“He is a man like ourselves!” answered Otto. “He is the first magistrate of the land, and as such we owe him the highest reverence and obedience. Birth, and not worth, gives him the high post which he fills. He ought only to will that which is good; to exercise justice. His duties are equally great with those of his subjects.”
“But more difficult, my son!” said the old man. “It is nothing, as a flower, to adorn the garland; more difficult is it to be the hand which weaves the garland. The ribbon must be tight as well as gently tied; it must not cut into the stems, and yet it must not be too loose. Yes, you young men talk according to your wisdom! Yes, you are wise! quite as wise as the woman who kept a roasted chicken for supper. She placed it upon a pewter plate upon the glowing coals, and went out to attend to her affairs. When she returned the plate was melted, and the chicken lay among the ashes. ‘What a wise cat I have!’ said she; ‘she has eaten I the plate and left the chicken!’ See, you talk just so, and regard things from the same foolish point of view. Do not speak like the rest of them in the city! ‘Fear God, and honor the king!’ We have nothing to argue with these two; they transact their business between them! The French resemble young students; when these have made their examen artium they imagine they are equal to the whole world: they grow restive, and give student-feasts! The French must have a Napoleon, who can give their something to do! If they be left to themselves they will play mad pranks!”
“Let us first see what the papers really say,” replied Otto.
The following day a large letter arrived; it was from Wilhelm:—
“My excellent Otto,—We have all drunk to Otto Thostrup’s health. I raised the glass, and drank the health. The friendship’s dissonance YOU has dissolved itself into a harmonious THOU, and thou thyself hast given the accord. All at home speak of thee; even the Kammerjunker’s Mamsell chose lately thee, and not her work-box, as a subject of conversation. The evening as thou drovest over the Jutland heaths I seated myself at the piano, and played thy whole journey to my sisters. The journey over the heath I gave them in a monotonous piece, composed of three tones, quite dissimilar to that composed by Rousseau. My sisters were near despair; but I told them it was not more uninteresting than the heath. Sometimes I made a little flight, a quaver; that was the heath-larks which flew up into the air. The introduction to the gypsy-chorus in ‘Preciosa’ signified the German gypsy-flock. Then came the thema out of ‘Jeannot and Collin’—‘O, joyous days of childhood!’—and then thou wast at home. I thundered powerfully down in the bass; that was the North Sea, the chorus in thy present grand’ opéra. Thou canst well imagine that it was quite original.
“For the rest, everything at home remains in its old state. I have been in Svendborg, and have set to music that sweet poem, ‘The Wishes,’ by Carl Bagger. His verses seem to me a little rough; but something will certainly come out of the fellow! Thy own wishes are they which he has expressed. Besides this, the astonishing tidings out of France have given us, and all good people here, an electrical shock. Yes, thou in thy solitude hast certainly heard nothing of the brilliant July days. The Parisians have deposed Charles X. If the former Revolution was a blood-fruit, this one is a true passionflower, suddenly sprung up, exciting astonishment through its beauty, and as soon as the work is ended rolling together its leaves. My cousin Joachim, who as thou knowest is just now at Paris, has lived through these extraordinary days. The day before yesterday we received a long, interesting letter from him, which gave us—of the particulars as well as of the whole—a more complete idea than the papers can give us. People assemble in groups round the post-houses to receive the papers as they arrive. I have extracted from my cousin’s letter what has struck me most, and send thee these extracts in a supplement. Thou canst thus in thy retirement still live in the world. A thousand greetings from all here. Thou hast a place in mamma’s heart, but not less so in mine.
“Thy friend and brother,
“WILHELM.
“P. S.—It is true! My sister Sophie begs thee to bring her a stone from the North Sea. Perhaps thou wilt bring for me a bucket of water; but it must not incommode thee!”
This hearty letter transported Otto into the midst of the friendly circle in Funen. The corner of the paper where Wilhelm’s name stood he pressed to his lips. His heart was full of noble friendship.
The extract which Wilhelm had made from his cousin’s letter was short and descriptive. It might be compared with a beautiful poem translated into good prose.