rich and poor are educated together, the latter gratui

tously. He then went to Munich, with a view to learn

ing art and becoming a landscape-painter. Finding, however, that his pictures, though well-intentioned,

were indifferently executed, he abandoned this project, and studied instead at Heidelberg and Berlin. During

his student years he published a volume of graceful verses, and his first prose work, Der grüne Heinrich. A series of tales, published under the collective title of The People of Seldwyla, first made Keller's fame; for the Grüne Heinrich had been of such a peculiar character that it was "caviare to the multitude." Seldwyla is an

imaginary town, intended to be typically Swiss. Our author tells us that it lies in a warm sunny valley, surrounded by forests and hills, and overshadowed by distant mountains. It still boasts its ancient fortifications, and is completely untouched by the march of civilization-in fact, a very Sleepy Hollow. There are ten such stories, of which the palm belongs to an idyl called The Romeo and Juliet of the Village. In humbler circumstances we find reproduced the main features of

Shakespeare's play-the hatred of the fathers, the loves

of the children, the sad tragedy that results. Both as

regards the delineation of character and the reproduction of pictures of Swiss life, the little story is inimitable. Frau Regel Amrain and her Youngest Son makes us ac

quainted with the public duties of a Swiss burgher; while in The Lost Laugh we are introduced into the

midst of Switzerland's manufacturing activity, as well as to the religious dissensions that even now wage fierce war in her borders. Zürich Novels is the title of another cycle of local stories. Here we have unrolled before us a whole panorama of Zürich life at various historical periods, commencing with the thirteenth century. The one that deals with modern Zürich is inimitable for droll humor, caustic observation of Swiss idiosyncrasies of character, and charm of invention.]

About this time it happened that Melchior Böhni had some business to perform in this town; and therefore drove thither a few days before Christmas in a light sledge, smoking his best cigar. It also happened that the Seldwylers arranged a sledging-party for the same day as the Goldachers, and to the same place; and it was to be a costume, or a masked, expedition.

So the Goldacher sledge-procession drove through the streets of the town at midday, and out at the gate, amid sound of bells, post-horns, and cracking of whips, so that the signs on the old houses looked down amazed. In the first sledge sat Strapinski with his bride, in a Polish overcoat of green velvet, laced, and edged and lined with fur. Nettchen was completely wrapped in white fur; blue veils

VOL. X.

protected her face from the cold air and the glare of the snow. The magistrate had been prevented, by some unexpected but the horses were his, and the sledge occurrence, from accompanying them; in which they rode, before which was a gilt woman as decoration, representing Fortuna-for the magistrate's town-house was called Fortuna.

They were followed by fifteen or sixteen other sledges, each containing a gentleman and lady, all gayly dressed and joyous; but not one of the couples was so stately and handsome as the bridal pair. The sledges always bore the sign of the house to which they belonged, like the prows of ships; and the people cried out: "Look, there comes Courage!' "How beautiful Industry is!" Improvement seems to have been fresh varnished, and Economy is fresh gilt!" Ah, there are Jacob's Well and the Pool of Bethesda !" In the Pool of Bethesda-which, having only one horse, modestly closed the procession -Melchior Böhni was driving quietly and cheerfully. As sign of his carriage he had the picture of that Jew who had waited at this pool thirty years to be made whole.

So the fleet sailed along in the sunshine, and soon appeared on the glittering height, approaching its destination. At the same time was heard merry music from the opposite direction.

Out of a sweet-smelling wood covered with hoar-frost there burst a medley of gay colors and forms, that proved to be a sledging-procession, which stood out on the white fields against the blue sky, and was also steering in wondrous array towards the middle of this neighborhood. They were mostly large peasants' carryingsledges, bound two and two together to serve as basis for extraordinary representations and pictures. On the foremost sledge towered an enormous figure, representing the Goddess Fortuna, who seemed to be flying out into space. It was a gigantic straw doll covered with glittering spangles, whose gauze garments fluttere in the air. On the second carriage rode an equally gigantic goat, looking black and gloomy, and pursuing Fortuna with bent horns. This was followed by an enormous erection, which represented a tailor's goose fifteen feet high; then came an immense pair of scissors, which was opened and shut by means of a string, and seemed to regard the sky as blue-silk material for

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a waistcoat. Other similar current suggestions of tailors' work followed, and at the feet of all these emblems sat, on the roomy sledges drawn by four horses, the Seldwyler company in the gayest of costumes, amid loud laughter and singing.

When both processions drove up at the same time on the square before the inn, a noisy scene resulted and there was a great crowd of men and horses. The people of Goldach were surprised and astonished at this wonderful meeting; the Seldwylers, on the other hand, behaved for the present pleasantly and modestly. Their foremost sledge with the Fortuna bore the inscription, Men make clothes;" and so it was that its inmates represented tailors of all nations and ages. It was a sort of historical-ethnographical tailors' procession, which closed with the reversed inscription, "Clothes make men.' In the last sledge bearing this inscription sat, as the work of the heathen and Christian tailors who had driven on before, venerable emperors and kings, counsellors and generals, prelates and abbesses, all in the greatest solemnity.

This tailor assembly skilfully arranged themselves out of their confusion, and modestly stood aside to let the Goldach ladies and gentlemen, with the bridal pair at their head, go into the house, intending afterwards to occupy the lower rooms, which had been kept for them, while the others marched up the wide staircase to the large banquet-hall. The companions of the count thought this behavior very proper, and their surprise changed into merriment and approving smiles at the inexhaustible humor of the Seldwylers. Only the count himself cherished dark sensations, although in his present preoccupation of mind he felt no especial suspicion, and had not even noticed whence the people came. Melchior Böhni, who had carefully put up his Pool of Bethesda, and remained attentively in Strapinski's neighborhood, stated so loudly that he could not fail to hear the name of some other place, not Seldwyla, whence he said the masked procession had come. Both parties were soon seated, each in their own story, before the spread tables, and were abandoning themselves to merry talk and jokes, in the expectation of new pleasures.

These were soon announced for the Goldachers, who went over in couples to

the ballroom, where the musicians were already tuning their violins. When all were drawn up in a circle, and were about to prepare for a dance, an embassy of Seldwylers appeared, who brought the neighborly request and proposal that they might pay the ladies and gentlemen of Goldach a visit, and perform a dance for their amusement. This offer could not well be refused; besides, every one expected much amusement from the merry Seldwylers. The company therefore seated themselves in a large semicircle, according to the directions of the abovementioned embassy, and Strapinski and Nettchen shone in the middle like princely stars.

Now the tailor-groups entered one after another. Each of them represented in dumb-show the motto, "Men make clothes," as well as its converse, by appearing most industriously to make some article of clothing, such as a prince's mantle, priest's robe, and then dressing some shabby person in it, who is suddenly transformed, receives the highest regard, and steps along solemnly to the sound of music. The fables were also represented in a similar manner. An enormous crow appeared, decked itself with peacock's feathers, and hopped about croaking; a wolf, who cut out a sheepskin for himself; and, last of all, a donkey, carrying a terrible lion's skin made of tow, with which he draped himself heroically as with a carbonaro's cloak.

All who appeared thus retired when they had completed their performance, and gradually converted the semicircle of Goldachers into a large ring of spectators, whose centre at last became empty. At this moment the music changed into a serious, melancholy tune, and a last apparition entered the circle. All eyes rested on him. It was a tall young man, in a dark cloak, with beautiful dark hair and a Polish cap; it was no other than Count Strapinski as he wandered along the road on that November day and entered the fatal carriage.

The whole assembly looked in silent expectation at this figure, which solemnly and gravely made a few steps to the music, then seated itself in the centre of the circle, spread its cloak on the ground, seated itself on it tailor-fashion, and began to unpack a bundle. Out of it he took an unfinished count's cloak, exactly

his, whose name was Françoise, had a bastard sister, whom her father was very fond of, and had married to this young prince's butler, who maintained her on as handsome a footing as any of her family. The father died, and left to Françoise for her portion all he possessed about the good town in question, whither she went to reside after his death; but as she was unmarried, and only sixteen, she would not keep house, but went to board with her sister.

The young prince was much struck with this girl, who was very handsome for a light brunette, and of a grace beyond her rank, for she had the air of a young lady of quality, or of a princess, rather than of a bourgeoise. He gazed upon her for a long while; and, as he had never loved, he felt in his heart a pleasure that was new to him. On returning to his chamber he made inquiries about the girl he had seen at church, and recollected that formerly, when she was very young, she used often to play in the château with his sister, whom he put in mind of her. His sister sent for her, gave her a very good reception, and begged her to come often to see her, which she did whenever there was any entertainment or assembly. The young prince was very glad to see her, and so glad that he chose to be deeply in love with her. Knowing that she was of low birth, he thought he should easily obtain of her what he sought; and as he had no opportunity to speak with her, he sent a gentleman of his chamber to her, with orders to acquaint her with his intentions, and settle matters with her. The girl, who was good and pious, replied that she did not believe that so handsome a prince as his master would care to look upon a plain girl like herself, especially as there were such handsome ones in the château that he had no need to look elsewhere, and that she doubted not he had said all this to her out of his own head, and without orders from his master.

As obstacles make desire more violent, the prince now became more intent on his purpose than ever, and wrote to her, begging her to believe everything the gentleman should say to her on his part. She could read and write very well, and she read the letter from beginning to end, but for no entreaties the gentleman could make would she ever reply to it, saying that a person of her humble birth should

never take the liberty to write to so great a prince, but that she begged he would not take her for such a fool as to imagine that he esteemed her enough to love her as much as he said. Moreover, he was mistaken if he fancied that, because she was of obscure birth, he might do as he pleased with her, and that to convince him to the contrary, she felt obliged to declare to him that, bourgeoise as she was, there was no princess whose heart was more upright than hers. There were no treasures in the world she esteemed so much as honor and conscience, and the only favor she begged of him was, that he would not hinder her from preserving that treasure all her life long, and that he might take it for certain that she would never change her mind, though it were to cost her her life.

The young prince did not find this answer to his liking. Nevertheless he loved her but the more for it, and failed not to lay siege to her when she went to mass; and during the whole service he had no eyes but to gaze on that image to which he addressed his devotions. But when she perceived this, she changed her place and went to another chapel, not that she disliked to see him, for she would not have been a reasonable creature if she had not taken pleasure in looking on him; but she was afraid of being seen by him, not thinking highly enough of herself to deserve being loved with a view to marriage, and being too high minded to be able to accommodate herself to a dishonorable love. When she saw that in whatever part of the church she placed herself the prince had mass said quite near it, she went no more to that church, but to the most distant one she could find. Moreover, when the prince's sister often sent for her, she always excused herself on the plea of indisposition.

The prince, seeing he could not have access to her, had recourse to his butler, and promised him a large reward if he served him in this affair. The butler, both to please his master and for the hope of lucre, promised to do so cheerfully. He made it a practice to relate daily to the prince all she said and did, and assured him, among other things, that she avoided as much as possible all opportunities of seeing him. The prince's violent desire for an interview with her set him upon devising another expedient. As he was

already beginning to be a very good horse- | man, he bethought him of going to ride his great horses in a large open place of the town, exactly opposite to the house of the butler, in which Françoise resided. One day, after many courses and leaps, which she could see from her chamber window, he let himself fall off his horse into a great puddle. Though he was not hurt, he took care to make great moans, and asked if there was no house into which he might go and change his clothes. Every one offered him his own; but some one having remarked that the butler's was the nearest and the best, it was chosen in preference to any of the others. He was shown into a well-furnished chamber, and as his clothes were all muddy, he stripped to his shirt and went to bed. Every one except his gentleman having gone away to fetch other clothes for the prince, he sent for his host and hostess, and asked them where was Françoise.

They had a good deal of trouble to find her, for as soon as she had seen the prince come in, she had gone and hid herself in the remotest corner of the house. Her sister found her at last, and begged her not to be afraid to come and see so polite and worthy a prince.

แ

What! sister," said Françoise, "you, whom I regard as my mother, would you persuade me to speak to a young prince of whose intentions I cannot be ignorant, as you well know!"

But her sister used so many arguments, and promised so earnestly not to leave her alone, that Françoise went with her, with a countenance so pale and dejected, that she was an object rather to inspire pity than love. When the young prince saw her at his bedside, he took her cold and trembling hand, and said, "Why, Françoise, do you think me such a dangerous and cruel man that I eat the women I look at? Why do you so much fear a man who desires only your honor and adyantage? You know that I have everywhere sought in vain for opportunities to see and speak to you. To grieve me the more, you have shunned the places where I had been used to see you at mass, and thereby you have deprived me of the satisfaction of my eyes and tongue. But all this has availed you nothing. I have done what you have seen in order to come hither, and have run the risk of breaking my neck

in order to have the pleasure of speaking to you without restraint. I entreat you then, Françoise, since it would be hard for me to have taken all this pains to no purpose, that as I have so much love for you, you will have a little for me."

After waiting a long while for her reply, and seeing she had tears in her eyes, and durst not look up, he drew her towards him and almost succeeded in kissing her. "No, my lord, no," she then said, "what you ask cannot be. Though I am but a worm in comparison with you, honor is so dear to me that I would rather die than wound it in the least degree for any pleasure in the world; and my fear, lest those who have seen you come in conceive a false opinion of me, makes me tremble as you see. Since you are pleased to do me the honor to address me, you will also pardon the liberty I take in replying to you as honor prescribes. I am not, my lord, so foolish or so blind as not to see and know the advantages with which God has endowed you, and to believe that she who shall possess the heart and person of such a prince will be the happiest person in the world. But what good does that do me? That happiness is not for me or for any woman of my rank; and I should be a downright simpleton if I even entertained the desire. What reason can I believe you have for addressing yourself to me, but that the ladies of your house. whom you love, and who have so much grace and beauty, are so virtuous that you dare not ask of them what the lowness of my condition makes you expect of me? I am sure that if you had of such as me what you desire, that weakness would supply you with matter to entertain your mistresses for two good hours; but I beg you to believe, my lord, that I am not disposed to afford you that pleasure. I was brought up in a house in which I learned what it is to love. My father and mother were among your good servants. Since then it has not pleased God that I should be born a princess to marry you, or in_a_rank sufficiently high to be your friend, I entreat you not to think of reducing me to the rank of the unfortunates of my sex since there is no one who esteems you more than I, or more earnestly desires that you may be one of the happiest princes in Christendom. If you want women of my station for your diversion, you will find plenty in this