en that any vivid tormenting dream ever oppressed
thee with such a demon from fairyland. If such were the case, thou
wouldst keenly enough figure out the poor student Anselmus' woe; but
shouldst thou never have even dreamed such things, then will thy quick
fancy, for Anselmus' sake and mine, be obliging enough to inclose
itself for a few moments in the crystal. Thou art drowned in dazzling
splendor; all objects about thee appear illuminated and begirt with
beaming rainbow hues; all quivers and wavers, and clangs and drones,
in the sheen; thou art floating motionless as in a firmly congealed
ether, which so presses thee together that the spirit in vain gives
orders to the dead and stiffened body. Weightier and weightier the
mountain burden lies on thee; more and more does every breath exhaust
the little handful of air, that still plays up and down in the narrow
space; thy pulse throbs madly; and, cut through with horrid anguish,
every nerve is quivering and bleeding in this deadly agony. Have
pity, kind reader, on the student Anselmus of whom this inexpressible
torture laid hold in his glass prison; but he felt too well that death
could not relieve him; for did he not awake from the deep swoon
into which the excess of pain had cast him, and open his eyes to new
wretchedness, when the morning sun shone clear into the room? He could
move no limb; but his thoughts struck against the glass, stupefying
him with discordant clang; and instead of the words, which the spirit
used to speak from within him, he now heard only the stifled din of
madness. Then he exclaimed in his despair "O Serpentina! Serpentina!
save me from this agony of Hell!" And it was as if faint sighs
breathed around him, which spread like green transparent elder-leaves
over the glass; the clanging ceased; the dazzling, perplexing glitter
was gone, and he breathed more freely.

"Have not I myself solely to blame for my misery? Ah! Have not I
sinned against thee, thou kind, beloved Serpentina? Have not I raised
vile doubts of thee? Have not I lost my faith, and, with it, all,
all that was to make me so blessed? Ah! Thou wilt now never, never
be mine; for me the Golden Pot is lost, and I shall not behold its
wonders any more. Ah, but once could I see thee, but once hear thy
gentle sweet voice, thou lovely Serpentina!"

So wailed the student Anselmus, caught with deep piercing sorrow; then
spoke a voice close by him: "What the devil ails you Herr Studiosus?
Wha