“Dear Herr Anselmus,” said Archivarius Lindhorst, “you have indeed fine capacities for the art of calligraphy; but, in the meanwhile, it is clear enough, I must reckon more on your diligence and good-will than on your capacity.”

The student Anselmus spoke largely of his often-acknowledged perfection in this art, of his fine Chinese ink, and most select crow-quills.  But Archivarius Lindhorst handed him the English sheet, and said:  “Be judge yourself!” Anselmus felt as if struck by a thunderbolt, to see his handwriting look so:  it was miserable, beyond measure.  There was no rounding in the turns, no hair-stroke where it should be; no proportion between the capital and single letters; nay, villainous school-boy pot-hooks often spoiled the best lines.  “And then,” continued Archivarius Lindhorst, “your ink will not stand.”  He dipped his finger in a glass of water, and as he just skimmed it over the lines they vanished without vestige.  The student Anselmus felt as if some monster were throttling him; he could not utter a word.  There stood he with the unlucky sheet in his hand; but Archivarius Lindhorst laughed aloud, and said:  “Never mind it, dearest Herr Anselmus; what you could not accomplish before, will perhaps do better here.  At any rate, you shall have better materials than you have been accustomed to.  Begin, in Heaven’s name!”

From a locked press Archivarius Lindhorst now brought out a black fluid substance, which diffused a most peculiar odor; also pens, sharply pointed and of strange color, together with a sheet of especial whiteness and smoothness; then at last an Arabic manuscript; and as Anselmus sat down to work, the Archivarius left the room.  The student Anselmus had often before copied Arabic manuscripts; the first problem, therefore, seemed to him not so very difficult to solve.  “How these pot-hooks came into my fine English current-hand, Heaven and Archivarius Lindhorst know best,” said he; “but that they are not from my hand, I will testify to the death!” At every new word that stood fair and perfect on the parchment, his courage increased, and with it his adroitness.  In truth, these pens wrote exquisitely well; and the mysterious ink flowed pliantly and black as jet, on the bright white parchment.  And as he worked along so diligently and with such strained attention, he began to feel more and more at home in the solitary room; and already he had quite fitted himself into his task, which he now hoped to finish well, when at the stroke of three the Archivarius called him into the side-room to a savory dinner.  At table, Archivarius Lindhorst was in special gaiety of heart; he inquired about the student Anselmus’ friends, Conrector Paulmann, and Registrator Heerbrand, and of the latter especially he had a store of merry anecdotes to tell.  The good old Rhenish was particularly grateful to the student Anselmus, and made him more talkative than he was wont to be.  At the stroke of four he rose to resume his labor; and this punctuality appeared to please the Archivarius.