The persecutions of the chapel-bell,
sounding its unwelcome summons to six o'clock matins, interrupts my
slumbers no longer, the porter who rang it, upon whose beautiful nose
(bronze, inlaid with copper) I wrote, in retaliation so many Greek
epigrams whilst I was dressing, is dead, and has ceased to disturb
anybody; and I, and many others who suffered much from his tintinnabulous
propensities, have now agreed to overlook his errors, and have forgiven
him. Even with the bell I am now in charity; it rings, I suppose, as
formerly, thrice a-day, and cruelly annoys, I doubt not, many worthy
gentlemen, and disturbs their peace of mind; but as to me, in this year
1812, I regard its treacherous voice no longer (treacherous I call it,
for, by some refinement of malice, it spoke in as sweet and silvery tones
as if it had been inviting one to a party); its tones have no longer,
indeed, power to reach me, let the wind sit as favourable as the malice
of the bell itself could wish, for I am 250 miles away from it, and
buried in the depth of mountains. And what am I doing among the
mountains? Taking opium. Yes; but what else? Why reader, in 1812, the
year we are now arrived at, as well as for some years previous, I have
been chiefly studying German metaphysics in the writings of Kant, Fichte,
Schelling, &c.
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