ten seems to be endings when in fact it is
beginning; and thus has it been with my life. May God grant you an old
age as happy, and a spirit as quiet as mine."

Henry and the merchants had listened attentively to the conversation;
and the first particularly was conscious of new developments in his
prophetic soul. Many words, many thoughts, fell like quickening seeds
into his breast, and soon drew him from the narrow circle of his youth
to the heights of the world. The hours just passed lay behind him like
long-revolving years; and it seemed as if he had always thought and
felt as now.

The hermit showed him his books. They consisted of old histories and
poems. Henry turned over the leaves of these huge and beautifully
illuminated works, and his curiosity was strongly excited by the short
lines of the verses, the titles, some of the passages, and the
beautiful pictures which appeared here and there, like embodied words,
to assist the imagination of the reader. The Hermit observed his inward
gratification and explained these singular pictures. All the varied
scenes of life were represented among them. Battles, funereal trains,
marriage ceremonies, shipwrecks, caves, and palaces, kings, heroes,
priests, men in singular costume, strange beasts, were delineated in
different alternations and connexions. Henry could not sate himself
with gazing at them, and wished nothing more than to remain with the
hermit, who irresistibly attracted him, and to be instructed by him in
these books. In the mean time the old man asked whether there were any
more caves; and the hermit told him, that there were some extensive
ones near, to which he would accompany him. The old man was ready; and
the hermit, who observed Henry's interest in the books, induced him to
remain, and to examine them more closely during their absence. Henry
was glad to stay where the books were, and thanked the hermit heartily
for his permission to do so. He turned over their leaves with
indescribable pleasure. At last a book fell into his hands, written in
a foreign tongue, which appeared to him somewhat like Latin or Italian.
He longed greatly to know the language, for the book pleased him
greatly, though he did not understand a syllable of it. It had no
title; but after a little search he found some engravings. They seemed
strangely familiar to him; and on examination, he discovered his own
form quite discernible among the figures. He was terrified, and thought
that