"We were three brothers, and had no sisters. Our father was a proud man when we three came, but in those days children were not so kindly treated as now, and I think it was better; it made us independent, and a single word, good or bad, made more impression than a hundred now. My brother Lorenz, who was called by our family name Lenz at home, the father of the present Lenz, was the eldest, and I the youngest. Our second brother, Mathes, was a very handsome young man; he was carried off by that great butcher of mankind, Napoleon, and was killed in Spain. I have been on the battlefield where he fell. There is a high hill, and a mass of soldiers lie buried there, so what chance of finding out a brother among them! But what's the use of telling you that? Not long after Mathes had become a soldier, my brother Lenz went to Switzerland for a few months, and took me with him. Who so happy as I? My brother was a quiet, thoughtful man; every one must admit that. He was like a first-rate clock—exact and punctual,—but stern, very stern. I was a wild, unruly lad, good for nothing, nor had I any notion of sitting in a workshop. What did my brother do? He took me to a fair for hiring servants at St. Gall, which took place every year. The great Swiss farmers hire their shepherd lads from Swabia.
"As I was standing beside my brother in the marketplace, a stout, bluff Appenzel farmer came up, and stood opposite us, his feet well apart, leaning on a stick, and said to my brother, 'What is the price of the lad?'
"I gave the saucy answer, 'A log of Swiss impudence, six feet broad, and six feet high.'
"The stout farmer laughed, and said to my brother: 'The boy is no fool. I like him, and we can arrange the terms together.'
"Lorenz and the farmer came to an agreement, and the only speech my brother made me at parting was, 'If you come home before the winter you shall be well flogged.'
"I was a goatherd for a whole summer. It was a pleasant enough life, and I was constantly singing; but often the words rang in my ears 'What is the price of the lad?' and I felt as if I had been sold like Joseph in Egypt. Like him, my brother sold me, but I never became a great man.
"I returned home when winter came. I was not well used at home, but then I did not deserve to be so. In the spring I said to my father, 'Give me a hundred gulden's worth of clocks, and I will take them about the country to sell.' 'You are more likely to get a hundred boxes on the ear,' said my brother Lorenz, on hearing this.
"At that time the whole business had devolved on him, and the household also. Our father was in bad health, and our mother did not venture to interfere. In those days women were not so much thought of as now, and I think on that very account they were better off, and their husbands too. I then contrived to persuade a pedlar to take me with him, to carry his clocks. I was almost bent double with fatigue, and often suffered miserably from hunger, and yet never could escape from my tyrant. I was as much under the yoke as any carthorse, but the latter is not allowed to starve, because its value would be gone. I sometimes thought of robbing my master, and running away, but then again, as a penance for my wicked thoughts, I would determine to stay with my tormentor.
"In spite of all I remained both honest and healthy. I must relate one circumstance here, because it is connected with my subsequent history, and cost me dear. I went to Spain with Anton Striegler. We were in a large village about twenty miles from Valencia; it was a fine summer afternoon, and we were sitting outside a posada, as an inn is called in Spain, chatting to each other. A handsome young man, with large black eyes, was passing; but, on hearing us talking, he stood still all of a sudden, and begun throwing up his arms as if he were mad. I gave Striegler a push to look at him, when the lad rushed up to us, and seized Striegler's hand. 'What were you speaking?' asked he, in Spanish. 'That is no one's business,' said Striegler, also in Spanish. 'What language was it?' asked the Spaniard again. 'German,' said Striegler. The young man grasped the holy effigy he wore round his neck, and kissed it as if he would devour it, and at last he told us that his father at home spoke that language, and begged us to come with him. On our way he related to us, that his father came to this village more than forty years ago, that he was a German, and had married here. For some weeks past he had been lying dangerously ill, and for several days he had been speaking in a language none of them understood, and his father could no longer understand his wife, or children, or grandchildren. It was quite heartbreaking. We went into the house, where we found an old man, with snow white hair and long beard, calling out, 'Get me a bunch of rosemary;' and then he sung, 'And plant it on my grave!' I shuddered on seeing and hearing this, but Striegler went up boldly to him, saying, 'How are you, fellow countryman?' Never, if I live a hundred years, can I forget the expression of the old man's eyes on hearing these words; they were wide open and fixed, and he first stretched out his hands, and then crossed them over his breast, as if he were pressing the precious words to his heart. Striegler spoke again, and the old man gave very rational answers, sometimes rather confused, but on the whole quite intelligible. He was originally from Hesse, but had taken the name of Caballero, and was naturalised in Spain. For fifty years he had spoken nothing but Spanish, and now at the point of death, he could not speak a single word of Spanish—it all seemed blown away into the air; and I believe, though I am not so sure of this, that he no longer even understood a syllable of Spanish. The whole family were most thankful that we could interpret what the old man said.
"Striegler profited by being so much considered in the village, and did a good turn of business there; and in the meanwhile I sat with the old man, and the best time I ever had was when I travelled with Striegler. I got plenty to eat and drink; the people fed me up as if it were to benefit the old man. He did not die, after all, and we went away in three days; but scarcely were we a couple of miles on our road, when the son came riding after us, to say that his father was calling for us in such distress that we must go back. We did so, and heard him talking German, but we could not understand what he wanted, and exclaiming, 'Now I am going home!' he died."