universal lot of mortals, to endure pain and anguish.  When people are ill, the physician is summoned, and in trouble we are at hand.  Things are as we take them—­the gravest face may have a wart, upon which a jest can be made.  When you have once laughed at a misfortune, its sting loses its point.  We deaden it—­we light up the darkness—­even though it be with a will ’o the wisp—­and if we understand our business, manage to hack the lumpy dough of heavy sorrow into little pieces, which even a princely stomach can digest.”

“A coughing fool can do that too, so long as there is nothing wanting in his upper story.”

“You are mistaken, indeed you are.  Great lords only wish to see the velvet side of life—­of death’s doings, nothing at all.  A man like me—­do you hear—­a cougher, whose marrow is being consumed—­incarnate misery on two tottering legs—­a piteous figure, whom one can no more imagine outside the grave, than a sportsman without a terrier, or hound—­such a person calls into the ears of the ostrich, that shuts its eyes:  ’Death is pointing at you!  Affliction is coming!’ It is my duty to draw a curtain between my lord and sorrow; instead of that, my own person brings incarnate suffering before his eyes.  The elector was as wise as if he were his own fool, when he turned me out of the house.”

“He graciously gave you leave of absence.”

“And Gugelkopf is already installed in the palace as my successor!  My gracious master knows that he won’t have to pay the pension long.  He would willingly have supported me up yonder till I died; but my wish to go to Genoa suited him exactly.  The more distance there is between his healthy highness and the miserable invalid, the better.”

“Why didn’t you wait till spring, before taking your departure?”

“Because Genoa is a hot-house, that the poor consumptive does not need in summer.  It is pleasant to be there in winter.  I learned that three years ago, when we visited the duke.  Even in January the sun in Liguria warms your back, and makes it easier to breathe.  I’m going by way of Marseilles.  Will you give me the corner in your carriage as far as Avignon?”

“With pleasure!  Your health, Pellicanus!  A good wish on Christmas day is apt to be fulfilled.”

The artist’s deep voice sounded full and cordial, as he uttered the words.  The young soldier heard them, and as Moor and the jester touched glasses, he raised his own goblet, drained it to the dregs, and asked modestly:  “Will you listen to a few lines of mine, kind sir?”

“Say them, say them!” cried the artist, filling his glass again, while the lansquenet, approaching the table, fixed his eyes steadily on the beaker, and in an embarrassed manner, repeated: 

       “On Christmas-day, when Jesus Christ,
        To save us sinners came,
        A poor, sore-wounded soldier dared
        To call upon his name. 
        ‘Oh! hear,’ he said, ’my earnest prayer,