When the storm is loud, all natural sounds are silenced.  Thus it was with Durer; the throbbing of ambition in every vein with him absorbed all the sweeter melodies which should charm the heart and fancy of youth.

He was dreaming of fame and fortune.  How to rise was his sole thought; and it was not probable, except by some very rare circumstance and chance, that his dream should be realized; for in those days of the world, at least, it was thought that a shepherd’s son should have a shepherd’s tastes.  The young man did not see a single path open in which he could plant his foot—­one was barred by wealth, another by position, another by birth.  All that he could dream of was some blest chance that should break down for him one of these barriers.  He was sullen, afflicted, ashamed, indignant, and alarmed,—­above all, when he thought of one thing—­that thing was his poverty.

For this had the shepherd of the village near Haerlem labored twenty years; for this had he spent the savings of those twenty years, in giving an education to this young nobleman.

John was buried deep in these reveries—­too deep for his age—­when some one came up smiling to him.  This was a little, fat, chubby-faced man, as round as a barrel, with a low brown hat on his head.  He had on a large brown cloak, a handsome yellow doublet, black breeches in the old fashion, and square-toed glossy shoes, with large roses of purple ribbon.  The glance of this man, whose hair was already becoming gray, was keen and penetrating.  Though his lips were thick, there was an open, honest expression about his mouth; while his clear eyes and sharply-cut eyebrows seemed to belong to a man of strict uprightness.

“I do not like to see youth melancholy,” said the little man, coming close to John Durer, and examining him—­“it is a sign of the disease too common among young people—­which is a desire to be something and somebody before they are well born into the world.  I would bet my fortune against this boy’s dreams that he is already an old scholar.  Plague take those parents who fill their children’s heads with learning ere they have made men of them! who neglect all care to form a character, and think only how to bring forward the understanding!—­Vanity kills right feeling!”

Mumbling thus to himself, the little man went up to John, and began to question him.  The dreamer started as if a thunderbolt had fallen close to his elbow.

“Young man, how far is it from the earth to the sun?”

“Thirty-three millions of leagues,” replied John, without the least hesitation.

“As if I did not know that he would know,” said the little man to himself, with a smile.

“And how long would it take a humming-bird who could fly a league in a minute to get there!”

“Twenty-eight years, sir,” was Durer’s answer.

“When one calculates so well, and so rapidly, no wonder one is melancholy,” said the little man to himself.  Then going on—­“Who was the greatest man of antiquity?” asked he.