I was deceiving everybody, myself in the bargain, as a man must do when in chase of a woman above him in rank.  The chase necessitates deceit—­ who knows? chicanery of a sort as well; it brings inevitable humiliations; such that ever since the commencement of it at speed I could barely think of my father with comfort, and rarely met him with pleasure.  With what manner of face could I go before the prince or the margravine, and say, I am an English commoner, the son of a man of doubtful birth, and I claim the hand of the princess?  What contortions were not in store for these features of mine!  Even as affairs stood now, could I make a confidant of Temple and let him see me through the stages of the adventure?  My jingling of verses, my fretting about the signification of flowers, and trifling with symbols, haunted me excrutiatingly, taunting me with I know not what abject vileness of spirit.

In the midst of these tortures an arrow struck me, in the shape of an anonymous letter, containing one brief line:  ’The princess is in need of help.’

I threw my books aside, and repaired to Count Fretzel’s chateau, from which, happily, my father was absent; but the countenance of the princess gave me no encouragement to dream I could be of help to her; yet a second unsigned note worded in a quaint blunt manner, insisted that it was to me she looked.  I chanced to hear the margravine, addressing Baroness Turckems, say:  ‘The princess’s betrothal,’ what further, escaped me.  Soon after, I heard that Prince Otto was a visitor at the lake-palace.  My unknown correspondent plied me a third time.

I pasted the scrap in my neglected book of notes and reflections, where it had ample space and about equal lucidity.  It drew me to the book, nearly driving me desperate; I was now credulous of anything, except that the princess cared for help from me.  I resolved to go home; I had no longer any zeal for study.  The desolation of the picture of England in my mind grew congenial.  It became imperative that I should go somewhere, for news arrived of my father’s approach with a French company of actors, and deafening entertainments were at hand.  On the whole, I thought it decent to finish my course at the University, if I had not quite lost the power of getting into the heart of books.  One who studies is not being a fool:  that is an established truth.  I thanked Dr. Julius for planting it among my recollections.  The bone and marrow of study form the surest antidote to the madness of that light gambler, the heart, and distasteful as books were, I had gained the habit of sitting down to them, which was as good as an instinct toward the right medicine, if it would but work.