"Young Diogenes, or rather young Gneschen, for by such diminutive had they
in their fondness named him, travelled forward to those high consummations,
by quick yet easy stages. The Futterals, to avoid vain talk, and moreover
keep the roll of gold Friedrichs safe, gave out that he was a grandnephew;
the orphan of some sister's daughter, suddenly deceased, in Andreas's
distant Prussian birthland; of whom, as of her indigent sorrowing widower,
little enough was known at Entepfuhl. Heedless of all which, the Nursling
took to his spoon-meat, and throve. I have heard him noted as a still
infant, that kept his mind much to himself; above all, that seldom or never
cried. He already felt that time was precious; that he had other work cut
out for him than whimpering."


Such, after utmost painful search and collation among these miscellaneous
Paper-masses, is all the notice we can gather of Herr Teufelsdrockh's
genealogy. More imperfect, more enigmatic it can seem to few readers than
to us. The Professor, in whom truly we more and more discern a certain
satirical turn, and deep under-currents of roguish whim, for the present
stands pledged in honor, so we will not doubt him: but seems it not
conceivable that, by the "good Gretchen Futteral," or some other perhaps
interested party, he has himself been deceived? Should these sheets,
translated or not, ever reach the Entepfuhl Circulating Library, some
cultivated native of that district might feel called to afford explanation.
Nay, since Books, like invisible scouts, permeate the whole habitable
globe, and Timbuctoo itself is not safe from British Literature, may not
some Copy find out even the mysterious basket-bearing Stranger, who in a
state of extreme senility perhaps still exists; and gently force even him
to disclose himself; to claim openly a son, in whom any father may feel
pride?