CHAP. III.

time; and the narration reaches from the birth of the hero till his leaving Leipzig in 1768. The attention is kept fully awake, but the emotions which successively occupy the mind of the reader are nothing but strong degrees of aversion, disgust, and horror. The figure set up to view is a monster, a man of talents indeed, and capable of great things; but lost to truth, to virtue, and even to the affectation of common decency—In short, a shameless profligate.—Poor Bahrdt was astonished,—stared—but, having his wits about him, saw that this life would sell, and would also sell another.—Without loss of time, he said that he would hold Pott to his bargain—but he reckoned without his host. "No, no," said Pott, "your are not the man I took you for—your correspondence was put into my hands—I saw that you had deceived me, and it was my duty, as a man who loves truth above all things, to hinder you from deceiving the world. I have not written the book you desired me. I did not work for you, but for myself—therefore you get not a groschen." "Why, Sir," said Bahrdt, "we both know that this won't do. You and I have already tried it. You received Stark's manuscript, to be printed by Walther—Walther and you sent it hither to Michaelis, that I might see it during the printing. I wrote an illustration and a key, which made the fellow very ridiculous, and they were printed together, with one title page.—You know that we were cast in court.—Walther was obliged to print the work as Stark first ordered, and we lost all our labour.—So shall you now, for I will commence an action this instant, and let me see with what face you will defend yourself, within a few weeks of your last appearance in court." Pott said, "You may try this. My work is already sold, and dispersed over all Germany—and I have no objection to begin yours to-morrow—believe me, it will sell." Bahrdt pondered—and