ined 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 honor, 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 labored Character of
the deceased Andreas Futteral; of his natural ability, his deserts in
life (as Prussian Sergeant); with long historical inquiries into the
genealogy of the Futteral Family, here traced back as far as Henry the
Fowler: the whole of which we pass over, not without astonishment. It
only concern