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which will be raised for him between heaven and earth!—Perhaps, Father—O my poor father! find out for yourself another name,—or the very boys in the streets will point their fingers at you, the boys who have seen your son's effigy in the market-place of Leipzick.

And you too, my Francis—must you likewise?—O my children! how you pierce my heart!

You see that I too have a spirit;—but my spirit is a scorpion's spirit!—Yes, that poor ordinary creature, that Francis, that stock, that wooden puppet, so frigid, so insensible;—and all those pretty epithets with which you were pleased to mark the contract 'twixt the brothers, when he sat on your knee and pinched your cheek.—He, poor creature,—'twas of me you spoke,—he will die within his own bounds, moulder away, and be forgotten,—while his brother's fame, the renown of that great, that universal genius, shall fly from one extremity of the earth to the other!—Yes, with uplifted hands, I thank thee, Heaven! that the poor Francis, the cold, the stupid stock—has no resemblance of his brother.