Here rests, on the other hand, a very fortunate man-I mean to say he was a man of extremely noble birth. In fact, that constituted his good fortune, for had he not been highborn he would never have amounted to anything. But, then, everything is so wisely arranged, and that is a pleasure to know. His coats were embroidered in front and in back, very much like a fine, embroidered bellpull in a room, for behind the handsome, gaudy bellpull is always a good, strong, plain cord that really does all the work. And this man had his good, stout cord behind him, which now does the work behind a new embroidered bellpull. That's the way it is; everything is so wisely arranged that it is very easy to keep one's good humor.
Over here there rests-now, this is really sad!-a man who for sixty-seven years worried and wracked his brains to hit upon a great idea. For the sake of this idea he lived alone all his days, and when at last he had convinced himself that he had succeeded, he was so overcome that he died of joy at having found it-before he even had time to announce it to the world - so nobody ever heard about his great idea. I can almost fancy that he has no rest in his grave, because of that great idea which no one but himself has enjoyed or ever can enjoy. For suppose this was an idea that could be explained successfully only at breakfast time; and everyone knows that ghosts can walk only at midnight. And if this ghost should appear among his friends at that appointed hour, his idea would be an utter failure. No one would laugh, for jesting comes unseasonably at midnight, and so the unhappy ghost would return to the grave with his great idea. It is really very sad.
Here lies a lady who was a miser. During her lifetime she often arose at night and mewed, so that the neighbors would imagine she kept a cat, which she was too stingy to do.
And here is a young lady of good family. She always insisted upon singing in society, and when she sang, "Mi manca la voce!" that was the only truth she ever spoke.
Here rests another young girl, of a very different nature. Alas! When the bird of the heart begins to sing, too often will Reason stop up her ears. Lovely maiden, she was to be married; but that's an everyday story - may she rest in peace!
Here lies a widow who had the sweetness of the swan on her lips and the gall of the owl in her heart. She went from one family to another, feeding upon the faults of her neighbors.
Now, this is a family vault; every member of that family lived in the sublime faith that whatever the world and the newspapers said must indeed be true. If the young son of that house came home from school and announced, "This is how I heard it--," his news, whatever it might be, was received without question, because he belonged to the family. And certain it is that if the cock of that family had decided to crow at midnight, the whole family would have insisted that morning had dawned, even if the watchman and all the clocks of the town announced it was midnight.
The great Goethe concluded his Faust with the words, "It may be continued"; and thus will I conclude our walk in the churchyard.
I go there often, for whenever one of my friends or unfriends, gives me to understand that he wishes to be as one dead to me, I go there, find a spot of green turf, and dedicate it to him or her, whomever I wish to bury. In this way I have buried many of my acquaintances. There they lie, powerless to harm me, until the time when they may return to life, better and wiser than before. I write down in my book their life and history, as seen from my point of view. Everybody ought to do so!
You shouldn't be upset if your friends do something foolish; bury them at once, keep your good humor, and read the Advertiser, for this paper is written by the people, although their pens are sometimes wrongly guided.
When at last I myself and the story of my life are to be bound in the grave, then write upon it the epitaph:
A GOOD HUMOR!
This is my story.