Right, my Firmian! Have a proper contempt for the narrow heart-sacs of the big clothes-moths about you--the human furniture-boring worms. And ye, poor devils, who chance to be reading me--whether ye be sitting in colleges or in offices, or even in parsonage-houses, who perhaps haven't got a hat without a hole in it to put on your heads, most certainly haven't got a black one--rise above the effeminate surroundings of your times to the grand Greek and Roman days, wherein it was thought no disgrace to a noble human creature to have neither clothes nor temple, like the statue of Hercules; take heed only that your soul shares not the poverty of your outward circumstances; lift your faces to heaven with pride--a sickly faint northern Aurora is veiling it, but the eternal stars are breaking through the thin blood-red storm! It was but a few weeks now to the St. Andrew's Day shooting-match, which was Lenette's consolation in all her troubles, and to which all her wishes were directed; however, there came one day on which she was something worse than melancholy--inconsolable. This was Michaelmas: on that day the press was to have followed Lenette's Salzburg emigrants, the napkins, as their lady superior; but nobody in all the town would have anything to do with it. The sole anchor of refuge was one Jew, because there was no species of animal (in the shape of articles of merchandise) which did not flee to his Noah's ark of a shop. Unfortunately, however, the day when the napkin-press applied to him was a Jewish feast-day, which he kept more strictly than ever he did his word. He said he would see about it to-morrow.