xiety? I grant that
it would be a happiness to us all, and a piece of good luck, if Henrik
could obtain the solicited situation--but if he do not get it--well,
what then?--he can get another in a little while. He is yet a mere
youngster, and can very well wait for some years. And his poem--suppose
it should now and never more be regarded as a masterpiece, and should
not obtain the prize--now, in heaven's name! what does it matter? He
would perhaps, from the very circumstance of his having less fortune as
a poet, be only the more practical man, and I confess that would not
mortify me. And I shall wish both the poem and the appointment at the
place where pepper grows if you are to become pale and nervous on its
account! Promise me now next post-day to be reasonable, and not to look
like the waning moon, else I promise you that I shall be downright
angry, and will keep the whole post-bag to myself!"

To his children the father spoke thus: "Have you really neither genius
nor spirit of invention enough to divert and occupy your mother on the
unfortunate post-day? Henrik, it depends upon you whether she be calm or
not; and if you do not convince her that, let your luck in the world be
whatever it may, you can bear it like a man, I must tell you that you
have not deserved all the tenderness which she has shown you!"

Henrik coloured deeply, and the Judge continued: "And you, Gabriele! I
shall never call you my clever girl again, if you do not make a riddle
against the next post-day which shall so occupy your mother that she
shall forget all the rest!"

The following post-day was an exceedingly merry one. Never before had
more interesting topics of conversation been brought forward by Henrik;
never before had the mother been so completely seduced into the
discussions of the young people. At the very moment when the post-hour
arrived she was deeply busied in solving a riddle, which Henrik and
Gabriele endeavoured to make only the more intricate by their fun and
jokes, whilst they were pretending to assist her in the discovery.

The riddle ran as follows:

Raging war and tumult
Am I never nigh;
And from rain and tempest
To far woods I fly.
In cold, worldly bosoms
My deep grave is made;
And from conflagration
Death has me affrayed.
No one e'er can find me
In the dungeon glooms;
I have no abiding,
Save where freedom blooms.
My morning sun ariseth,
Li