e will punish you,
even worse than ye punish yourselves; and still ye lick the dust where
the Old Serpent went before you.

_Kotzebue_.--I am afraid, sir, you have formed to yourself a romantic
and strange idea, both of happiness and of wisdom.

_Sandt_.--I too am afraid it may be so. My idea of happiness is, the
power of communicating peace, good-will, gentle affections, ease,
comfort, independence, freedom, to all men capable of them.

_Kotzebue_.--The idea is, truly, no humble one.

_Sandt_.--A higher may descend more securely on a stronger mind. The
power of communicating those blessings to the capable, is enough for my
aspirations. A stronger mind may exercise its faculties in the divine
work of creating the capacity.

_Kotzebue_.--Childish! childish!--Men have cravings enow already; give
them fresh capacities, and they will have fresh appetites. Let us be
contented in the sphere wherein it is the will of Providence to place
us; and let us render ourselves useful in it to the utmost of our power,
without idle aspirations after impracticable good.

_Sandt_.--O sir! you lead me where I tremble to step; to the haunts of
your intellect, to the recesses of your spirit. Alas! alas! how small
and how vacant is the central chamber of the lofty pyramid?

_Kotzebue_.--Is this to me?

_Sandt_.--To you, and many mightier. Reverting to your own words; could
not you yourself have remained in the sphere you were placed in?

_Kotzebue_.--What sphere? I have written dramas, and novels, and
travels. I have been called to the Imperial Court of Russia.

_Sandt_.--You sought celebrity.--I blame not that. The thick air of
multitudes may be good for some constitutions of mind, as the thinner of
solitudes is for others. Some horses will not run without the clapping
of hands; others fly out of the course rather than hear it. But let us
come to the point. Imperial courts! What do they know of letters? What
letters do they countenance--do they tolerate?

_Kotzebue_.--Plays.

_Sandt_.--Playthings.

_Kotzebue_.--Travels.

_Sandt_.--On their business. O ye paviours of the dreary road along
which their cannon rolls for conquest! my blood throbs at every stroke
of your rammers. When will ye lay them by?

_Kotzebue_.--We are not such drudges.

_Sandt_.--Germans! Germans! Must ye never have a rood on earth ye can
call your own, in the vast inheritance of your fathers?

_Kotzebue_.--Those who strive and labour, gain it; and many