At last, I came to a series of pictures which the man said were copies from certain large _frescoes_, designed many years ago. What was now my astonishment, when involuntarily the recollections of my youth here began to dawn upon me, every moment acquiring more distinct forms and livelier colours! These were obviously copies from the Convent of the Lime-Tree. Above all, I recognized most unequivocally, in a holy family, the features of the old pilgrim who had come to us with the miraculous boy! At this sight, the levity in which I had for some time indulged, once more completely declined; and, sunk into the deepest melancholy, I stood long gazing at the group. But when my sight next fell on a portrait (large as life, and admirably done) of my adoptive mother, the Princess, I could not forbear a loud outcry of wonder. This portrait exhibited a most accurate resemblance, (such as Vandyke never failed to give to all his pictures,) the costume was the same in which she used to walk before the nuns in their procession through the church, and the painter had seized the moment, when, having finished her private devotions, she was leaving her room in full dress, in order to join in that solemnity. The perspective behind shewed the interior of the church, crowded with the expectant congregation. In the looks of this admirable woman, was fully developed that expression of a mind wholly devoted to Heaven, which was so pre-eminently her own. It now seemed to me as if she implored forgiveness for that unhappy sinner, whom his own crimes had torn from her maternal embraces. I felt once more all the bitterness of contrast between what I now was, and what I _had been_! Feelings long lost and estranged gained their full influence over my heart, and I was borne away by an unspeakable longing after the scenes and impressions of my youth. Methought I once more heard the south wind sigh through the dark yew-hedges and tall beech-trees of the old manor-house, and traced again the bright wanderings of the Saale, but _not_, as on the occasion of my last visit there, with coldness and indifference! The delusion for a moment was perfect, only to be followed by the bitterness of reality and remorse. Anon, it seemed as if I were again with the good priest of the Cistertian Convent, a cheerful, free-minded, and courageous boy, wandering at will through the wild country, losing himself in rocky recesses of the Thuringian mountains, or shouting and rejoicing because the grand festival of St Bernard was drawing near!