home he was nobody.

Faller and his wife lived happily together, they were mutually
convinced that they were the most excellent people in the world; if
they were only free from debt, and had a little money to spare, they
would astonish everybody. They saved and toiled, but were always in
good humour. Faller was not a particularly skilful workman, so he
chiefly confined himself to the largest sized clocks--for the larger
the work, the easier it is to complete--and he amused himself and his
wife, by telling her of all the various theatrical pieces in which he
had acted, during his garrison life, in different costumes. His wife
was always a grateful public, and the royal mantle, crown, and
diamonds, which Faller described, were all before her eyes.

How different from all this was Lenz's "home!" darker and darker became
the shadows that obscured his soul; everything that passed seemed full
of bitterness and woe.

When he could not escape being present at the practisings and meetings
of the Choral Society, and was forced to sing songs of love,
tenderness, and delight, his soul was sad within him. Is it really so?
is it possible? Have men ever existed, so full of love and joy? and yet
once on a time you too.... He often insisted on singing mournful
melodies, and his companions were astonished at the heartrending tones
of his voice, which sounded like the most touching lament; but while
formerly he could never sing enough, he now soon gave over, and
complained of fatigue, and was quickly displeased by any casual word,
and then, as quickly offering his hand, and asking forgiveness, where
there really was nothing to forgive.

Lenz tried to check such gloomy feelings, and said to himself that his
irritable, nervous state proceeded from not being sufficiently
industrious. He, therefore, now eagerly resumed his labours, but there
seemed no blessing on his toil; he was often obliged to take out and
throw aside what he had worked hard at half the night. His hand often
trembled when he tried to guide the file, and even his father's file
that he had sharpened afresh, and that had never failed in soothing
him, had lost its influence. Angry with himself, he forced himself to
be quiet and attentive to his work. "If you lose that too," said he,
"then you have lost all--once on a time, you were happy alone with your
art, now you must be the same. Just as one may hear a piece of music,
in the midst of a noise from other causes, and you