y moat, and asked our teacher about it. 'There is no immortality for
dogs,' he answered, which made me indescribably sorrowful. It was a
Sunday evening. I told it to my nurse, and wept bitterly.

"At Easter, in 1780, our new teacher came. He had considerable
knowledge, and lived very quiet and retired, as he secretly reckoned
himself one of the Moravian brothers. We clung to him with deep love,
for he devoted himself entirely to us. With no other man did we prefer
walking; and all his conversation was instructive, for the most part
religious. His endeavours to conceal from us his inclination for that
sect which my father hated, gave an air of mystery to his words. We
gained much in serious feeling through him. He accustomed us not to
speak lightly of God or Jesus; and on his departure, at the end of two
years, we were so well grounded in this that months passed without our
once falling into this error, and when it did happen we sorrowed
secretly with deep repentance; we left our most amusing game and prayed
right heartily; we were, indeed, ourselves at last inclined to Pietism,
for all worldly pleasures were condemned, or looked upon as injurious
dissipations. So-called books of amusement, bordering upon novels, were
considered good for nothing; even Gellert's dramas were reckoned among
his youthful sins; places of amusement--balls, worldly concerts--were
workshops of the devil! Only oratorios were bearable. Comedies were
undoubted sins against the Holy Ghost. On my brother, who was naturally
inclined for melancholy, these opinions took far deeper hold; he wept
often in secret over his sins, as he called them. I envied him for
this, considering myself as a reprobate and him as a child of God; but
with all my endeavours I could not succeed in being so correct! I
continually rejoiced at the sorrowful emotions which often overcame my
soft heart.

"Still, still do I consecrate to thee my thanks, thou good and
righteous teacher! Thou wast the most faithful shepherd of thy little
flock! He lives still, near eighty years of age. For thirty years I
have only once seen him, but last year, when my brother died, he wrote
me a letter, full of faith and piety. In a dream--he attached much
importance to dreams--he had visited our house on the day of the death
of my brother, his Ernst. It is touching to read his assurances that
his convictions were the same as they had been forty years before.

"There is one blessed hour I bear in m