or their superstition. Leaned a
lass in Sunday garb, cross ankled, against her cottage corner, whose
low roof was snow-clad, and with her crantz did seem a summer flower
sprouting from winter's bosom. I drew rein, and out pencil and brush to
limn her for thee. But the simpleton, fearing the evil eye, or glamour,
claps both hands to her face and flies panic-stricken. But indeed, they
are not more superstitious than the Sevenbergen folk, which take thy
father for a magician. Yet softly, sith at this moment I profit by
this darkness of their minds; for, at first, sitting down to write this
diary, I could frame nor thought nor word, so harried and deaved was I
with noise of mechanical persons, and hoarse laughter at dull jests of
one of these particoloured 'fools,' which are so rife in Germany. But
oh, sorry wit, that is driven to the poor resource of pointed ear-caps,
and a green and yellow body. True wit, methinks, is of the mind. We
met in Burgundy an honest wench, though over free for my palate, a
chambermaid, had made havoc of all these zanies, droll by brute force.
Oh, Digressor! Well then, I to be rid of roaring rusticalls, and
mindless jests, put my finger in a glass and drew on the table a great
watery circle; whereat the rusticalls did look askant, like venison at
a cat; and in that circle a smaller circle. The rusticalls held their
peace; and besides these circles cabalistical, I laid down on the table
solemnly yon parchment deed I had out of your house. The rusticalls held
their breath. Then did I look as glum as might be, and muttered
slowly thus 'Videamus--quam diu tu fictus morio--vosque veri
stulti--audebitis--in hac aula morari, strepitantes ita--et olentes: ut
dulcissimae nequeam miser scribere.' They shook like aspens, and stole
away on tiptoe one by one at first, then in a rush and jostling, and
left me alone; and most scared of all was the fool: never earned jester
fairer his ass's ears. So rubbed I their foible, who first rubbed mine;
for of all a traveller's foes I dread those giants twain, Sir Noise, and
eke Sir Stench. The saints and martyrs forgive my peevishness. Thus I
write to thee in balmy peace, and tell thee trivial things scarce worthy
ink, also how I love thee, which there was no need to tell, for well
thou knowest it. And oh, dear Margaret, looking on their roses, which
grew in summer, but blow in winter, I see the picture of our true
affection; born it was in smiles and bliss, but soon adve