To-day is that stupid Cantata-Sunday; but nothing now remains of it save an hour.--By Heaven! in right spirits were we all to-day. I believe I have drunk as faithfully as another.--In truth, one should be moderate in all things, in writing, in drinking, in rejoicing; and as we lay straws into the honey for our bees, that they may not drown in their sugar, so ought one at all times to lay a few firm Principles and twigs from the tree of Knowledge into the Syrup of life, instead of those same bee-straws, that so one may cling thereto, and not drown like a rat. But now I do purpose in earnest to--write (and also live) with steadfastness; and therefore, that I may record the christening ceremony with greater coolness,--to besprinkle my fire with the night-air, and to roam out for an hour into the blossom-and-wave-embroidered night, where a lukewarm breath of air, intoxicated with soft odors, is sinking down from the blossom-peaks to the low-bent flowers, and roaming over the meadows, and at last launching on a wave, and with it sailing down the moonshiny brook. O, without, under the stars, under the tones of the nightingale, which seem to reverberate, not from the echo, but from the far-off down-glancing worlds; beside that moon, which the gushing brook, in its flickering, watery band, is carrying away, and which creeps under the little shadows of the bank as under clouds,--O, amid such forms and tones, the heart of man grows serious; and as of old an evening bell was rung to direct the wanderer through the deep forests to his nightly home, so in our Night are such voices within us and about us, which call to us in our strayings, and make us calmer, and teach us to moderate our own joys, and to conceive those of others. * * * I return, peaceful and cool enough, to my narrative. All yesternight I left not the worthy Parson half an hour from my sight, to guard him from poisoning the well of his life. Full of paternal joy, and with the skeleton of the sermon (he was committing it to memory) in his hand, he set before me all that he had; and pointed out to me the fruit-baskets of pleasures which Cantata-Sunday always plucked and filled for him. He recounted to me, as I did not go away, his baptisms, his accidents of office; told me of his relatives; and removed my uncertainty with regard to the public revenues--of his parish, to the number of his communicants and expected catechumens. At this point, however, I am afraid that many a reader will in vain endeavor to transport himself into my situation, and still be unable to discover why I said to Fixlein, "Worthy gossip, better no man could wish himself." I lied not, for so it is.... But look in the Note.[63]