“‘Qui cunctando restituit rem—­’

I honour your memory, Uncle Christian!  I do indeed!”

Having delivered myself of these deep feelings, and many more which I cannot enter into now, I got on horseback and rode off to Lauterbach.

Strange, is it not, how the Spirit of Avarice, hitherto quite a stranger to me, came to make my acquaintance?

“Caspar!” he whispered, “now you are a rich man!  Hitherto vain shadows have filled your mind.  A man must be a fool to follow glory.  There is nothing solid but acres, and buildings, and crown-pieces, put out in safe mortgages.  Fling aside all your vain delusions!  Enlarge your boundaries, round off your estate, heap up money, and then you will be honoured and respected!  You will be a burgomaster as your uncle was before you, and the country folks, when they see you coming a mile off, will pull off their hats, and say—­’Here is Monsieur Caspar Haas, the richest man and the biggest herr in the country.’”

These notions kept passing and repassing in my mind like the figures in a magic-lantern, with grave and measured step.  The whole thing seemed to me perfectly reasonable.

It was the middle of July.  The lark was warbling in the sky.  The crops were waving in the plain, the gentle breezes carried on them the soft cry of the quail and the partridge amongst the standing wheat; the foliage was glancing in the sunshine, and the Lauter ran its course beneath the willows; but what was all that to me, the great burgomaster?  I puffed up my cheeks and rounded off my figure in anticipation of the portly appearance I was to present, and repeated to myself those delightful observations—­

“This is Monsieur Caspar Haas; he is a very rich man!  He is the first herr in the country!  Get on, Blitz!”

And the nag trotted forward.

I was anxious to try on my uncle’s three-cornered hat and scarlet waistcoat.  “If they fit me,” I said, “what is the use of buying?”

About four in the afternoon the village of Lauterbach appeared at the end of the valley, and very proud I felt as I surveyed the tall and handsome house of the late Christian Haas, my future abode, the centre of my property, real and speculative.  I admired its situation by the long dusty road, its vast roof of grey shingle, the sheds and barns covering with their broad expanse the wagons, the carts, and the crops; behind, the poultry-yard, then the little garden, the orchard, the vineyards up the hill, the green meadows farther off.

I chuckled with delight over all these comforts and luxuries.

As I went down the principal street the old women with nose and chin nearly meeting at the extremity, the bare-pated children with ragged hair, the men in their otter-skin caps, and silver-chained pipes in their mouths, all gaze upon me, and respectfully salute me—­

“Good day, Monsieur Caspar!  How do you do, Monsieur Haas?”