s master's name, that the
day is therefore his name's-day. In an impulse of affectionate
devotion he presses on him all the gay articles just received from
Lene, the flowers and ribbons, the magnificent cake, and, but shyly,
as if it were not quite worthy of a poet, the sausage. With great
gentleness, Sachs thanks the lad and bids him keep the things for
himself, adding a request that he make himself fine with those
same flowers and ribbons to accompany him presently to the meadow
outside the city gates where the song-contest is to be held. His
stately herald he shall be. Sachs's friendliness encourages the
boy to venture a small liberty. "May I not rather go as your
groom's-man? Master, dear master, you must marry again!"--"You
would be glad of a mistress in the house?" asks Sachs dreamily.--"It
would make, in my opinion, a much more imposing household!" There
is popular talk and expectation of it, as an outcome of the coming
song-contest, David intimates; "You will hardly have much trouble,
as I think, in singing Beckmesser out of the field; I hardly believe
he will make himself very conspicuous to-day!"--"I hardly believe so,
either," Sachs smiles: "But go now, and be careful not to disturb
his lordship. Come back when you have made yourself fine."

Left alone, Sachs sinks into thought again, sitting there with
his book on his knees and his head propped on his hand. We are
allowed to follow his reflections, those of a philosopher,--but not
one standing apart and watching a little scornfully the vagaries
of men; a very human being, taking part in them, without losing a
humourous sense of their character. "Illusion! Illusion! Everywhere
illusion! Whichever way I bend my inquiry, searching the chronicles
of the city and those of the world, to discover the reason why
people, in vain and frantic rage, torment and oppress themselves
and one another to the point of bloodshed! No one has any good
of it, or receives any thanks for it. Through its working, the
defeated and put to flight fancies himself chasing the foe. He
is deaf to his own cry of pain. When he twists the knife in his
own flesh, he has an idea that he is doing himself a pleasure! Who
shall find a name for it? One name, forsooth, befits it: Ancient
Illusion it is, without which nothing happens, nothing either goes or
stands still. If it halts in its career, it merely while slumbering
gathers new force; it presently wakes up, and then see who can
master it!...