--But neither will there be any to come.--These four points, however, look like the _hare's tracks_ in the snow.--In short: the Pomeranian dog, my biographical hod-bearer and forwarder, is already lying under the table, and has discharged some Elysian fields and heavenly kingdoms.--As, besides, I did not wholly know in the above paragraph what I was after (I hope not to sit a well man before the public, if I knew)--accordingly the dog did me a true labor of love in actually biting off, so to speak, the tail, or second member. It was, besides, my plan merely to make caprioles in a period of an ell's length until the dog should have removed my anxiety about the doubtfulness of the Whitsuntide journey.--In fact, I never wanted to lay out words and thoughts together, but to save the _latter_, while I spent the _former_; Peutzer wrote long ago to the men of Ratisbon and Wetzlar, Many thoughts need a small stream of words, but the greater the brook is, so much the smaller can be the mill-wheel.--An honest reviewer is offended also by a laconic book if only for this reason, (not merely that the public does not understand it but) because a German has in the jurists and theologians the very best models before him for writing prolixly, and indeed with a diffuseness which perhaps--for the thought is the soul, the word the body--establishes among _words_ that higher friendship of men, which, according to Aristotle, consists in this, that _one_ soul (one thought) inhabits several bodies (words) at once.---- --I now begin Victor's vigils, the holy eve of Whitsuntide. It was already Saturday,--the wind (like the sciences) came from the east,--the quicksilver in the barometer-tube (as it does to-day in my nervous-tubes) almost leaped out at the top.--Flamin had parted in peace with his friend on Friday, and was not to return for five days.--Victor will to-morrow, on the first day of Whitsuntide, sally forth before the sun, in order to come back again on the third, when he alights in America.--(I wish he would stay longer.)--It is a fine _blue-Monday_[93] in the soul (every blue day is one), and a fine dispensation from the mourning of life, when one (like my hero) has the good fortune on a holy even-tide, during the tolling for prayers, and when the moon is already up above the houses, to sit tranquil and innocent in Zeusel's balcony in the presence of the prospects of the fairest Whitsuntide-days and the fairest Whitsuntide-faces, to take a first cut of all the preparatory dishes of hope, to gather all the bosom-roses and signs of the fairest morning, and, amidst the noisy booth-preludes to the Festival, to read the second part of the _Mumien_[94] precisely in the Sectors of joy in which I sketch my own and Gustavus's entrance into the heavenly Jerusalem at Lilienbad.----All this, as was said, my hero had....