A CHEERFUL TEMPER故事

　　 FROM my father I received the best inheritance, namely a

　　 "good temper." "And who was my father?" That has nothing to do

　　 with the good temper; but I will say he was lively,

　　 good-looking round, and fat; he was both in appearance and

　　 character a complete contradiction to his profession. "And

　　 pray what was his profession and his standing in respectable

　　 society?" Well, perhaps, if in the beginning of a book these

　　 were written and printed, many, when they read it, would lay

　　 the book down and say, "It seems to me a very miserable title,

　　 I don't like things of this sort." And yet my father was not a

　　 skin-dresser nor an executioner; on the contrary, his

　　 employment placed him at the head of the grandest people of

　　 the town, and it was his place by right. He had to precede the

　　 bishop, and even the princes of the blood; he always went

　　 first,- he was a hearse driver! There, now, the truth is out.

　　 And I will own, that when people saw my father perched up in

　　 front of the omnibus of death, dressed in his long, wide,

　　 black cloak, and his black-edged, three-cornered hat on his

　　 head, and then glanced at his round, jocund face, round as the

　　 sun, they could not think much of sorrow or the grave. That

　　 face said, "It is nothing, it will all end better than people

　　 think." So I have inherited from him, not only my good temper,

　　 but a habit of going often to the churchyard, which is good,

　　 when done in a proper humor; and then also I take in the

　　 Intelligencer, just as he used to do.

　　 I am not very young, I have neither wife nor children, nor

　　 a library, but, as I said, I read the Intelligencer, which is

　　 enough for me; it is to me a delightful paper, and so it was

　　 to my father. It is of great use, for it contains all that a

　　 man requires to know; the names of the preachers at the

　　 church, and the new books which are published; where houses,

　　 servants, clothes, and provisions may be obtained. And then

　　 what a number of subscriptions to charities, and what innocent

　　 verses! Persons seeking interviews and engagements, all so

　　 plainly and naturally stated. Certainly, a man who takes in

　　 the Intelligencer may live merrily and be buried contentedly,

　　 and by the end of his life will have such a capital stock of

　　 paper that he can lie on a soft bed of it, unless he prefers

　　 wood shavings for his resting-place. The newspaper and the

　　 churchyard were always exciting objects to me. My walks to the

　　 latter were like bathing-places to my good humor. Every one

　　 can read the newspaper for himself, but come with me to the

　　 churchyard while the sun shines and the trees are green, and

　　 let us wander among the graves. Each of them is like a closed

　　 book, with the back uppermost, on which we can read the title

　　 of what the book contains, but nothing more. I had a great

　　 deal of information from my father, and I have noticed a great

　　 deal myself. I keep it in my diary, in which I write for my

　　 own use and pleasure a history of all who lie here, and a few

　　 more beside.

　　 Now we are in the churchyard. Here, behind the white iron

　　 railings, once a rose-tree grew; it is gone now, but a little

　　 bit of evergreen, from a neighboring grave, stretches out its

　　 green tendrils, and makes some appearance; there rests a very

　　 unhappy man, and yet while he lived he might be said to occupy

　　 a very good position. He had enough to live upon, and

　　 something to spare; but owing to his refined tastes the least

　　 thing in the world annoyed him. If he went to a theatre of an

　　 evening, instead of enjoying himself he would be quite annoyed

　　 if the machinist had put too strong a light into one side of

　　 the moon, or if the representations of the sky hung over the

　　 scenes when they

　　ought to have hung behind them; or if a

　　 palm-tree was introduced into a scene representing the

　　 Zoological Gardens of Berlin, or a cactus in a view of Tyrol,

　　 or a beech-tree in the north of Norway. As if these things

　　 were of any consequence! Why did he not leave them alone? Who

　　 would trouble themselves about such trifles? especially at a

　　 comedy, where every one is expected to be amused. Then

　　 sometimes the public applauded too much, or too little, to

　　 please him. "They are like wet wood," he would say, looking

　　 round to see what sort of people were present, "this evening;

　　 nothing fires them." Then he would vex and fret himself

　　 because they did not laugh at the right time, or because they

　　 laughed in the wrong places; and so he fretted and worried

　　 himself till at last the unhappy man fretted himself into the

　　 grave.

　　 Here rests a happy man, that is to say, a man of high

　　 birth and position, which was very lucky for him, otherwise he

　　 would have been scarcely worth notice. It is beautiful to

　　 observe how wisely nature orders these things. He walked about

　　 in a coat embroidered all over, and in the drawing-rooms of

　　 society looked just like one of those rich pearl-embroidered

　　 bell-pulls, which are only made for show; and behind them

　　 always hangs a good thick cord for use. This man also had a

　　 stout, useful substitute behind him, who did duty for him, and

　　 performed all his dirty work. And there are still, even now,

　　 these serviceable cords behind other embroidered bell-ropes.

　　 It is all so wisely arranged, that a man may well be in a good

　　 humor.

　　 Here rests,- ah, it makes one feel mournful to think of

　　 him!- but here rests a man who, during sixty-seven years, was

　　 never remembered to have said a good thing; he lived only in

　　 the hope of having a good idea. At last he felt convinced, in

　　 his own mind, that he really had one, and was so delighted

　　 that he positively died of joy at the thought of having at

　　 last caught an idea. Nobody got anything by it; indeed, no one

　　 even heard what the good thing was. Now I can imagine that

　　 this same idea may prevent him from resting quietly in his

　　 grave; for suppose that to produce a good effect, it is

　　 necessary to bring out his new idea at breakfast, and that he

　　 can only make his appearance on earth at midnight, as ghosts

　　 are believed generally to do; why then this good idea would

　　 not suit the hour, and the man would have to carry it down

　　 again with him into the grave- that must be a troubled grave.

　　 The woman who lies here was so remarkably stingy, that

　　 during her life she would get up in the night and mew, that

　　 her neighbors might think she kept a cat. What a miser she

　　 was!

　　 Here rests a young lady, of a good family, who would

　　 always make her voice heard in society, and when she sang "Mi

　　 manca la voce,"* it was the only true thing she ever said in

　　 her life.

　　 * "I want a voice," or, "I have no voice."

　　 Here lies a maiden of another description. She was engaged

　　 to be married,- but, her story is one of every-day life; we

　　 will leave her to rest in the grave.

　　 Here rests a widow, who, with music in her tongue, carried

　　 gall in her heart. She used to go round among the families

　　 near, and search out their faults, upon which she preyed with

　　 all the envy and malice of her nature. This is a family grave.

　　 The members of this family held so firmly together in their

　　 opinions, that they would believe in no other. If the

　　 newspapers, or even the whole world, said of a certain

　　 subject, "It is so-and-so;" and a little schoolboy declared he

　　 had learned quite differently, they would take his assertion

　　 as the only true one, because he belonged to the family. And

　　 it is well known that if the yard-cock belonging to this

　　 family happened to crow at midnight, they would declare it was

　　 morning, although the watchman and all the clocks in the town

　　 were proclaiming the hour of twelve at night.

　　 The great poet Goethe concludes his Faust with the words,

　　 "may be continued;" so might our wanderings in the churchyard

　　 be continued. I come here often, and if any of my friends, or

　　 those who are not my friends, are too much for me, I go out

　　 and choose a plot of ground in which to bury him or her. Then

　　 I bury them, as it were; there they lie, dead and powerless,

　　 till they come back new and better characters. Their lives and

　　 their deeds, looked at after my own fashion, I write down in

　　 my diary, as every one ought to do. Then, if any of our

　　 friends act absurdly, no one need to be vexed about it. Let

　　 them bury the offenders out of sight, and keep their good

　　 temper. They can also read the Intelligencer, which is a paper

　　 written by the people, with their hands guided. When the time

　　 comes for the history of my life, to be bound by the grave,

　　 then they will write upon it as my epitaph-

　　 "The man with a cheerful temper."

　　 And this is my story.

　　 THE END