formless,
powerless; yet by degrees organic elements and fibres shoot through
the watery albumen; and out of vague Sensation grows Thought, grows
Fantasy and Force, and we have Philosophies, Dynasties, nay Poetries
and Religions!

'Young Diogenes, or rather young Gneschen, for by such diminutive had
they in their fondness named him, travelled forward to those high
consummations, by quick yet easy stages. The Futterals, to avoid vain
talk, and moreover keep the roll of gold Friedrichs safe, gave-out
that he was a grand-nephew; the orphan of some sister's daughter,
suddenly deceased, in Andreas's distant Prussian birthland; of whom,
as of her indigent sorrowing widower, little enough was known at
Entepfuhl. Heedless of all which, the Nurseling took to his
spoon-meat, and throve. I have heard him noted as a still infant, that
kept his mind much to himself; above all, that seldom or never cried.
He already felt that time was precious; that he had other work cut-out
for him than whimpering.'

* * * * *

Such, after utmost painful search and collation among these
miscellaneous Paper-masses, is all the notice we can gather of Herr
Teufelsdroeckh's genealogy. More imperfect, more enigmatic it can seem
to few readers than to us. The Professor, in whom truly we more and
more discern a certain satirical turn, and deep undercurrents of
roguish whim, for the present stands pledged in honour, so we will not
doubt him: but seems it not conceivable that, by the 'good Gretchen
Futteral,' or some other perhaps interested party, he has himself been
deceived? Should these sheets, translated or not, ever reach the
Entepfuhl Circulating Library, some cultivated native of that district
might feel called to afford explanation. Nay, since Books, like
invisible scouts, permeate the whole habitable globe, and Timbuctoo
itself is not safe from British Literature, may not some Copy find out
even the mysterious basket-bearing Stranger, who in a state of extreme
senility perhaps still exists; and gently force even him to disclose
himself; to claim openly a son, in whom any father may feel pride?

CHAPTER II

IDYLLIC

'Happy season of Childhood!' exclaims Teufelsdroeckh: 'Kind Nature,
that art to all a bountiful mother; that visitest the poor man's hut
with auroral radiance; and for thy Nurseling hast provided, a soft
swathing of Love, and infinite Hope, wherein he waxes and slumbers,
danced-round (_umga