e claims all your respect
and devotion. No nonsense of your being this, that, and t'other here. Be
truthful and be honest; neither pretend to be man of fortune nor man
of fashion; own fairly to her by what chance you adventured upon this
strange life; tell her, in a word, you are the son of Potts,--Potts the
'pothecary,--and neither a hero nor a plenipotentiary!"

I have no doubt, most amiable of readers, that nothing can seem possibly
more easy than to have done all this. You deem it the natural and
ordinary course; just as, foi instance, a merchant in good credit and
repute would feel no repugnance to calling all his creditors together to
inspect his books, and see that, though apparently solvent, he was, in
truth, utterly bankrupt. And yet there is some difficulty in doing this.
Does not the law of England expressly declare that no man need criminate
himself? Who accuses you, then, Potts? And then I bethought me of the
worthy old alderman, who, on learning that "Robinson Crusoe" was a
fiction, exclaimed, "It may be so; but I have lost the greatest pleasure
of my life in hearing it." What a profound philosophy was there in that
simple avowal! With what illusions are we not cheered on through life!
how unreal the joys that delight and the triumphs that elate us; for we
are all hypochondriacs, and are as often cured with bread pills as
with bold remedies. "Yes," thought I, "this young girl is happy in the
thought that her companion is a person of rank, station, and influence;
she feels a sort of self-elation in being associated with one endowed
with all worldly advantages. Shall I rob her of this illusion? Shall I
rudely deprive her of what imparts a charm to her existence, and gives a
sort of romantic interest to her daily life? Harsh and needless would be
the cruelty!"

While I thus argued with myself, she had opened her guide-book, and was
eagerly reading away about the road we were travelling. "We are to halt
at Boemerstein, are we not?" asked she.

"Yes," said I, "we rest there for the night. It is one of those little
villages of which a German writer has given us a striking picture."

"Auerstadt," broke she in.

"So you have read him? You read German?"

"Yes, tolerably; that is, well enough for Schiller and Uhland, but not
well enough for Jean Paul and Goethe."

"Never mind; trust me for a guide; you shall now venture upon both."

"But how will you be able to give up time valuable as yours to such
teachin