he were likely to be a Thorild,[15] or any
other of our greatest poets----but I see no signs of that! and this
poetasterism, this literary idleness, which perpetually either lifts
young people above the clouds, or places them under the earth, so that
for pure cloud and dust they are unable to see the good noble gifts of
actual life--I would the devil had it! The direction which Henrik is now
taking grieves me seriously. I had rejoiced myself so in the thought of
his being a first-rate miner; in his being instrumental in turning to
good account our mines, our woods and streams, those noblest foundations
of Sweden's wealth, and to which it was worth while devoting a good
head; and now, instead of that, he hangs his on one side; sits with a
pen in his hand, and rhymes 'face' and 'grace,' 'heart' and 'smart!' It
is quite contrary to my feelings! I wish Stjernhoek would come here soon.
Now there's a fellow! he will turn out something first-rate! I wish he
were coming soon; perhaps he might influence Henrik, and induce him to
give up this verse-making, which, perhaps, at bottom, is only vanity."

Elise and the daughters were silent. For a considerable time now, Elise
had accustomed herself to silence when her husband grumbled. But
often--whenever it was necessary--she would return to the subject of his
discontent at a time when he was calm, and then, talk it over with him;
and this line of tactics succeeded admirably. She made use of them on
the present occasion.

"Ernst," said she to him in the evening, "it grieves me that you are so
displeased with Henrik's poetical bent. Ah! it has delighted me so much,
precisely because I fancied that it is real, and that in this case it
may be as useful as any other can be. Still I never will encourage
anything in him which is opposed to your wishes."

"My dear Elise," returned he mildly, "manage this affair according to
your own convictions and conscience. It is very probable that you are
right, and that I am wrong. All that I beseech of you is, that you watch
over yourself, in order that affection to your first-born may not
mislead you to mistake for excellence that which is only mediocre, and
his little attempts for masterpieces. Henrik may be, if he can, a
distinguished poet and literary man; but he must not as yet imagine
himself anything; above all things, he must not suppose it possible to
be a distinguished man in any profession without preparing himself by
serious labour, and