but he would soon push it up
again to look if the light were totally extinguished; nor would he be
satisfied without getting up and feeling it. He would then lie down
again, and turn on the other side, and again draw down the nightcap;
but soon the idea would cross his mind that possibly the coals might
not have become cold in the little fire-pot beneath--the fire might
not be totally out--that a spark might be kindled, fly forth, and do
mischief; and he would get out of his bed and creep down the ladder,
for it could not be called the stairs; and when, on reaching the
fire-pot, he perceived that not a spark was visible, and he might
retire to rest in peace, he would stop half way up, being seized with
the fear that the iron bolt might not be properly drawn across the
door, or the shutters properly secured; and down he would go again,
wearying his poor thin legs. By the time he crept back to his humble
couch he would be half frozen, and his teeth would be chattering in
his head with the cold. Then he would draw the covering higher up
around him, and his nightcap lower down over his eyes, and his
thoughts would wander from the business and burdens of the day; but
ah! not to soothing scenes. His reveries were never fraught with
pleasure, for then came old reminiscences, and hung their curtains up;
and sometimes they were full of pins, that pricked so severely as to
bring tears into his eyes. Such wounds old Anthon often received, and
his warm tears fell on the coverlet or the floor, sounding as if one
of sorrow's deepest strings had burst; they did not dry up, but
kindled into a flame, which cast its light for him on the panorama of
a life--a picture which never vanished from his mind. Then he would
dry his eyes with his nightcap, and chase away the tears, and
endeavour to chase away the picture with them; but it would not go,
for it was imbedded in his heart. The panorama did not follow the
exact order of events; also the saddest parts were generally most
prominent. And what were these?

"Beautiful are the beech groves in Denmark," it is said; but still
more beautiful did the beech trees in the meadows near Wartburg seem
to Anthon. Mightier and more majestic seemed to him the old oak up at
the proud baronial castle, where the swinging lantern hung over the
dark masses of rock; sweeter was the perfume of the apple blossoms
there than in the Danish land; he seemed to feel the charming scent
even now. A tear trickled down