If you had only told me that earlier! My morals hounded me to death. For the sake of my dear parents I killed myself. “Honor thy father and mother that thy days may be long in the land.” The text made a phenomenal fool of me. THE MASKED MAN. Give yourself up to no more illusions, dear friend. Your dear parents would have died as little from it as you did. Judged righteously, they would only have raged and stormed from the healthiest necessity. MELCHIOR. That may be right as far as it goes.----I can assure you, however, sir, that if I reach Moritz my hand, sooner or later my morals alone will have to bear the blame. THE MASKED MAN. That is just the reason you are not Moritz! MORITZ. But I don't believe the difference is so material, so compulsive at least, esteemed unknown, but what by chance the same thing might have happened to you as happened to me that time when I trotted through the alder grove with a pistol in my pocket. THE MASKED MAN. Don't you remember me? You have been standing for the moment actually between life and death.----Moreover, in my opinion, this is not exactly the place in which to continue such a profound debate. MORITZ. Certainly, it's growing cold, gentlemen! They dressed me in my Sunday suit, but I wear neither undershirt nor drawers. MELCHIOR. Farewell, dear Moritz. I don't know where the man is taking me. But he is a man---- MORITZ. Don't blame me for seeking to kill you, Melchior. It was old attachment. All my life I shall only be able to complain and lament that I cannot accompany you once more. THE MASKED MAN. At the end everyone has his part----You the consoling consciousness of having nothing----you an enervating doubt of everything.-- Farewell. MELCHIOR. Farewell, Moritz. Take my heartfelt thanks for appearing before me again. How many former bright days have we lived together during the fourteen years! I promise you, Moritz, come what may, whether during the coming years I become ten times another, whether I prosper or fail, I shall never forget you---- MORITZ. Thanks, thanks, dear friend. MELCHIOR. ----and when at last I am an old man with gray hair, then, perhaps, you will again stand closer to me than all those living about me. MORITZ. I thank you. Good luck to your journey, gentlemen. Do not delay any longer. THE MASKED MAN. Come, child! (_He lays his arm upon that of Melchior and disappears with him over the graves._) MORITZ. (_Alone._) Now I sit here with my head under my arm.----The moon covers her face, unveils herself again and seems not a hair the cleverer.----I will go back to my place, right my cross, which that madcap trampled down so inconsiderately, and when everything is in order I will lie down on my back again, warm myself in the corruption and smile. FROM A LENGTHY ESSAY IN “THE FRANKFURTER ZEITUNG.”