence beamed from the clear, lofty brow; peace, joy, and happiness, were revealed in the smile of the red lips; love and passion flashed from the large, brilliant eyes. The choir of the Invisibles now sang in jubilant tones: "The eternal Virgin, the everlasting, holy, and pure being, greets the erring, blesses those that seek, causing them to find, and partake with joy."

The heavenly woman raised her lovely arms, extending them as if for a tender embrace. A captivating smile lighted up her features; a fiery glance from her beautiful eyes seemed to greet every one, separately, to announce to them joy and hope. While they regarded her entranced with delight, the golden cloud grew denser, and covered the virgin with her luminous veil. It then gradually disappeared, with the golden splendor. The chorus of the Invisibles ceased, and the music died away in gentle murmurs. Upon the spot where the beaming apparition was visible, there now stood a tall priest, in a long, flowing black robe; a pale-blue light surrounded him, and rendered the dark outline distinctly visible by the clear background. Snow-white hair and a black mask made him unrecognizable to every one.

Extending his arms, as if blessing them, the masked one cried: "My beloved, the unknown fathers of our Holy Order of Rosicrucians send me to you, and command me to salute you with the greeting of life. I am to announce to you that the time of revelation approaches, and that the sublime mysteries of earth and Nature will soon be revealed to you. As the rose is unfolded in her glowing red, which has so long slept in her lap of green leaves, you represent the green leaves, and Nature is the rose. She will disclose herself to you with all her secrets. In her calyx you will find the elixir of life and the secret of gold, if you walk in the path of duty; if you exercise unconditional obedience to the Invisible Fathers; if you submit yourselves in blind confidence to their wisdom; if you swear to abstain from every self-inquiry, and to distrust your own understanding." [Footnote: So run the very words in the laws of the Rosicrucians.—See "New General German Library," vol. lvi., p. 10.]

"We swear it!" cried solemn voices on all sides.

"Swear, blindly, silent obedience to all that the Invisible Fathers shall announce to you through their directors, or shall order you under the holy sign of the Rosicrucians by word or writing."

"We swear it!" again resounded in solemn chorus.

"Shame, disgrace, perdition, and destruction, be your curse," thundered the priest, "if you deviate in thought even from your oath; if you seek to ponder and reflect; if you measure by your own limited reason the dispositions and operations of the sublime fathers, to whom Nature has revealed herself, and to whom all the secrets of heaven and earth are disclosed. Eternal destruction, and all the tortures of hell and purgatory, be the portion of the doubting! Damned and proscribed be the traitor to the holy order! Listen, ye spirits of the deep, and ye spirits of darkness, withdraw from here in terror, ere the anger of the Invisible Fathers fall upon you like destroying lightning! Open, ye doors, that the wicked may flee, and only the good remain!"

With a wave of the hand the great folding-doors now opened, and a flood of light from the adjoining apartment revealed the drawingroom to be filled with the dark forms of men enveloped in black cloaks, hoods drawn over the heads, and black masks covering the faces—all kneeling close together and exactly resembling one another. No one moved, the doors closed again, darkness reigning. The priest was no longer visible, though continuing to speak: "Only the good and obedient are now assembled here, and to them I announce that life is to us, and death awaits beyond the door to seize the traitor who would disclose the holy secrets of the order. Be faithful, my brothers, and never forget that there is no place on the earth where the traitor is secure from the avenging sword of the Invisible Fathers. None but the good and obedient being here assembled, I now announce to you that the time of revelation approaches, and that it will come when you are all zealously endeavoring to extend the holy order, and augment the number of brothers. For the extension of the order is nothing less than universal happiness. It emanates alone from the Invisible Fathers, who link heaven to earth and who will open again the lost way to Paradise. The supreme chiefs of our holy order are the rulers of all Nature, reposing in God the Father. [Footnote: The wording of the laws of the Order of the Rosicrucians.—See "New General German Library," vol. M., p. 10. ] They are the favorites of God, whom the Trinity thinks worthy of his highest confidence and revelation. If you will take part in the revelations of God, and witness the disclosing of the hidden treasures of Nature, swear that you will be obedient to the holy order, and that you will strive to gain new members.

"We swear it," resounded in an inspired chorus through the room. "We swear unconditional obedience to the Invisible Fathers. We swear to strive with all our means for the extension of the holy order.

"Unbelief, free-thinking, and self-knowledge are of the devil, who steals abroad, to turn men from God. The pride of reason seeks to misguide men, and lead them away from God and the secrets of Nature. The devil has chosen his disciples, who teach sinful knowledge and arrogant free-thinking, and who are united in Berlin in the Order of the Illuminati. The Invisible Fathers command you to fight this shameful order in word, deed, and writing. If any of you are acquainted with one of the members, you shall regard him as your most deadly enemy, and shall hate and pursue him as you hate sin and as you pursue crime. You shall flee his intercourse as you would that of the devil, otherwise you will be damned, and the Invisible Fathers never will forgive you, and the secrets of Nature will be withheld from you. Swear therefore hate, persecution, and eternal enmity, to the Order of the Illuminati. This I command you in the name of the Invisible Fathers."

"We swear it! We swear hate, persecution, and eternal enmity, to the Order of the Illuminati!"

"Every one who belongs to the order is damned and cursed; and if it were your brother or your father, so shall you curse and damn him!"

"We swear it!"

"Then I bring you the blessing of the Invisible rulers and fathers, who announce to you, through me, that every lost one which you gain for the Order of the Rosicrucians, and consequently lead back to God and Nature, is a step toward entering the holy sanctuary of revelation, where the elixir of life and the tincture of gold awaits you. Every cursed member of the Illuminati becomes one of the blessed when you lead him from the path of vice in penitence and contrition, and gain him to the Order of the Rosicrucians; and he who can prove that he has gained twelve new members for our holy order mounts a round higher in the ladder of knowledge, and rises to a new degree. At the sixth grade he passes from the Inner to the Middle Temple, where all the secrets of the universe and of Nature are disclosed. Be mindful of this, and recruit. Until we meet again, let the watchword be, 'Curses and persecution for the devil's offspring, the Illuminati!'"

"Curses and persecution for the devil's offspring, the Illuminati, we swear!"

"Now depart! Pay your tribute at the door, which you owe, and receive in return the new sign of the order, which will serve to make the brothers known to each other. Only the directors and the members of the sixth grade shall knock again at this door after paying tribute, and, receiving the new word of life, the guard will let them enter. Depart! I dismiss you in the name of the Holy Father and the Trinity!"

"Take this cloak, and cover yourself, that no one can recognize you," whispered a person near Wilhelmine, and threw a soft covering over her. "Will you now depart, or seek further in the way of knowledge?"

"I will seek further," answered Wilhelmine, firmly.

"You wish to enter the sixth grade, and learn the secrets of Nature?"

"I do!"

"Then I will give you the watchword of the order. But woe unto you if you reveal it! Swear that you will never betray it!"

"I swear it!"

"Then, listen!"

Wilhelmine felt a hot breath upon her cheek, and a voice whispered in her ear the significant words: "Now depart; pay your tribute, you cannot tarry here. Go, and return with the chosen!"

A hand seized her arm and conducted her to the door. Almost blinded by the bright light, she entered the adjoining apartment, where it seemed as if she saw through a veil muffled figures go forward to the centre, and deposit money in a marble basin which stood upon a kind of altar; naphtha burned in silver basins upon each end of it, and a muffled figure stood near.

Wilhelmine advanced to the altar, and with quick decision drew a diamond ring from her finger, and begged permission to deposit it instead of money.

The muffled figure bowed, and handed to her the new watchword—a picture of a Madonna, with the sign of the Rosicrucians underneath. Then she returned, and awaited at the door, with a little gathering, which must consequently belong to the sixth grade. Gradually the others had withdrawn; the naphtha-flames upon the altar were extinguished, and the wax-lights of the centre lustres had grown dim, and gradually extinguished themselves. Soon the doors were opened, and a bright light, as of the sun's rays, filled the hall. Three blasts of trumpets sounded, and a choir of immortal voices sang, "Enter, ye blessed ones! Enter, ye elect!"