resting
than the thing itself; and I shall have more to say on that subject
when I have finished it."

Cyprian read:

PHENOMENA.

When any allusion was made to the last siege of Dresden, Anselmus
turned even paler than he ordinarily was. He would fold his hands in
his lap--he would gaze before him, lost in melancholy memories--he
would murmur to himself,

"God of Heaven, were I to put my legs into my new riding-boots at the
proper time, and run across the bridge towards Neustadt, paying no
attention to burning straw, and the bursting shells, I have no doubt
that this great personage and the other would, put his head out of his
carriage window and say, with a polite bow, 'Come along, my good sir,
without any ceremony. I have room for you.' But there was I shut up and
hemmed in in the middle of the accursed Marmot's-burrow, all ramparts,
embankments, trenches, star-batteries, covered ways, &c., suffering
hunger and misery as much as the best of them. Didn't it come to this,
that if one happened to turn over the pages of a Roux's dictionary by
way of passing the time, and came upon the word 'Eat,' one's exhausted
stomach cried out in utter amazement, 'Eat? Now what does that mean?'
People who had once on a time been fat buttoned their skin over them,
like a double-breasted coat, a natural Spencer! Oh, heavens, if only
that Master of the Rolls--that Lindhorst--hadn't been there! Popowicz
of course wanted to kill me, but the Dolphin sprinkled marvellous
life-balsam out of its silver-blue nostrils. And Agafia!" When he spoke
this name, Anselmus was wont to get up from his seat, jump just a little,
once, twice, three times; and then sit down again. It was always quite
useless to ask him what he really meant, on the whole, by those
extraordinary sayings and grimaces. He merely answered, "Can I possibly
describe what happened with Popowicz and Agafia without being supposed
to be out of my mind?" And every one would laugh gently, as much as to
say, "Well, my good fellow, we suppose that whether or not."

One drear, cloudy October evening, Anselmus, who was understood to be
somewhere a long way off--came in at the door of a friend of his. He
seemed to be moved to the depths of his being, he was kindlier and
tenderer than at other times--almost pathetic. His humour (often
perhaps too wildly discursive, too universally antagonistic) was bowing
itself, tamed and bridled, before the mighty Spir