ina! Serpentina!" cried he aloud; and Archivarius Lindhorst
whirled round abruptly, and said: "How now, worthy Herr Anselmus? If
I mistake not, you were pleased to call for my daughter; she is way
in the other side of the house at present, and indeed just taking her
lesson on the harpsichord. Let us go over."

Anselmus, scarcely knowing what he did, followed his conductor; he saw
or heard nothing more, till Archivarius Lindhorst suddenly grasped his
hand, and said: "Here is the place!" Anselmus awoke as from a dream,
and now perceived that he was in a high room, all lined on every side
with book-shelves, and nowise differing from a common library and
study. In the middle stood a large writing-table, with a stuffed
arm-chair before it. "This," said Archivarius Lindhorst, "is your
work-room for the present: whether you may work, some other time, in
the blue library, also where you so suddenly called out my daughter's
name, I yet know not. But now I could wish to convince myself of your
ability to execute this task appointed to you, in the way I wish it
and need it." The student here gathered full courage; and not without
internal self-complacence in the certainty of highly gratifying
Archivarius Lindhorst through his extraordinary talents, pulled out
his drawings and specimens of penmanship from his pocket. But no
sooner had the Archivarius cast his eye on the first leaf, a piece of
writing in the finest English style, than he smiled very oddly, and
shook his head. These motions he repeated at every following leaf, so
that the student Anselmus felt the blood mounting to his face; and at
last, when the smile became quite sarcastic and contemptuous, he
broke out in downright vexation: "The Herr Archivarius does not seem
contented with my poor talents."

"Dear Herr Anselmus," said Archivarius Lindhorst, "you have indeed
fine capacities for the art of calligraphy; but, in the meanwhile, it
is clear enough, I must reckon more on your diligence and good-will
than on your capacity."

The student Anselmus spoke largely of his often-acknowledged
perfection in this art, of his fine Chinese ink, and most select
crow-quills. But Archivarius Lindhorst handed him the English sheet,
and said: "Be judge yourself!" Anselmus felt as if struck by a
thunderbolt, to see his handwriting look so: it was miserable, beyond
measure. There was no rounding in the turns, no hair-stroke where it
should be; no proportion between the capital and sing