ashioning the souls of a
generation by Knowledge can rank on a level with blowing their bodies
to pieces by Gunpowder; that with Generals and Fieldmarshals for
killing, there should be world-honoured Dignitaries, and were it
possible, true God-ordained Priests, for teaching. But as yet, though
the Soldier wears openly, and even parades, his butchering-tool,
nowhere, far as I have travelled, did the Schoolmaster make show of
his instructing-tool: nay, were he to walk abroad with birch girt on
thigh, as if he therefrom expected honour, would there not, among the
idler class, perhaps a certain levity be excited?'

In the third year of this Gymnasic period, Father Andreas seems to
have died: the young Scholar, otherwise so maltreated, saw himself for
the first time clad outwardly in sables, and inwardly in quite
inexpressible melancholy. 'The dark bottomless Abyss, that lies under
our feet, had yawned open; the pale kingdoms of Death, with all their
innumerable silent nations and generations, stood before him; the
inexorable word, NEVER! now first showed its meaning. My Mother wept,
and her sorrow got vent; but in my heart there lay a whole lake of
tears, pent-up in silent desolation. Nevertheless the unworn Spirit is
strong; Life is so healthful that it even finds nourishment in Death:
these stern experiences, planted down by Memory in my Imagination,
rose there to a whole cypress-forest, sad but beautiful; waving, with
not unmelodious sighs, in dark luxuriance, in the hottest sunshine,
through long years of youth:--as in manhood also it does, and will do;
for I have now pitched my tent under a Cypress-tree; the Tomb is now
my inexpugnable Fortress, ever close by the gate of which I look upon
the hostile armaments, and pains and penalties of tyrannous Life
placidly enough, and listen to its loudest threatenings with a still
smile. O ye loved ones, that already sleep in the noiseless Bed of
Rest, whom in life I could only weep for and never help; and ye, who
wide-scattered still toil lonely in the monster-bearing Desert, dyeing
the flinty ground with your blood,--yet a little while, and we shall
all meet THERE, and our Mother's bosom will screen us all; and
Oppression's harness, and Sorrow's fire-whip, and all the Gehenna
Bailiffs that patrol and inhabit ever-vexed Time, cannot thenceforth
harm us any more!'

Close by which rather beautiful apostrophe, lies a laboured Character
of the deceased Andreas Futteral; of his nat