" The student here gathered full courage; and not without
internal self-complacence in the certainty of highly gratifying
Archivarius Lindhorst through his extraordinary talents, pulled out
his drawings and specimens of penmanship from his pocket. But no
sooner had the Archivarius cast his eye on the first leaf, a piece of
writing in the finest English style, than he smiled very oddly, and
shook his head. These motions he repeated at every following leaf, so
that the student Anselmus felt the blood mounting to his face; and at
last, when the smile became quite sarcastic and contemptuous, he
broke out in downright vexation: "The Herr Archivarius does not seem
contented with my poor talents."
"Dear Herr Anselmus," said Archivarius Lindhorst, "you have indeed
fine capacities for the art of calligraphy; but, in the meanwhile, it
is clear enough, I must reckon more on your diligence and good-will
than on your capacity."
The student Anselmus spoke largely of his often-acknowledged
perfection in this art, of his fine Chinese ink, and most select
crow-quills. But Archivarius Lindhorst handed him the English sheet,
and said: "Be judge yourself!" Anselmus felt as if struck by a
thunderbolt, to see his handwriting look so: it was miserable, beyond
measure. There was no rounding in the turns, no hair-stroke where it
should be; no proportion between the capital and single letters; nay,
villainous school-boy pot-hooks often spoiled the best lines.
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