I appeared to be forgetting; he granted me
another year's leave of absence, bidding me bluffly not to be a bookworm
and forget I was an Englishman.' The idea that I was deceiving him never
entered my mind.

I was deceiving everybody, myself in the bargain, as a man must do
when in chase of a woman above him in rank. The chase necessitates
deceit--who knows? chicanery of a sort as well; it brings inevitable
humiliations; such that ever since the commencement of it at speed I
could barely think of my father with comfort, and rarely met him with
pleasure. With what manner of face could I go before the prince or
the margravine, and say, I am an English commoner, the son of a man of
doubtful birth, and I claim the hand of the princess? What contortions
were not in store for these features of mine! Even as affairs stood now,
could I make a confidant of Temple and let him see me through the
stages of the adventure? My jingling of verses, my fretting about
the signification of flowers, and trifling with symbols, haunted me
excrutiatingly, taunting me with I know not what abject vileness of
spirit.

In the midst of these tortures an arrow struck me, in the shape of an
anonymous letter, containing one brief line: 'The princess is in need of
help.'

I threw my books aside, and repaired to Count Fretzel's chateau,
from which, happily, my father was absent; but the countenance of the
princess gave me no encouragement to dream I could be of help to her;
yet a second unsigned note worded in a quaint blunt manner, insisted
that it was to me she looked. I chanced to hear the margravine,
addressing Baroness Turckems, say: 'The princess's betrothal,' what
further, escaped me. Soon after, I heard that Prince Otto was a visitor
at the lake-palace. My unknown correspondent plied me a third time.

I pasted the scrap in my neglected book of notes and reflections, where
it had ample space and about equal lucidity. It drew me to the book,
nearly driving me desperate; I was now credulous of anything, except
that the princess cared for help from me. I resolved to go home; I had
no longer any zeal for study. The desolation of the picture of England
in my mind grew congenial. It became imperative that I should go
somewhere, for news arrived of my father's approach with a French
company of actors, and deafening entertainments were at hand. On the
whole, I thought it decent to finish my course at the University, if I
had not quite lost the power