Fountain. To many fondly imagined Fountains, the
Saints' Wells of these days, did I pilgrim; to great Men, to great
Cities, to great Events: but found there no healing. In strange
countries, as in the well-known; in savage deserts, as in the press of
corrupt civilisation, it was ever the same: how could your Wanderer
escape from--_his own Shadow_? Nevertheless still Forward! I felt as
if in great haste; to do I saw not what. From the depths of my own
heart, it called to me, Forwards! The winds and the streams, and all
Nature sounded to me, Forwards! _Ach Gott_, I was even, once for all,
a Son of Time.'

From which is it not clear that the internal Satanic School was still
active enough? He says elsewhere: 'The _Enchiridion of Epictetus_ I
had ever with me, often as my sole rational companion; and regret to
mention that the nourishment it yielded was trifling.' Thou foolish
Teufelsdroeckh! How could it else? Hadst thou not Greek enough to
understand thus much: _The end of Man is an Action, and not a
Thought_, though it were the noblest?

'How I lived?' writes he once: 'Friend, hast thou considered the
"rugged all-nourishing Earth," as Sophocles well names her; how she
feeds the sparrow on the house-top, much more her darling, man? While
thou stirrest and livest, thou hast a probability of victual. My
breakfast of tea has been cooked by a Tartar woman, with water of the
Amur, who wiped her earthen kettle with a horse-tail. I have roasted
wild-eggs in the sand of Sahara; I have awakened in Paris _Estrapades_
and Vienna _Malzleins_, with no prospect of breakfast beyond elemental
liquid. That I had my Living to seek saved me from Dying,--by suicide.
In our busy Europe, is there not an everlasting demand for Intellect,
in the chemical, mechanical, political, religious, educational,
commercial departments? In Pagan countries, cannot one write Fetishes?
Living! Little knowest thou what alchemy is in an inventive Soul; how,
as with its little finger, it can create provision enough for the body
(of a Philosopher); and then, as with both hands, create quite other
than provision; namely, spectres to torment itself withal.'

Poor Teufelsdroeckh! Flying with Hunger always parallel to him; and a
whole Infernal Chase in his rear; so that the countenance of Hunger is
comparatively a friend's! Thus must he, in the temper of ancient Cain,
or of the modern Wandering Jew,--save only that he feels himself not
guilty and but suffering the