■"•i- 
 

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 OF 
 
 GERMAN LIFE 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. IL 
 
 PHILADELPHIA . 
 
 CAREY, lea & BLANCHARD. 
 
 1833. 
 
Philadelphia : 
 
 Printed by James Kay, Jun. & Co. 
 
 Race above Fourth Street. 
 

 BLACK FRITZ 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2013 
 
 http://archive.org/details/lightsshadowsofg21mont 
 
BLACK FRITZ. 
 
 It was a dull rainy evening in the autumn of 1648^ 
 when Count Darmstein, accompanied by his niece, the 
 young Baroness Albertine Branov/, re-entered the 
 gates of his ancient castle, on the banks of the Moldau, 
 after an absence of many years. The treaty of West- 
 phalia had just put an end to the disastrous thirty years' 
 war; during a* great part of which the count had per- 
 sisted in remaining at Darmstein, unappalled by the 
 alarming events that had long since driven most of the 
 German nobles from their isolated castles, to seek 
 protection in the fortified cities; and it was not till the 
 Swedish army, under Torstensohn, had crossed the 
 Erzgeberge into Bohemia, that he could be persuaded 
 to abandon the home to which he was so fondly 
 attached, for a safer z^esidence within the walls of 
 Prague. 
 
 He had cause to repent this obstinacy, for in their 
 flight he and his family, consisting of his wife and two 
 sons, narrowly escaped being made prisoners by a 
 Swedish foraging j)arty, within a few leagues of the 
 city. A body of troops, sent to reinforce the garri- 
 son, fortunately came up in time to effect their rescue; 
 but the fright proved fatal to the countess, whose 
 health had been declining for some time. Her death 
 was soon followed by that of her eldest boy, and 
 the count would probably have sunk under his afflic- 
 tion, had he not removed to Vienna, at the instance of 
 his brother-in-law, Baron Branow, with whom he con- 
 tinued to reside, till the long desired peace allowed 
 him to return to the domains of his ancestors. 
 
 VOL. II. — A 2 
 
b LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 At the time my tale begins, the count's only son, 
 Frederick, who had spent the last five years in finish- 
 ing his education at the university of Padua, and in 
 visiting some of the principal courts of Europe, was 
 expected home. He was an amiable young man, of 
 good figure and agreeable manners, which, with many 
 accomplishments rare amongst the German nobility of 
 that period, rendered him an object of general admi- 
 ration. He spoke several languages fluently, excelled 
 in music and painting, and possessed a remarkable 
 talent for taking likenesses, which had won him the 
 favour of many a fair lady. In short, he was a prodigy 
 for the time and class to which he belonged. Fred- 
 erick and his cousin, Albertine Branow, had long 
 been engaged to one another, family interests concur- 
 ring with the inclination they had mutually manifested 
 from early childhood. The old count loved his niece, 
 not only for her resemblance to a deceased and favour- 
 ite sister, but for her open and generous nature, and the 
 cheerfulness which, originating in her own mind, and 
 not in external circumstances, brightened the every 
 day business of life. On her part Albertine clung to 
 her uncle with almost filial affection; and her father, 
 Baron Branow, being about to depart on a diplomatic 
 mission, she accepted with pleasure the proposal of 
 accompanying the count to Bohemia; where it was the 
 desire of both parents that the marriage should take 
 place as soon as possible after the return of Frederick. 
 
 It was Albertine's first journey; her perambulations 
 having hitherto been confined to a drive on the Prater, 
 or a stroll in the imperial gardens of Schonbrunn. She 
 was delighted with the novelty of all she saw; and the 
 rich plains of Austria, animated by the mirthful acti- 
 vity of harvest, accorded with the gay prospects of 
 happiness floating in her lively imagination. But the 
 scene changed when they crossed the mountainous 
 frontier of Bohemia. At every step they beheld 
 traces of the civil and religious war which had for so 
 long devastated Germany: — uncultivated fields, hedges 
 trampled down, trees felled or burnt, and ruined vil- 
 lages, where the meagre and squalid peasantry were 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 7 
 
 building up wretched hovels, amid the blackened 
 walls of their once comfortable habitations. Indigence 
 and despondency reigned in the towns, and wherever 
 the travellers halted, they heard terrifying reports of 
 marauders who infested the country, in bands so nu- 
 merous as to defy the insufficient and insubordinate 
 military force. 
 
 Albertine's spirits sunk; she sat silent and thought- 
 ful beside her uncle, to whose mind these scenes of 
 desolation recalled the painful circumstances attendant 
 on his flight from Darmstein. Their road now lay 
 along the woody bank of the Moldau. The bright 
 sun which had cheered the commencement of their 
 journey was overcast — heavy rain pattered among the 
 trees, and chill gusts of wind scattered the yellow 
 leaves, which rose whirling into the air, and then fell 
 into the dark and rapid stream below. After follow- 
 ing for some miles the windings of the river, the mas- 
 sive towers of the castle suddenly appeared before them 
 on the summit of a high precipitous rock. 
 
 The count was the first to perceive his once happy 
 home. He silently pointed to it, while a deep sigh 
 revealed that his thoughts were with the dead. Alber- 
 tine understood and sympathized with his feelings. 
 Depressed, and struggling against a vague sense of 
 fear, she entered her future abode, the dilapidated as- 
 pect of which was ill calculated to dissipate gloomy 
 impressions. Nothing presented itself to her view, as 
 they passed through a long range of lofty and deserted 
 apartments, but tattered moth-eaten tapestry, defaced 
 gilding, broken mirrors, and mutilated chairs and tables. 
 The shattered casements were, in many places, boarded 
 up; several of the doors had been torn ofi* for firewood, 
 and the walls disfigured with the uncouth scrawls of 
 an idle and mischievous soldiery. 
 
 But the mind of Albertine, naturally cheerful and 
 courageous, soon prevailed over the dark presenti- 
 ments which had clouded it; and her brow resumed its 
 wonted serenity, when the gray-headed seneschal 
 opened the door of a small library, to which an air of 
 comparative comfort had been given by a sufficient 
 
8 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 quantity of undamaged furniture, a blazing fire, and a 
 table laid for supper. Albertine busied herself in 
 making arrangements for her uncle's immediate ac- 
 commodation, and at length succeeded in drawing him 
 out of his melancholy recollections, by talking of Fre- 
 derick, and of the prospect of his soon joining them. 
 
 But days, and even weeks passed on, and Frederick 
 came not. He had arrived at Vienna almost imme- 
 diately after his father's departure: but he was still 
 detained there, waiting for a precious collection of 
 paintings he had purchased in Italy, and which he 
 was anxious to have framed under his own directions, 
 before they were transferred to the gallery at Darm- 
 stein. 
 
 It was in vain that his fair bride remonstrated against 
 such an ungallant preference of canvass goddesses and 
 madonnas: the feelings of the amateur prevailed over 
 those of the lover. Fortunately the social life of a 
 great city, aided by natural buoyancy of temper, had 
 prevented the germ of romance in our heroine's cha- 
 racter from developing itself, in habits of melancholy 
 musing; and, on this occasion, she sought to beguile 
 the weariness of expectation by active employment. 
 She directed the internal arrangements of the castle, 
 administered to the necessities of the poorer vassals, 
 and when the weather permitted, she explored the en^ 
 virons. Her evenings were spent at the library fire- 
 side, with the count and his venerable chaplain; when 
 the little events of her calm, but active days, often 
 afforded subjects of conversation. 
 
 One day that she was superintending the arrange- 
 ment of some old paintings in a gallery leading to her 
 apartments, her attention was suddenly arrested by 
 one of them, representing the interior of a prison. 
 Diminishing arches faded into obscurity in the back- 
 ground, whilst light streamed down, from a high-grated 
 window, upon the figure of a warrior, who sat, heavi- 
 ly chained, upon a heap of straws The captive's head, 
 which from the dark curling locks, mj'ght be supposed 
 that of a young man, rested upon the hands in such a 
 position as to conceal t'he features. Yet the attitude of 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. if 
 
 dejection, and the skilful distribution of light and shade, 
 produced a striking picture ; at least, so it seemed to 
 Albertine, who examined it long and minutely ; and 
 every time she had occasion to pass through the gal- 
 lery, she stopped to form fresh conjectures concerning 
 the history of the prisoner. In the evening, she ap- 
 plied to her uncle for information ; but he only re- 
 membered to have heard from his great aunt, Walbur- 
 ga (a walking chronicle of the house of Darmstein), 
 that the picture in question represented one of their 
 ancestors, who was persecuted by King Sigismond, 
 for having embraced the heretical doctrines of John 
 Huss. 
 
 <« Ah! those were lamentable times! almost as wick- 
 ed as our own!" groaned the chaplain. The count as- 
 sented to the observation ; and the two gentlemen fell 
 into a long, and somewhat prosy discourse, respecting 
 the unhappy events of the late war, and its probable 
 consequences to the third and fourth generations. The 
 chaplain expatiated upon the licentiousness of the peo- 
 ple, who, urged by their necessities, and unrestrained 
 by religious principle, abandoned themselves to all 
 manner of atrocities. He related frightful stories of 
 the bands of freebooters and outlaws, who occupied the 
 forests and dismantled fortresses, spreading terror and 
 devastation through the country. These narrations 
 reminded the count of some similar and remarkable 
 facts connected with the earlier period of the war. 
 
 <^ It was then," said he, " that one of my best 
 friends was bereaved of his only son, the sole heir 
 of vast possessions, and the last scion of one of the 
 noblest houses of Germany. You remember Count 
 Leopold Laneskv, who went with me to the universi- 
 ty ?" 
 
 '« Lanesky !" repeated Albertine, who had hitherto 
 appeared absorbed in the selection of colours for her 
 embroidery. 
 
 <'Yes," continued her uncle, now addressing himself 
 to her. «* Leopold was my earliest friend, and was to 
 have married your mother: butsome family circumstan- 
 ces occurred to break off the match, and he retired to his 
 
10 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 estates in Silesia. His only consolation in an ill-as- 
 sorted union, contracted in obedience to the commands 
 of an arbitrary father, was a son, who was about 
 five years old, when the army of the ferocious Mans- 
 field retreated fighting through Silesia. His domains 
 were laid waste, his castle pillaged and set on fire. 
 Many of the inmates were made prisoners, some put to 
 the sword, and others burnt, either in the attempt to 
 save their property, or to hide themselves from the ene- 
 my. The child was lost ; but from the circumstances 
 of the scorched remains of its attendant being found 
 alone, hopes were long entertained that the boy might 
 have been carried off, and would one day reappear. 
 Twenty years having passed in fruitless researches, my 
 poor friend is at length convinced that his child must 
 have perished in the flames." 
 
 The count ceased — and Albertine, who had listened 
 to him with interest, now asked whether Adrian was 
 not the name of the lost child ? He replied in the af- 
 firmative. 
 
 '' I well remember having heard my mother speak 
 of a marriage that had been projected between her 
 friend's son and me." 
 
 "True," said the count. " It was the wish of my 
 late sister, as well as of Count Lanesky, that their at- 
 tachment should be revived in their children. But 
 Heaven had decreed that our families should never be 
 united, for you were but a few months old, when 
 the event I have just related, frustrated their schemes, 
 and deprived you of your destined husband." 
 
 '' But am I not richly compensated, dear uncle?" 
 said Albertine, affectionately kissing her uncle's hand. 
 
 *< Yes," returned he with emotion — *^yes! my 
 Frederick is a noble youth, and will surely render you 
 as happy as you deserve." 
 
 '' Amen !" ejaculated the pious chaplain, with uplift- 
 ed hands and eyes. 
 
 In such discourse they whiled away the long autumn 
 evenings. But though Albertine communicated much, 
 and indeed most of the incidents that occurred in the 
 
OP GERMAN LTPE. 11 
 
 day, yet there was one, which she thou«ght fit to keep 
 to herself. It was this : 
 
 In one of her walks, having been induced by the 
 unusual fineness of the day, to stray farther than was 
 prudent, she found herself near the ruins of a small 
 chapel or hermitage« It stood concealed from distant 
 view by several tall trees, intermixed with tangled 
 underwood, on the highest elevation of the clifi'; 
 beneath which the Moldau foamed through a narrow 
 gorge, dashing furiously over huge masses of granite 
 rock, or forming deep eddying pools between them. 
 On the opposite bank, flashing and sparkling amidst 
 the dark pines, was a cascade, at the foot of which, a 
 little boy stood, amusing himself by throwing bits of 
 wood into the eddy, formed by the fall of its waters 
 into the river — and watching their progress as they 
 tossed, whirled, and drifted away with the stream. 
 Albertine was pleased with the wild beauty of the 
 scene, and had just seated herself on a fragment of the 
 ruin — whilst her attendant carried a message to the 
 cottage of one of the count's poor pensioners, not far 
 from thence — when she was startled by the sudden 
 clatter of loose stones and earth falling near her, fol- 
 lowed by the apparition of a man, rapidly descending 
 by the aid of projecting crags and bushes, to the mar- 
 gin of the river. She retreated a little, in order to 
 observe the stranger's motions unseen. His face was 
 turned from her. For a moment he stood looking on 
 every side with an air of caution — then threw aside 
 his cloak, and discovered a close dress of dark green, 
 devoid of all ornament save a black leathern belt, 
 studded with broad steel knobs, and a baldrick of the 
 same. Drawing his sword from its iron scabbard, he 
 knelt down by the water's edge to wash the blade, 
 which was smeared with blood. Albertine shuddered 
 at the sight, for it recalled the chaplain's stories of 
 banditti. His dress too, though military, being un- 
 like any uniform she had ever seen, rather tended to 
 confirm her suspicions ; which were, however, not un- 
 mixed with admiration for his tall, commanding, and 
 yet graceful form. 
 
12 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 Presently, a loud scream from the child, who had 
 lost his footing, and fallen into the river, disturbed the 
 stranger's proceedings. He looked round, with sur- 
 prise, on hearing, as it were, the echo of the scream 
 from Albertine. He seemed to hesitate — then, flinging 
 down the sword, he plunged in — seized the child's 
 floating garments — brought it to shore, unhurt — and 
 set it gently down upon the bank. A woman was seen 
 descending the path by which the boy must have 
 reached the river, probably in search of him ; the stran- 
 ger cast another anxious look around, and vanished 
 behind a projecting angle of the rock. 
 
 Albertine was bewildered by what she had witnessed. 
 The unfavourable conjectures suggested by the bloody 
 sword, were strengthened by the stranger's obvious 
 reluctance to be seen ; and yet, his humane and intrepid 
 conduct argued, still more strongly than his noble mien, 
 against the notion of his belonging to a band of robbers. 
 Whatever he might be in reality, it was evident 
 that he wished for concealment ; and she resolved to 
 keep his secret faithfully. Her morning's adventure, 
 therefore, was never mentioned at the castle ; but in 
 solitude, she delighted to retrace the momentary scene, 
 and to imagine romantic solutions for its mysterious 
 incidents. 
 
 Meanwhile, every day brought reports of fresh out- 
 rages, perpetrated by a banditti, who were every where 
 destroying the peace of the country. The most won- 
 derful of these tales were related of a gang, whose 
 leader was distinguished by the appellation of Black 
 Fritz. Some believed him to be one of Mansfield's 
 freebooters : some said he was a swarthy Italian deser- 
 ter from the Cardinal Infant's army ; and others asser- 
 ted that he was a Swedish ofiicer, whose regiment 
 having been disbanded at the peace, distress and des- 
 peration iiad driven him to join a band of adventurers, 
 leagued together for the object of revenging on the 
 more wealthy and prosperous the injustice of fortune 
 towards themselves. 
 
 The deeds ascribed to Black Fritz and his men were 
 of the most eccentric and audacious character. Those 
 in which he himself played the principal part, were 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 13 
 
 distinguished by a wild generosity and recklessness of 
 danger, combined, however, with great sagacity and 
 military skill. Albertine never heard such narrations 
 without thinking of the mysterious stranger of the Mol- 
 dau. The bloody sword — the singular dress — and his 
 precipitate retreat, — all seemed to indicate one of the 
 banditti, if not their leader. Black Fritz himself ; and 
 she regretted more and more, not having had a distinct 
 view of his features. She listened with a lively interest 
 to all the details concerning this renowned robber ; and, 
 while her principles condemned his lawless life, she 
 could not suppress feelings of admiration and pity for the 
 perverted being, whose high natural gifts might, under 
 more favourable circumstances, have rendered him an or- 
 nament to the country of which he was now the scourge. 
 
 Traces of these depredators began to appear in the 
 vicinity of Darmstein, and the count was debating on the 
 expediency of adopting some precautionary measures, 
 when a letter from Frederick positively announced his 
 arrival the following week. Owing to the dangerous 
 state of the Bohemian roads, and to the fame of Black 
 Fritz's exploits, he had regulated his journey so as only 
 to travel by daylight, and accompanied by a military es- 
 cort. This arrangement afforded great satisfaction to his 
 father, who, though fearless for himself, was apprehen- 
 sive of every shadow of danger that might threaten his 
 darling son. 
 
 Albertine was overjoyed at this near prospect of see- 
 ing her cousin ; and in order to enjoy his society with- 
 out interruption, she determined, before became, to pay 
 a long-promised visit to a lady who lived about twenty 
 miles off. She accordingly set out early the next morn- 
 ing, attended by her waiting-woman and several armed 
 domestics ; taking, by her uncle's direction, the upper 
 road across the mountain, as safer, though not so good 
 as that through the forest. 
 
 She arrived safely at her friend's, notwithstanding the 
 wretched condition of the road, long neglected, and now 
 almost impassable from the heavy autumnal rains. But 
 on her return, when about halfway up the mountain, the 
 carriage broke down. The accident might have proved 
 Vol. II.— -B 
 
14 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 fatal, as the road lay along the edge of a deep ravine, 
 and the parapet had been in many places torn away by 
 the torrents. The screams of the waiting-maid, and the 
 clamorous confusion of the servants, attracted the notice 
 of a man who was descending the mountain by a foot- 
 path : he quickened his pace, and advanced to their re- 
 lief. As soon as he pulled open the carriage-door, the 
 terrified abigail threw herself into his arms : he carried 
 her a few yards up the bank, where some hewn trees 
 afforded a dry seat ; and then returned to Albertine, 
 who, less easily alarmed, had already extricated herself. 
 He assisted her to ascend the slippery bank, on which 
 he had deposited her attendant, and went to see what 
 could be done with the prostrate vehicle. By his di- 
 rections and personal exertions it was shortly in a con- 
 dition to be drawn to a forge, about a quarter of a mile 
 distant ; where workmen, he said, would be found to 
 repair it. He proposed that the lady and her companion 
 should adjourn thither also, instead of waiting in the 
 open road. They accordingly set forward together, the 
 carriage slowly following. 
 
 Albertine had been forcibly struck by her deliverer's 
 appearance, which she had full leisure to observe. His 
 plain and rather coarse attire, betokening a man of the 
 middle class, was contrasted with the dignified but 
 stern expression of his regular features, as well as with 
 the tone of habitual command with wliich he directed 
 the domestics, and with his courteous, easy, yet res- 
 pectful manner towards herself As he walked by her 
 side to the forge, his language displayed a degree of 
 cultivation equally foreign to his apparent rank in life. 
 In the course of their conversation, he asked how she 
 came to have taken this road in preference to the lower 
 one, which was so much better ? Albertine answered, 
 that she had only done so in compliance with her 
 uncle's wishes, the forest being considered unsafe. 
 
 <*And you, lady, did you not share his apprehen- 
 sions?" 
 
 '< No," she replied, " they say that Black Fritz knows 
 every thing : he must, therefore, be aware that a young 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 15 
 
 lady, on her way to visit a friend for a day or two, is not 
 likely to carry with her treasure sufficient to tempt him." 
 
 "But," said the man, "Black Fritz is not only 
 rapacious ; he is also insolent and cruel." 
 
 '^Nay, pardon me, sir; I cannot believe that he 
 or any other man would commit an atrocious crime 
 without some powerful inducement." 
 
 *<Then, lady, you entertain a better opinion of him 
 than the rest of the world. May I ask upon what 
 ground it is formed ?'' 
 
 " It may seem strange," replied she, construing into 
 disapproval both the question and the equivocal smile 
 which accompanied it, '' and perhaps the grounds of my 
 opinion are too slight to be declared, but I could never 
 bring myself to credit all the ill that is reported of him." 
 
 Her auditor's eyes were bent on the ground, as in 
 deep meditation. There was a moment's pause ere 
 he turned to Albertine, and said, «* Can it be possible 
 that you feel thus gently towards the fierce outlaw, 
 whose very name is the terror of Bohemia ?" 
 
 << I speak as I think," said Albertine, ^<butl per- 
 ceive that we do not agree. You share the prejudices 
 of the majority with regard to him." In justification 
 of her own sentiments, she stated several instances 
 which she had heard of the bandit's humane and gene- 
 rous — and even equitable conduct. 
 
 The stranger expressed very opposite opinions, and 
 appeared well acquainted with the origin of the bri- 
 gand. Amongst the various particulars he mentioned, 
 was the fact of Black Fritz having served with dis- 
 tinction in the Swedish army ; but that, notwithstand- 
 ing, he had been ungratefully turned adrift at the 
 peace, when it seemed that resentment and distress 
 had driven him to his present desperate course of life. 
 
 "I cannot venture to contradict one who seems so 
 well informed," said Albertine, '' but yet, I should 
 unwillingly relinquish my more favourable views of 
 the unhappy man's character." 
 
 One, more practised than Albertine in reading the 
 language of the heart upon the human countenance, 
 would have been struck by the expression that dark- 
 
16 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 ened the stranger's brow, as he replied with a tone 
 of mournful earnestness : 
 
 "Were there more in the world, who could feel 
 and judge as generously as you do, lady — perhaps — 
 perhaps, the wretched object of your unmerited sym- 
 pathy had not fallen so low!" 
 
 ^' Then we do not differ so widely after all," said 
 she, <<and you will not condemn me now for acknow- 
 ledging that I have often prayed, that God would 
 enlighten the understanding of this erring man, and 
 turn him from his career of peril and blood!" 
 
 The stranger's emotion increased : he pressed his 
 hand upon his eyes, and walked on without speaking. 
 His silence struck Albertine with a feeling of surprise 
 and even confusion, at having thus unguardedly com- 
 municated her sentiments to an utter stranger. But there 
 was something in his look and manner, which not 
 only invited, but commanded openness. 
 
 They had by this time reached a long low building of 
 rough stone ; and the stranger ran forward into a part 
 of it, which presented the appearance of a respectable 
 dwelling-house, while the remainder conveyed the idea 
 of a manufactory. A number of dark looking men, 
 with bare arms, and leather aprons, came out almost 
 immediately, bringing with them the tools necessary 
 for repairing the carriage, and set to work without taking 
 any notice of Albertine or her attendants. A consider- 
 able time elapsed, and as her conductor was still absent, 
 she began to feel anxious. The wild aspect of the work- 
 men deterred her, at first, from questioning them ; at 
 length, however, she determined to address the least 
 ill-looking of the set, and learned from him, that their 
 employer was an iron-founder of Budweis. This in- 
 formation set her mind at ease, and she found amuse- 
 ment in observing the skilful and expeditious manner 
 in which the smiths seemed to perform their task. 
 At last, the stranger rejoined her ; and apologising for 
 having suflfered her to wait so long, invited her to enter 
 the house and accept some refreshment. Albertine 
 consented, and, accompanied by her female attendant, 
 followed him to a well-furnished room, where an elderly 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 17 
 
 woman of decent exterior, who was engaged in arrang- 
 ing the repast, received her respectfully, and then 
 retired to a spinning-wheel at the window. The man- 
 ner in which the stranger acquitted himself of the hon- 
 ours of his dwelling, and the tone of his conversation, 
 afforded sufficient proof that he was not unused to cul- 
 tivated society ; and her interest as well as curiosity 
 augmented with every change of his singularly dark, 
 but handsome countenance, and with every modulation 
 of a voice deep and manly, yet touchingly sweet. 
 
 Three hours had thus glided away unmarked, when 
 a man entered, and informed them, that the repairs of 
 the carriage were completed. At this unwelcome in- 
 telligence, the stranger started from his seat, his eyes 
 fiercely gleaming upon the intruder. Instantly per- 
 ceiving the effect of his impetuous movement on Alber- 
 tine's changing colour, he restrained himself — and, 
 with an air of profound respect, offered to conduct her 
 to her carriage. At the door of the house he stopped — 
 looked embarrassed — and after a hesitation, which man- 
 ifested internal conflict — asked whether he might be 
 permitted to say a few words to her in private. Al- 
 bertine desired her attendant to pass on to the carriage, 
 and returned with her host to the room where she had 
 been entertained. 
 
 '' You spoke to me of Black Fritz, lady — though you 
 fear not him — you might reasonably apprehend danger 
 from some of his people. I know that he has his mo- 
 tives for respecting my wishes. Therefore allow me to 
 entreat your acceptance of this ring. Should you ever 
 be exposed to danger from any of his band — show it, 
 and you will be suffered to pass without further molesta- 
 tion." 
 
 Albertine stood as if petrified. A thought flashed 
 through her brain, which deprived her of all power of 
 utterance. The dark form which had excited her curi- 
 osity on the banks of the Moldau, seemed to stand be- 
 fore her. An icy pang, for a moment, paralyzed her fa- 
 culties — and she could neither speak nor stretch forth 
 her hand to take the proffered ring. It was an engraved 
 stone, in a rich, but peculiar setting. 
 
 VOL. II — B 2 
 
18 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 '*! thank you," she said at length, in a voice which 
 betrayed the excess of her agitation. «' I thank you — 
 I can never forget your kindness. Your ring shall be 
 restored when I no longer need its protection. But tell 
 me to whom, and where." 
 
 A burning flush passed over the stranger's face, as 
 with strong and uncontrollable emotion he interrupted 
 her. " Then, is my gift scorned, because the giver is 
 unknown ? The ring is dear — most dear to me. No 
 matter why. But 1 give it to save you from danger — 
 that it might remain with you. And yet — and yet ." 
 
 He stopped as if a sudden sense of propriety had 
 checked the further expression of his exasperated feel- 
 ings. Albertine's cheeks were pale, and her lips trem- 
 bled as she uttered some inarticulate words. Scarce 
 knowing what she did, she thrust the ring into the folds 
 of her garment, at the same time moving towards the 
 door. Her mysterious host followed in gloomy silence, 
 and assisted her into the carriage. The slight, perhaps 
 unconscious, pressure of his hand, was as unconscious- 
 ly returned. Their eyes met once more as the door 
 closed, and the winding of the road soon hid her from 
 his sight. 
 
 Albertine threw herself back in the carriage, and 
 drawing her veil closely over her face, journeyed home, 
 lost in a bewildered maze of sensations. She could not 
 disguise from herself the impression that this adventure 
 had left upon her mind. But what seemed most in- 
 comprehensible to her was, the power which the 
 stranger's feelings exercised over hers, and the degree 
 to which she felt compelled to manifest confidence and 
 kindness towards the acquaintance of a moment ; and 
 towards one, too, who had appeared under such mys- 
 terious, not to say suspicious circumstances : for she saw 
 nothing to verify the smith's assertion of his master 
 being an iron-founder of Budweis. 
 
 On arriving at the outward gate of the castle, Alber- 
 tine was met by Count Darmstein, who was impatiently 
 walking backwards and forwards, looking for her return, 
 that he might communicate the joyful news, that his 
 son's courier was arrived, and that Frederick might be 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 19 
 
 expected every moment. This was no more than she 
 might have been prepared for — no more than would 
 have given her delight a few hours before ; yet, the 
 words now fell like a death-toll upon her ear. While 
 the events of the day had changed the nature of her 
 feelings they had also effaced Frederick from her 
 thoughts. She could not take part in her uncle's joy — 
 she could not even answer his affectionate greeting with 
 a look of kindness. Fatigue and terror (for the waiting- 
 maid was already giving an exaggerated account of their 
 accident on the mountain) afforded a pretext for im- 
 mediately retiring to her apartment, where she flung 
 herself on a couch and yielded to a passionate overflow 
 of feeling. A multitude of confused and conflicting 
 thoughts, images, and emotions, overpowered her reason. 
 She was displeased with herself — with Frederick's ar- 
 rival — with her interest for the stranger ; displeased, in 
 short, with the whole world ! 
 
 This was the cruel state of our heroine's mind, when 
 a sudden uproar in the castle, doors clapping, voices cal- 
 ling, and servants running to and fro, informed her that 
 Count Frederick was come. Her concern now was to 
 collect her scattered senses, and prepare to receive him. 
 She rose from the couch, but her limbs refused to sup- 
 port her, and she sunk down again. **0h God ! what 
 ails me ? what am I to do ?" She clasped her hands in 
 agony, then raising them to Heaven with a wild ges- 
 ture of despair, the stranger's parting gift fell at her 
 feet. She shrunk back, and covered her eyes from the 
 glittering trinket, as from some horrid spectre. But 
 hearing footsteps in the gallery leading to her chamber, 
 she snatched up the ring, pressed it to her lips, and hur- 
 ried it again into her bosom. 
 
 Scarce had she done so, when the door of the ante- 
 room opened, and Albertine's heart sunk within her, 
 on hearing a strange voice in conversation with her 
 uncle's. He entered with his arm round the shoulders 
 of a young man, in whose improved and elegant ex- 
 terior, her youthful playmate could scarcely be recog- 
 nized. 
 
20 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 ^^ Here is my son! your Frederick and mine, dear 
 Albertiiie ;" exclaimed the Count exultingly. 
 
 '< My lovely bride!'^ softly murmured the young 
 man, advancing gracefully to embrace her. But Alber- 
 tine's feelings had been already overstrained : they 
 could not bear farther tension. She bent forwards, and 
 fell lifeless into his extended arms. 
 
 On recovering, she found herself supported by her 
 uncle, her woman administering the necessary restora- 
 tives, and Frederick kneeling by her side, holding her 
 hands in his. She sat up, gazed wildly around, as if at 
 a loss to distinguish whether her returning ideas were 
 of real or unreal things ; till she was at length relieved 
 by a violent gush of tears. 
 
 *< Dearest Albertine !" said Frederick, tenderly kis- 
 sing her cold unresisting hand, "forgive my inconsid- 
 erate haste. Could I have foreseen its effects, I would 
 have controlled my impatience, and requested my 
 father to prepare you for my appearance in your apart- 
 ment.^' 
 
 "But who could have foreseen such agitation at an 
 event so long expected ?" said the old Count. 
 
 "Do not distress yourself, dear uncle, nor you, Fre- 
 derick : neither is to blame for a weakness, which may 
 be attributed to the fatigue of my morning journey. It 
 is nothing, I am quite well now.'' 
 
 She arose, and, supported by the two gentlemen, ac- 
 companied them to the saloon ; where she strove to ex- 
 hibit the kind feelings and attention due to the object 
 of her childish love, and the future partner of her weal 
 and woe. The effort wi.j great ; but, in the end, suc- 
 cessful. She questioned him about their friends at 
 Vienna, about his travels, and drew him into various de- 
 tails of what he had seen and done ; during which her 
 agitation gradually subsided. 
 
 From this day it was received as an indubitable fact 
 in the castle and its neighbourhood, that the rich and 
 beautiful young baroness was overhead and ears in love 
 with her future lord and master, Count Frederick ; and 
 the young man seemed to justify so flattering a prefer- 
 ence by the most assiduous attentions, and unwearied 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 21 
 
 endeavours to anticipate her wishes, and conform to her 
 tastes. He was ingenious as well as accomplished ; 
 and besides his collection of paintings, violins, and vio- 
 loncellos, he had brought with him whole wagon- 
 loads of materials and implements of every descrip- 
 tion. Albertine could not desire or even name any 
 article of furniture, or knick-knackery for work-table, 
 that it did not, in due time, make its appearance in her 
 apartment. He made, mended, and invented ; hourly 
 presenting her with some new proof of his dexterity 
 and devotion. He consulted her taste in the embel- 
 lishments of the castle, the repairs of which he con- 
 ducted with architectural skill. Some of the rooms he 
 adorned with paintings of his own hand, others he de- 
 corated in fresco, after the fashion of Italy. He show- 
 ed himself invariably amiable and complaisant; full of 
 talents and information. 
 
 Albertine saw and acknowledged all this, and her 
 resolutions to fulfil her engagement remained unshaken. 
 But in her hours of solitude, or after having been annoy- 
 ed by some trait of vanity or effeminacy in her cousin's 
 character, she could not entirely subdue the rebellious 
 feelings which called up the image of a far different be- 
 ing, and betrayed her into comparisons dangerous to 
 her future tranquillity. 
 
 Whilst Frederick thus occupied his hours, and whilst 
 his bride was dutifully striving to revive her former 
 attachment for him, and to look forward without pain to 
 the more solemn bond which, it was now decided, 
 should unite their fates early in the spring ; each coming 
 guest, each inhabitant of the castle or the village, who 
 resorted to the neighbouring towns, brought back ac- 
 counts of new outrages committed b}^ Black Fritz and 
 his gang. They related many hairbrained and hazard- 
 ous enterprises, in which the bold robber recklessly 
 risked his life and freedom, for the sake of eliecting 
 some mad boast of his own, or of chastising acts of oppres- 
 sion exercised by the rich upon their poor dependants. 
 
 Since her adventure on the mountain, Albertine's 
 heart had always throbbed at the mention of Black Fritz's 
 name. Although the noble armorial bearings engraved 
 
22 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 on the ring given to her by her mysterious protector, 
 might have suggested more favourable conjectures re- 
 specting his real condition, still, however, they proved 
 nothing ; and, in spite of the horror attached to such a 
 notion, she not only found it impossible to divest herself 
 of the persuasion that she had approached this terrible 
 outlaw ; but she had dwelt involuntarily and with inex- 
 plicable pleasure on the idea of having been, transiently, 
 the object of his kindness. The doubt and mystery 
 which involved her connection with her host of the 
 mountain, only contributed to recall him more frequent- 
 ly to her thoughts ; and every time, unconsciously, with 
 increasing interest. 
 
 But there were other circumstances besides these re- 
 ports, which caused his image to recur to her imagina- 
 tion. For some time past, she felt the conviction of 
 being encompassed by an invisible power. Evidence 
 of a secret agency presented itself daily to her senses. 
 Slightly expressed wishes were gratified, household 
 anxieties removed by invisible means, whatever was 
 sent for to the capital, either for the use or ornament 
 of the castle, passed through the most dangerous parts 
 of the country unmolested. Perfect tranquillity reigned 
 for twenty miles round Darmstein, and the vassals were 
 indemnified — they knew not how — for the various de- 
 predations they had formerly suffered. None of these 
 facts came to her knowledge without inflicting a pang, 
 which deepened the feelings in which her sensitiveaess 
 originated. 
 
 She had once said, jestingly, at table, that she 
 wished for a parrot, like one belonging to a friend at 
 Vienna, to entertain her during the hours which her 
 uncle's affairs, and Frederick's amateur pursuits con- 
 demned her to pass in solitude. The wish had been 
 long forgotten, as well as the occasion of it, when she 
 was awakened one morning, by a strange noise at her 
 window. She arose, and on opening the casement, 
 found a beautiful parrot suspended, in a splendid cage, 
 by a cord, to one of the stanchions. The chamber was 
 situated in the second story of the castle, on the side 
 which was deemed inaccessible from without ; the rock 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 
 
 23 
 
 on which it was built rising perpendicularly to a consi- 
 derable height above the river. Albertine, therefore, 
 guessed that it was a galanterie^oi her cousin's, as the 
 window of the adjoining room was so placed, that hers 
 might be reached from it without much difficulty. The 
 bird was taken in, and admired again and again. As 
 soon as she was dressed, she descended to thank Freder- 
 ick, and display her acquisition to her uncle. Both gen- 
 tlemen expressed unfeigned astonishment, and the former 
 proved, satisfactorily, that he could not possibly have 
 been in that part of the castle since the preceding morn- 
 ing. All the servants were examined, but no one could 
 throw any light upon the mystery. 
 
 Meanwhile, Albertine enjoyed the company of her 
 parrot, though certain suspicions respecting the mode 
 by which it had been conveyed to her, sometimes 
 crossed her mind, filling it with dread. Happening to 
 be alone in her chamber reading, she was surprised by 
 a voice exclaiming with a sigh, "Adrian! ah poor 
 Adrian!" She dropped the book, and listened. It 
 was the bird who spoke. She approached the cage, 
 and asked — as if the parrot could understand her ques- 
 tion — who had taught it that name ? But the answer 
 was still '^Adrian — ah ! poor Adrian!" 
 
 Albertine, to whom the name recalled her mother, 
 and the son of her mother's friend — her first betrothed 
 — experienced a strange sensation of fear. It was as 
 if she was surrounded by spirits of the departed. 
 However, the superstitious fancy soon passed away, and 
 she stood by, while the bird incessantly repeated its 
 lamentable '^ Ah! poor Adrian!" till she became accus- 
 tomed to the sound. Poll continued to afford enter- 
 tainment to the inhabitants of Darmstein ; but the old 
 count shook his head when he compared the singular 
 mode of its introduction, with other evidences of being 
 under the influence of an invisible, though at present, 
 protecting power. The retainers were kept on the 
 alert, and a troop of soldiers quartered in the village. 
 
 This was the situation of affairs when the Countess 
 Belheim, a distant relative of the family, came to visit 
 them. Her usual residence was near Tabor, and no- 
 
24 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 thing but urgent business, which she had to transact 
 with Count Darmstein, could have induced her to stir 
 from home in the actual state of the country. She was 
 received with great pleasure,, especially by Albertine, 
 the neighbourhood affording but little society. As the 
 two ladies were sitting together the next morning, dis- 
 cussing the last new fashions, romances, and other lady- 
 like subjects, the parrot began to scream. The countess 
 looked round, and asked with surprise how it came there. 
 
 «<Why, have you ever seen it before?" inquired Al- 
 bertine, vvith a painful misgiving. "Seen it before!" 
 answered the elder lady, «' I am almost certain it is 
 mine — the same which I lost in the most unaccount- 
 able manner, about two months ago. Pray tell me 
 how you came by it ?" 
 
 Albertine's distress augmented with every word of 
 her visitor's ; however, she related the bird's first ap- 
 pearance at her window. 
 
 The countess listened with an air almost of incredulity. 
 
 *'But that we may be quite sure of the fact," said 
 she, *^pray open the cage door." 
 
 Albertine complied ; and the parrot hopped round, 
 fluttered its wings, and flying to the countess's shoul- 
 der, caressed her with all the familiarity of long ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 <' It must be so — you are right. Take the bird — and 
 never let me see it again," said Albertine, bitterly, at 
 the same time moving towards the window to conceal 
 her vexation. 
 
 Madame de Belheim, who attributed her young 
 friend's emotion to the idea of losing her favourite, 
 entreated her, with great kindness, to accept it as a 
 voluntary gift, and to think no more of its having been 
 stolen. 
 
 «< Stolen !" repeated Albertine, in a tone approaching 
 to a shriek, whilst her flushed cheeks changed to a 
 deadly pale. "Yes — you are right," she continued, 
 after a pause, in which she endeavoured to compose 
 herself. " I thank you for the offer, though I cannot 
 accept it ; the bird is hateful to me, now that I know 
 whence it comes." 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 25 
 
 The countess endeavoured to persuade her that the 
 person to whom she was indebted for this present, and 
 who had obviousl)^ hazarded his life to place it at the 
 window, might have obtairned it honestly, — purchased 
 it, perhaps, of the thief. 
 
 " No, no!" exclaimed Albertine, with the vehemence 
 of despair, <' that is impossible!" 
 
 '« How ? then you know who it was ?" said her friend. 
 
 «^I know nothing — nothing," said Albertine, in a 
 hurried voice, '^ nothing, but that I am wretched. Sto- 
 len! good God! stolen! stolen!" 
 
 This violence, and the passionate burst of tears which 
 accompanied her words, astounded the countess. She 
 foreboreto press the agitated girl further, and attempted 
 to turn the conversation into a different channel. Af- 
 ter some time, Albertine was composed enough to ask 
 who of the Belheim family was named Adrian ? 
 
 ** Adrian! there is no one of that name belonging to 
 me." 
 
 Albertine was silent, and appeared lost in thought. 
 
 *' Perhaps," resumed the countess, <'it is the name 
 of your invisible but adventurous knight. He may 
 have taught it to the parrot, in order to insure your 
 occasional remembrance of the donor. Who knows 
 but it may lead to a discovery!" 
 
 '*No, impossible! I never knew any man of the 
 name!" almost screamed Albertine, whose agitation 
 seemed to be renewed by this supposition. 
 
 The countess said no more ; for it was evident to her, 
 that the subject could not be touched upon, without 
 throwing the young lady into agonies. She, there- 
 fore, suppressed her thoughts until an opportunity of- 
 fered of imparting them to Count Frederick, to whom 
 it had never occurred that the heart of his bride could 
 have been in any degree endangered by the mysterious 
 introduction of a parrot. After giving the matter due 
 consideration, during which he accidentally saw himself 
 in the opposite mirror, he concluded that he had little 
 to apprehend from a rival, and especially from one 
 whose attentions were of a nature so equivocal. 
 
 The day of Countess Belheim's departure was fixed. 
 Vol. H.— C 
 
26 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 But the tales of robbery and murder, which she had 
 heard during her visit, considerably augmented the 
 terror with which she had originally undertaken the 
 journey. Her host proposed to add some of his own 
 armed retainers to her escort. " And most happy 
 should I be to attend you myself, countess. But this 
 gouty shoe disqualifies me for the office of champion to 
 so fair a lady. I trust, therefore, that you will permit 
 me to substitute my son as a more efficient protector." 
 
 Disagreeable as was the duty thus imposed upon 
 him, in the existing state of things, neither respect for 
 his father, or regard to his own reputation, allowed 
 Count Frederick to decline it. He acquitted himself 
 with a good grace, and returned safe and unharmed to 
 Darmstein. Albertine had not been able to suppress 
 considerable uneasiness for the friend of her childhood, 
 on grounds which she durst not explain, and anxiously 
 watched for his return. She met him in the portal, 
 expressing her joy at his safety. Frederick, touched 
 with this evidence of affection, repaid her with a tender, 
 but hurried embrace: while his countenance indicated 
 impatience to communicate some matter of importance 
 with which his mind was pre-occupied. 
 
 *^ Who do you think I have seen Albertine ? I give 
 you three guesses; but wait, my father must hear it too." 
 
 Thus saying, he drew her with him into the Count's 
 study, where his eagerness to tell his adventure abridged 
 the forms of salutation. 
 
 ^< Father, I have seen Black Fritz!" 
 
 ^^ Black Fritz!" exclaimed both his auditors. 
 
 <« Yes, Black Fritz himself! and, moreover, I have 
 been as near him as I am to you." 
 
 •^ Is he taken at last?" inquired Count Darmsteln. 
 
 ^^No that is not it." 
 
 " Then you have been attacked by him," said Alber- 
 tine, trembling so violently as to be obliged to catch 
 hold of her cousin's arm. Ascribing her agitation to 
 anxiety for him, Frederick gratefully pressed her hand 
 to his heart, and led her to a chair. 
 
 "God forbid!" said he, ^'I spoke to him as tranquilly 
 as I now speak to you." 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 
 
 27 
 
 « In God's name, go on — and say how it was" — said 
 his impatient father. 
 
 Frederick drew his chair close to the fire, and gave 
 the following account of his adventure. — " I was detained 
 this morning at the first stage from Tabor, for want of 
 horses. I thought it prudent to conceal my rank, lest 
 any of the vagabonds, employed as scouts by the brig- 
 ands, should be lurking about the inn. Therefore, in- 
 stead of demanding a private chamber, 1 seated myself 
 in the public room, and directed my people not to say 
 that they belonged to me. The room was already oc- 
 cupied by a variety of persons who had taken shelter 
 from the snow storm; peasants, travellers, and a corpo- 
 ral, with ten or a dozen troopers of those employed to 
 patrol the roads. Amid the din of voices, I could dis- 
 tinguish much that was said about Black Fritz and his 
 exploits: also, that he was then in that neighbourhood, 
 and had several times narrowly escaped falling into the 
 hands of the soldiers. All I heard, only served to 
 augment my desire to proceed, lest I should be compel- 
 led to travel after sunset; and I was expressing my anx- 
 iety on the subject to the landlord, when two more 
 guests entered. One was a youngish, but very respect- 
 able looking priest; and the other, as well as I could 
 judge by his air and address, might be the village school- 
 master. The profession of the former seemed to im- 
 pose silence on the noisy crew. Having called for wine, 
 the new comers placed themselves quietly at the extre- 
 mity of a long table, w^hich occupied the end of the 
 room where I was seated. The sensation produced by 
 the entrance of the ecclesiastic gradually subsided, and 
 the soldiers resumed their clamorous discourse. They 
 spoke as if well acquainted with Black Fritz's person, 
 which they described as little short of monstrous. The 
 priest's companion got up, and went out of the room, 
 whilst he himself approached the troopers, and entered 
 freely into conversation with them — asking how it hap- 
 pened, that, so well informed as they appeared to be, 
 respecting this terrible miscreant, they had not yet been 
 able to take him. They replied in the same rodomon- 
 tading tone as they had been conversing in before; and 
 I thought I could see that the new interlocutor was pur- 
 
28 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 posely leading them on, to boast of what they would do 
 with Black Fritz, when they caught him. 
 
 *' And what would you do — were he here now ?" 
 said he, in a tone which made my blood run cold, and 
 which seemed to disconcert the company; for the ques- 
 tion remained unanswered — and we were all looking at 
 one another, as if each expected to see the terrific rob- 
 ber in his next neighbour; — when the schoolmaster re- 
 turned, and said some words which I did not under- 
 stand. The priest suddenly advanced into the middle 
 of the room — and shouting in a voice of thunder — '^l 
 am Black Fritz," — threw off the clerical hat and cloak, 
 which had shaded and partially covered his features, and 
 stood before us, as a young man of strikingly handsome, 
 and, I might say, awfully majestic aspect. He presented 
 a pistol with each hand, and commanded the spectators 
 to stand back at their peril; — his companion brandished 
 a huge sabre; and the two brigands made their retreat — 
 whilst we all stood fixed and motionless with amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 << The devil !" exclaimed Count Darmstein, *' and did 
 nobody follow them ?" 
 
 ^<0h, yes ! the troopers rushed out to their horses, 
 which they had left under a shed, whilst they were 
 drinking in the house. They found their saddle-girths 
 cut; and some of them who hastily attempted to mount, 
 before they had discovered the trick, were rolled in the 
 mire. They vented their rage in oaths and impreca- 
 tions, which mingled strangely with the wild shouts of 
 laughter with which the robbers saluted them, as they 
 galloped past with the speed of a whirlwind.'^ 
 
 " Incredible!'^ exclaimed his father — ^' That a whole 
 roomful of men, and many of ihem soldiers, should thus 
 have suffered themselves to be bearded by a couple of 
 rascally brigands V^ 
 
 Albertine begged her cousin to describe Black Fritz's 
 person — but he declined, promising in a day or two to 
 gratify her curiosity beyond her expectations. This 
 narrative caused the remembrance she most laboured to 
 banish from her mind, to return more vividly; and ac- 
 companied by a mortifying consciousness of the insig- 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 29 
 
 nificant figure that her lover must have made, in com- 
 parison with the fearless freebooter. 
 
 Frederick spent the greatest part of the two succeed- 
 ing days in his own apartments; and, on the third, came 
 with an air of mysterious exultation to request Alber- 
 tine's presence in the picture gallery, where he led her 
 up to her favourite painting of their heretical ancestor 
 in prison. '*See there!" he said. She started back 
 with an exclamation of horror; for the face of the cap- 
 tive was now turned towards her; and exhibited the 
 features of her mountain friend, gazing upon her in stern 
 despair. She covered her face with her hands and ran 
 out of the gallery. Frederick followed, triumphing in, 
 what he believed, the power of his pencil ; and found 
 her leaning against a pillar in the adjoining saloon, pale 
 as ashes, and trembling from head to foot. 
 
 " Good Heavens! dearest Albertine ! what is the 
 matter ? Can such terror have been produced by a 
 mere work of art ? You know how often we have dis- 
 puted on this point; you used to admire the picture, 
 partly because the artist, by concealing the face, had 
 allowed full scope for the imagination of the spectator ; 
 whilst I maintained that it was a poor expedient to 
 which he had been driven, by his incapacity to do jus- 
 tice to the captain's feelings. I, therefore, seized this 
 opportunity of deciding the question, and have given to 
 our ancestor the features of Black Fritz." 
 
 Albertine groaned and shuddered. Frederick con- 
 tinued — '^ I assure you it is without exception the best 
 likeness I ever made; and the effect upon you satisfies 
 me that I have succeeded in giving to the countenance 
 the expression I intended. 1 never saw so perfect a mo- 
 del of manly beauty ! Do come and look at it again." 
 
 ''No — not for the universe!" she cried, struggling to 
 release her hand from Frederick, who would have ur- 
 ged her into the gallery. 
 
 "How can you be so childish, Albertine? At least 
 you will confess that my idea was a happy one ?" 
 
 ''Oh ! Frederick! you know not what an irreparable 
 injury you have done me!" 
 
 "Say not so, dearest. Nothing 'would grieve me 
 VOL. II. — c 2 
 
30 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 more than to believe you in earnest. I should even 
 regret my success ; but admitting that the first sight of 
 the picture could have startled you, by the truth and 
 force of the expression, I cannot understand this contin- 
 ued agitation." 
 
 But Albertine heeded not his words — she averted her 
 face, and sobbed convulsively. Frederick was confound- 
 ed — and flattering as it was to his amateur vanity — his 
 kind heart was grieved to see her suffer. 
 
 She, at length, became sufficiently composed to return 
 to her chamber ; but no persuasion could induce her to 
 revisit the picture gallery. Though the fatal portrait 
 was removed from her sight, the form of Black Fritz 
 haunted both her sleeping and waking dreams — not as 
 she beheld him on the mountain — but in the dungeon 
 and on the scaffold. Her imagination stopped not here 
 — it followed him into futurity — to eternal punishment! 
 She shrunk from the thought. To contemplate the 
 perdition of a soul created in the image of its maker, 
 and which might yet be capable of being restored to 
 that likeness, was insupportable. An idea at length pre- 
 sented itself, and gradually gained absolute possession 
 of her mind. It was the bright, but visionary hope of 
 saving the soul of the guilty and erring object of her 
 deepest sympathy, at which she grasped with all the 
 energy of her character. 
 
 The winter was fast gliding away : the snow began 
 to melt upon the mountains, the ice to float in broken 
 masses down the Moldau, and spring showers to reani- 
 mate the fixed and lifeless face of nature. Frederick 
 thought with complacency of his approaching marriage, 
 whilst every allusion to it chilled the heart of his bride. 
 Yet Frederick, ever amiable and kind, afforded her no 
 pertext for dissolving an engagement, which had so 
 long been the dearest wish of her revered uncle and of 
 all her family : she exerted herself, therefore, to disci- 
 pline her mind to submJt to circumstances on which the 
 happiness of those dearest to her seemed to depend. 
 But an unforeseen delay occurred. A law-suit which 
 had long occupied Count Darmstein's attention, was on 
 the point of being decided, and imperatively demanded 
 his presence in Prague, before the marriage could possi- 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 31 
 
 bly take place. Afiairs of equal importance requiring 
 that Frederick should remain at the castle, it was deter- 
 mined that Albertine should accompany her uncle. 
 
 No accident or impediment occurred during the first 
 two days of their journey. But on the last, as they 
 were slowly labouring through the deep ruts of a road 
 which skirted a forest, they were surrounded by several 
 armed men, one of whom demanded their money and 
 valuables. The Count, fiery and resolute, answered by 
 grasping at the fire-arms slung in front of the carriage. 
 The robber, perceiving his intention, presented a pistol, 
 which luckily missed fire ; and before he could draw ano- 
 ther from his belt, Albertine threw herself across her 
 uncle, tearing Black Fritz's ring from the chain, by 
 which she wore it round her neck, and held it out to the 
 ruffian, exclaiming with wild agony, «'0h! forbear, 
 forbear! respect your captain's signet and be gone." 
 The robber no sooner saw the ring, than he blew a shrill 
 whistle, and wheeling round, sprang into the wood, fol- 
 lowed by all his companions. 
 
 After an interval, in which the domestics, recovered 
 from their consternation, obeyed their master's order 
 to proceed, Albertine was asked by the Count for an 
 explanation of what had passed. Thus compelled, she 
 related the adventure by which the ring had come into 
 her possession. He listened with dissatisfaction to her 
 narrative. His niece, the object of a brigand's love, and 
 the obvious interest with which she spoke of him, both 
 gave rise to unpleasant reflections. But he suppressed ' 
 them, and only asked to look at the ring. 
 
 '^ Good Heavens! Count Lanesky's arms! I have seen 
 this ring a thousand times. It was I, who gave it to 
 him many years ago, under circumstances which I never 
 can forget." 
 
 " Lanesky, Lanesky," repealed Albertine slowly, as 
 if the name issued unconsciously from her lips. The 
 last heir of the house of Lanesky, and the parrot's re- 
 petition of the name of Adrian, fell at once on her heart. 
 Adrian Lanesky had been her first betrothed. PVko had 
 given her the parrot ? PVho had taught it to speak the 
 name of Adrian? She trembled, and her heart beat 
 quick; for from the depths of her perplexed feelings and 
 
32 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 thoughts, an idea arose which awakened mingled sen- 
 sations of fear, grief, and pleasure. 
 
 '^But, said you not that the fellow valued the ring, 
 and yet he gave it to you ? How came he by it ?" 
 
 '^ I know nothing, dear uncle, but what I have told 
 you. He assured me the ring was very dear to him, 
 and yet he seemed deeply hurt by my offer to restore it." 
 
 *' By Heavens! the scoundrel is in love with you! 
 and here is an explanation of all the mysteries that have 
 so long perplexed us. My niece, the Baroness Bra- 
 now, the object of a bandit's love! Ha! ha!'' 
 
 The count's tone cut her to the heart, and she could 
 not restrain her tears. She was silent, but her resolu- 
 tion to befriend the unfortunate being whom she be- 
 lieved to be the victim of circumstances, rather than of 
 natural depravity, remained unshaken. 
 
 Little more was said on either side during the rest 
 of the journey. The count's business at Prague did 
 not prevent him from secretly instituting inquiries res- 
 pecting the ring. Albertine soon perceived that she 
 was no longer a free agent, as before ; and that every 
 motion and look was watched. Unconscious of wrong, 
 it galled her to find herself suspected by one who had 
 hitherto reposed in her the most unlimited confidence. 
 She had steadily combated every insidious thought 
 which might tend to weaken her resolution of being to 
 Frederick a faithful and affectionate wife. He had no 
 right to more — nor did he claim it — for he could not 
 have requited a more passionate feeling. If a being so 
 shrouded in mystery, as sometimes to render his reality 
 almost doubtful, held an undefined place in Aer heart, 
 that of Frederick was openly and avowedly divided 
 between the arts and his affianced bride. 
 
 The history of the count's miraculous escape, caused 
 a great sensation in Prague. The confused and exag- 
 gerated reports of the domestics were repeated with 
 new additions and variations, till they reached the judi- 
 cial authorities, who had received instructions from 
 the Emperor Ferdinand to adopt vigorous measures 
 against these disturbers of the public peace. A large 
 reward was in consequence offered for the apprehen- 
 sion of Black Fritz ; and Count Darmstein was called 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 33 
 
 upon for a full statement of his encounter with the ban- 
 ditti. His niece's share in the business rendered such 
 an investigation peculiarly embarrassing : but, evasion 
 being impossible, he stated the facts, and the judge de- 
 sired lo see the robber's ring. Albertine refused to part 
 with it, — she supplicated and wept in vain. Her un- 
 cle's commands were peremptory, and she was compel- 
 led to deliver it up, with feelings of helpless despair 
 and self-reproach, arising from a conviction that she 
 was betraying the generous donor into the hands of his 
 foes. The judge required that the ring should be left 
 with him for a week, at the expiration of which, it 
 would be carefully restored. 
 
 This period elapsed, on the part of Albertine, in 
 agonizing suspense. The incessant conflict between 
 her anxiety for the fate of the bandit, and her early 
 principles of duty, had the effect of deepening her inte- 
 rest for him, until, at length, it assumed the character 
 of passion ; and the ideas, suggested by her uncle's 
 recognition of the ring, seemed to legitimate her feelings. 
 
 A second, and a third week, passed on, when urged 
 by her fears, she ventured to observe to her uncle, 
 that the judge had not fulfilled his promise of restoring 
 the ring. He replied sternl}^, that this, as well as every 
 other measure, which might tend to the apprehension 
 of such miscreants, v/as justifiable ; adding a severe 
 comment on the interest manifested by his future 
 daughter-in-law for the leader of a band of cut-throats. 
 
 Albertine heard these harsh words in silence, but 
 they sunk deep in her heart. She resolved never again 
 to speak on the subject to her uncle, by whose ill- 
 judged severity she felt deeply injured. Bitterness 
 now mingled with her affection for him ; she strug- 
 gled less and less against the disposition to draw com- 
 parisons unfavourable to his son ; she reflected on what 
 would have become of the elegant and accomplished 
 Count Frederick, had a cruel destiny turned hhn adrift 
 amongst ferocious and corrupted men ; in situations 
 where he would have had to defend his life against ene- 
 mies, and his virtue asjainst example. Her imagination 
 then placed the bandit in the bosom of a noble and affec- 
 tionate family — trained by honourable men to the practice 
 
34 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 of virtue and usefulness ; painted him such as he might 
 have been, were he really Adrian Lanesky, her first 
 betrothed ; — and her tears fell upon the picture. 
 
 Soon after this, they were one morning sitting at 
 breakfast, when a messenger brought the ring, with 
 the judge's thanks. Albertine's eye rested with an 
 expression of fearful inquiry on the officer. An icy 
 sickness curled over her heart — her hand shook as she 
 extended it to take the ring, and she retired without a 
 word. In the evening of the same day, one of her wo- 
 men burst into her chamber, with the intelligence that 
 Black Fritz was taken, and would be brought into the 
 city in chains the next morning. The twilight con- 
 cealed from the speaker the death-like paleness of her 
 mistress, and her own loquacity prevented her from 
 perceiving that she received no answer. 
 
 '^ And I — I am his betrayer!" she exclaimed in bit- 
 ter anguish, when her informant left the room. For, 
 that he had been taken by means of the ring, and that 
 his supposed love for her had been made the engine of 
 his destruction, were facts which could not admit of a 
 doubt. From this moment, therefore, since enough 
 had been conceded to the severity of law, and nothing 
 further could be feared from their victim, she abandoned 
 herself incessantly to feelings, which gathered strength 
 from the consciousness of having injured one who, 
 whatever were his crimes to the world, had acted nobly 
 and disinterestedly towards herself. 
 
 The ensuing day, at an early hour, an unusual com- 
 motion in the streets confirmed the report which had 
 so dreadfully agitated her. The house occupied by 
 Count Darmstein was situated in the principal square 
 through which the criminal must pass to the gaol. He 
 walked, heavily ironed and bare-headed, between two 
 soldiers, followed by several of his band, manacled 
 together in couples, a strong detachment of troops, and 
 an immense multitude of people, forming a long pro- 
 cession. 
 
 '*0h! what a handsome young man!" cried one of 
 Albertine's female attendants, assembled at the window 
 of the antechamber. 
 
 <' And did you seys," said the other, <' how wild and 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 35 
 
 fearfully he stared — every now and then shaking his 
 chains, as if he wanted to terrify the mob that followed 
 him/' 
 
 **No, no;" said the first speaker, <«I think it was 
 because his fetters hurt him. Did you not see his poor 
 hand all streaming with blood V 
 
 ** Fie, Theresa, how can you be so unchristian as to 
 pity a wicked robber ?" 
 
 ^'I can't help pitying the poor young man," replied 
 the tender-hearted girl ; *^he looks so unhappy, and is 
 going to pay so dearly for his sins. Do look, Agnes, 
 what beautiful hair! He walks, too, like an emperor, 
 in spite of his chains." 
 
 These, and like words, might have been heard by 
 Albertine through the open door; but despair had be- 
 numbed her senses, and she remained motionless in the 
 attitude in which the first sound that announced the 
 passage of the brigands struck upon her ear, and some 
 hours elapsed before she was able to leave her chamber. 
 She avoided society as much as it was possible, without 
 incurring the displeasure of her uncle; for nothing now 
 was talked of at Prague but the famous outlaw; and it 
 was with changing cheek and sinking heart that she 
 heard every difierent version of his history, whether 
 false or true. 
 
 The trial of Black Fritz proceeded, and the principal 
 facts relating to his life and origin were made known 
 by some of his companions. They stated that their 
 chief was the son of, or, at least, had been brought 
 up by, a wood-cutter, who lived on the border of a forest 
 in Upper Saxony, and was the agent of a gang of rob- 
 bers. Fritz was so cruelly treated by this man, that 
 not even blows could prevail on him to call the ruffian 
 father. When about fifteen, having lost his mother, 
 who was the only person from whom he had received 
 kindness, he ran away, and joined a party of Swedish 
 free-troops, which happened to be bivouacking on the 
 opposite side of the forest. His fine figure and dar- 
 ing character at first gained him the favour of his 
 comrades, over whom he soon gained an ascendency. 
 In the course of time he became aware of his deficien- 
 cies in the qualifications requisite for attaining the emi- 
 
36 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 nence to which he aspired; but he was not discouraged. 
 In the leisure hours, devoted by his associates to gamb- 
 ling and drinking, he learned to read and write, and 
 became a good military draftsman. His exemplary 
 conduct attracted the notice of his superiors, and the 
 daring prowess and fertility in expedients which distin- 
 guished him on every occasion, was rewarded by such 
 rapid promotion, that at twenty he commanded a com- 
 pany in a free corps. A brilliant career was now opened 
 to him, and to this all the powers of his vigorous mind 
 were directed. He wished to forget the wretched and 
 degrading period of his existence in the wood-cutter's 
 hovel, beyond which his mind delighted to trace dim 
 visions, of having been, in early infancy, the object of 
 tender solicitude to persons of very different cast from 
 those who had claimed his filial obedience. It gratified 
 his pride to connect such reminiscences with a seal ring, 
 given to him, on her death- bed, by the wood-cutter's wife, 
 who told him it was his rightful property, charging him 
 neither to part with, or suffer it to be seen by her husband 
 and his associates. He changed the name of Fritz to that 
 of Adrian, which he had an indistinct recollection of 
 having once borne, and strove ardently to merit the 
 honour and renown which he believed to be his birth- 
 right. Proud and unbending, he desired to rise by his 
 deeds alone, and neglected to cultivate the good will of 
 those who might have aided him. By pursuing this line 
 of conduct he at length made enemies, who joined with 
 rivals to thwart all liis views of further advancement. 
 Younger, and less-tried men, were put over his head, 
 only because they possessed the advantages of a noble 
 lineage, of which a hard fate had deprived him. Mor- 
 tification engendered bitter and resentful feelings to- 
 wards his equals and superiors; yet, in spite of every 
 obstacle, his distinguished merit would have obtained 
 him the rank to which he aspired in the regular army 
 of Gustavus, when he was unjustly included in the re- 
 duction which took place at the peace. All hope was 
 now at an end. Goaded by disappointment, revenge, 
 and distress, and animated by his natural inclination for 
 a life of peril and adventure, he leagued himself with 
 men of fortunes as desperate as his own, to wage war 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 37 
 
 upon that society through whose arbitrary decrees all 
 his efforts to attain honourable distinction had been frus- 
 trated. Unanimously elected their chief, all the ener- 
 gies of his bold and ambitious spirit were employed in 
 rendering the band formidable; He conceived and ex- 
 ecuted the most daring and hazardous enterprises, main- 
 tained rigid discipline, and exacted from his men a spe- 
 cies of rude honour in all their proceedings; every where 
 showing himself the friend of the poor, and the scourge 
 of their oppressors. But the quick-sighted sagacity and 
 caution which had defied both the stratagems and open 
 attacks of civil and military power, were lulled asleep 
 by the insidious persuasions of the passion which now 
 engrossed his heart, and he fell into the snare prepared 
 for him. He obeyed a summons from a woman he 
 loved, secretly conveyed to his hands, and sealed with 
 his own ring, which he had given her that she might 
 pass with safety through the country infested by his band. 
 In the bitterness of his heart he had cursed his betrayer; 
 imprisonment and death were as nothing, compared 
 with the treachery of the only being he had ever loved. 
 At the house of a relation, an old Chanoinesse, Al- 
 bertine met a Dominican friar, then celebrated for his 
 preaching, whose mild and dignified countenance inspi- 
 red confidence and respect. Here the conversation also 
 turned upon Black Fritz; and it appeared that Father 
 Theodore was the priest on whom devolved the melan- 
 choly duty of administering spiritual consolation to con- 
 demned malefactors. The venerable man expressed a 
 warm interest for the subject of their discourse, whose 
 state he described as exciting his deepest commiseration. 
 The unfortunate man had hitherto maintained a moody 
 silence, and, more than once, attempted self destruction; 
 on which account he was now watched both night and 
 day — the government being resolved to make an exam- 
 ple of him. '* There is a wild despair in the young 
 n(ian," said the monk, '' which seems to proceed less 
 from the consciousness of his guilt, and the dread of 
 punishment, than from inordinate pride writhing under 
 disgrace, together with a bitter sense of injury towards 
 some person who must have deceived or betrayed him." 
 Vol. II.— D 
 
38 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 **And has he not named this person?" asked the 
 Chanoinesse. 
 
 ^« Never!" replied the father. ^^Some words which 
 have unconsciously dropped from him, might lead to 
 the belief that the object of his indignation was a wo- 
 man. But he will not answer any questions that are put 
 to him." 
 
 " Then I suppose he will be executed without delay," 
 observed one of the company. This was too much for 
 Albertine — she laboured to suppress her feelings, but 
 the ashy paleness of her countenance, her contracted 
 brow, and fading eye, betrayed to the observant glance 
 of Father Theodore, the impression produced by their 
 discourse. 
 
 *' No — I hope not," he replied, still looking at Al- 
 bertine. ** If the unhappy man acknowledges nothing 
 — at least, he denies nothing. The facts against him are 
 sufficiently proved by the confession of his accomplices, 
 as well as the testimony of witnesses. His life therefore 
 is forfeited to the law — but I trust that a respite will be 
 granted, and that his soul may yet be saved." 
 
 At the concluding words of the monk, Albertine 
 raised her eyes with a glance of deep scrutiny on his 
 face, and discovered there such an unequivocal expres- 
 sion of benevolence and devotion, as at once converted 
 the wish, she had so long cherished, into a positive de- 
 termination; and she sat, during the remainder of the 
 visit, absorbed in consideration of the means by which 
 it might be carried into effect. 
 
 The next morning, she arose early, and saying that 
 she was going to confession, she repaired to tlie con- 
 vent of St Dominic. On signifying hr wish to the 
 sacristan, Father Theodore came and took his seat in 
 the confessional, at which she was kneeling. She re- 
 vealed to him her long engagement to her cousin — her 
 strongly combated inclination for th(5 bandit, and the 
 share she had been compelled to lake in his apprehen- 
 sion. She then proceeded to express her dread, lest the 
 perdition of the prisoner's soul should be the conse- 
 quence of her supposed treachery ; — and also her 
 belief, that if she could but convey to him an explan- 
 ation of her conduct, it might soften his heart, and 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 39 
 
 open a way for the admission of the consolations of re- 
 ligion. 
 
 The confessor suffered her to proceed without inter- 
 ruption, and remained in profound thought for some 
 time after she had ceased speaking. *' Is it possible, 
 daughter," he said at length, *' that thou canst seriously 
 wish to take a measure, which, however laudable in its 
 object, must be attended with so much risk and difficul- 
 ty r' 
 
 '^ There can be none, holy father, that 1 would hesi- 
 tate to encounter." 
 
 '' Then lady, 1 will consider of the m.atter. Be here 
 again in eight days, in this spot, and at this hour. Let 
 none suspect thy intentions, and be not hasty to indulge 
 hope as to their result. For we have not to deal with 
 one who hath erred from levity or feebleness, but with 
 an impenitent obdurate sinner." The reverend father 
 exposed the nature of the undertaking, and some of its 
 possible consequences, with the zeal and eloquence 
 which so well qualified him for the high office of *^ cal- 
 ling sinners to repentance." 
 
 Albertine departed somewhat dissatisfied notwith- 
 standing ; for she could not but construe such delay into 
 reluctance to forward her wishes. But^she was not to 
 be disheartened ; and should Father Theodore disap- 
 point her, she resolved to seek other means of effecting 
 her purpose. 
 
 On the eight day she presented herself again at the 
 convent. Father Theodore was already in the confes- 
 sional, and a gleam of satisfaction accompanied the sur- 
 prize with which he received her. <' I have consider- 
 ed your request, daughter ; but nothing can be done 
 unless you go with me to the prisoner." 
 
 Unprepared for such a measure, Albertine started ; 
 but instantly recovering her presence of mind, she re- 
 plied with firmness : — '^If it must be so, father, I am 
 ready. With you for my guide, it cannot be wrong, 
 and all other considerations are insignificant. Promise 
 only that the knowledge of this step shall, if possible, 
 be confined to yourself and him, for whose eternal weal 
 it is hazarded. Name the day and hour." 
 
 The monk paused, then said to her with increased 
 
40 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 solemnity of tone and gesture, «' Once more, daughter, 
 I ask, if thou hast duly measured thy strength, and 
 whether it be sufficient to encounter consequences such 
 as cannot be foreseen by mortal wisdom ?" 
 
 ^' Yes, holy father, my resolution is immoveable. I 
 will save his precious soul ! and thus requite that love 
 which has brought him to the scaffold !^^ 
 
 The countenance of the monk brightened, as he con- 
 templated the calm devotedness of the highminded, as 
 well as highborn and lovely being before him. He 
 fixed the next day for the interview with Black Fritz ; 
 it was a festival, and she was directed to attend high 
 mass at the church of St Dominic, from whence it 
 would be easy to glide through the crowd into the sa- 
 cristy, were he should wait to conduct her to the 
 prison, which was in the same street. 
 
 They met at the appointed time, and Father Theo- 
 dore wrapped her in the white serge habit of his order, 
 that she might accompany him unremarked. She was 
 pale, but on her face might be read the characters of 
 fixed and firm resolution. As they drew near the pri- 
 son, she crossed her arms upon her bosom, as if to re- 
 press the violent throbbings of her heart. The sacred 
 office of Father Theodore allowing him at all times free 
 access to the prisoners, he and his companion were con- 
 ducted, unquestioned by the gaoler, through the intri- 
 cate windings of a low vaulted passage, lighted here 
 and there by a glimmering lamp. The sounds that 
 echoed through this dark abode of misery and crime, 
 might have chilled the stoutest heart ; but Albertine's 
 senses were closed to all external impressions. At the 
 end of a corridor, they descended a flight of steps, at the 
 foot of which their guide unlocked a strong iron-clench- 
 ed door, and they entered the robber's cell. 
 
 The light admitted by a narrow window near the 
 roof discovered to their view the prisoner, stretched 
 upon a straw pallet ; and prevented from moving to any 
 distance by a chain attached to the iron collar round his 
 neck, then passed through a staple in the wall, and se- 
 cured by an enormous padlock. He lay with his face 
 to the wall, without seeming to notice the entrance of 
 the visiters. The monk advanced, and addressed him in 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 41 
 
 accents of kindness, *« Fritz, my son, look up — she is 
 here/' He withdrew the cowl which concealed Alber- 
 tine's features, and the robber sprung up on his feet, 
 with a tremendous imprecation. The chains rattled, 
 and the ponderous padlock fell to the ground with a 
 crash, pulling down with its weight a frame already de- 
 bilitated by confinement and mental sufiering. 
 
 *'My God !" exclaimed Albertine, and rushed for- 
 ward to his assistance ; but she retreated again as he 
 raised himself on one arm, and considered her with 
 tenderness. *' Art thou come to this den of wretched- 
 ness ?" He paused — his brow grew mere dark, and he 
 continued with a tone of stern irony ; ^' what wouldst 
 thou of me ? What new treachery hast thou devised ? 
 what new toils to deliver me into the hands of my ene- 
 
 mies 
 
 ?" 
 
 Father Theodore endeavoured to soothe him. ** Si- 
 lence, priest, I speak not to thee," said the robber, 
 fiercely interrupting him ; and with a wild incoherent 
 burst of passion, in which words of deep pathos rapid- 
 ly alternated with the bitterest expressions of resent- 
 ment and despair, he bared the inmost recesses of a heart 
 madly devoted to the being on whom he thus vented his 
 frantic wrath. She wept — and her tears gradually 
 seemed to still the tempest which her presence had rai- 
 sed in his soul, till then wrapt in moody sullenness. 
 As his violence abated, she drew nearer to him. "Hear 
 me, I beseech you, hear me. I am innocent of the hor- 
 rid treachery you attribute to me, or I could not stand 
 here!" He listened, as though unwilling to be convinc- 
 ed, to her detail of the circumstances by which the ring 
 had been extorted from her ; but in the progress of her 
 justification, she had approached the pallet where he lay, 
 and attempted to sustain the padlock, the weight of which 
 acting like a pulley, drew the chain so tight as to threaten 
 strangulation at every sudden movement of the prisoner. 
 
 ''What are you doing?" he exclaimed, abruptly 
 wrenching from her a burden so unbefitting a woman's 
 hands. Albertine uttered a cry of terror at beholding 
 her white robes steeped in the blood which flowed 
 from his lacerated wrists. She tore her veil, and, aided 
 VOL. II D 2 
 
42 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 by the monk, bound up the wounds inflicted by the 
 gyves. "Am I awake?" exclaimed the object of this 
 tender care, whom amazement rendered passive during 
 the operation. ''Can I believe that I am not utterly 
 abandoned and despised ?" 
 
 Albertine raised her head, and fixed her tearful eyes 
 earnestly on his. "Adrian,^' said she, with deep and 
 solemn emphasis, "you have my truest love — it has 
 long, long been yours — then believe me when I swear, 
 by all my hopes of salvation for us both, I am guiltless." 
 
 "Merciful God!" cried he aloud, overpowered by 
 her words, and by the feelings which they awakened. 
 «'But no — no! God has no mercy for a wretch like 
 me!" He fell on his face, and his breast heaved with 
 convulsive agony. 
 
 Albertine laid her hand gently upon his shoulder, 
 still kneeling by his side. " Eternity is not more 
 boundless than the mercy of the Almighty. Canst thou, 
 a frail and erring man, forgive the cause of these chains; 
 and shall not our heavenly father pardon his repentant 
 child ?" 
 
 Father Theodore now brought to her aid all the 
 powers derived him his holy ministry, and from his 
 profound knowledge of human nature. The icebound 
 surface of the prisoner's heart melted before the warm 
 beams of hope, diffused by the purest spirit of Chris- 
 tian charity. The robber raised his head, remorseful 
 drops slowly gathering in eyes that never wept till 
 now. The monk hailed these symptoms of awaken- 
 ing grace, and sought to confirm them by repeating the 
 Gospel's promise to him 'who turneth away from his 
 iniquity.' Intense and agonizing feelings agitated the 
 prisoner : starting up from the pallet, he threw himself 
 upon his knees, clasped his shackled hands together, 
 and deep hesitating accents of repentance broke from 
 his quivering lips. 
 
 At that instant the sun broke through the clouds, 
 and partially illuminated the prison, pouring its heams 
 through the grated window upon the kneeling penitent. 
 "His prayer is heard! he is forgiven!" cried Albertine, 
 as with a burst of joyful enthusiasm she fell upon the 
 robber's neck, and mingled her tears with his. 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 43 
 
 "My son," said the monk, laying his trembling 
 hand on the young man's head, **the blessing as well 
 as the mercy of God is with the repentant sinner !" 
 
 A solemn pause ensued, which Father Theodore was 
 the first to break. *' Lady Albertine," he said, "allow 
 me to conduct you hence. I must confer in private 
 with the prisoner." 
 
 She bowed assent. The prisoner asked with a fal- 
 tering voice and eager eye whether he might hope to 
 see her once more before his death. 
 
 <' We meet again, Adrian," she replied ; *<we shall 
 not long be parted!" and drawing the cowl over her 
 face, the monk led her forth. 
 
 The change wrought in the outlaw's feelings was 
 soon apparent. He was no longer silently sullen be- 
 fore his judges — but freely confessed his guilt. He 
 wished not for mercy. The only object which could 
 have rendered existence desirable, was the love of her, 
 whose gentle influence had awakened the nobler qual- 
 ities of his nature ; but from whom he was divided by 
 his crimes. His most ardent wish, therefore, was to 
 hasten the conclusion of a life poisoned by the sense of 
 degradation. 
 
 Albertine had likewise resigned herself to her des- 
 tiny. She knew her lover must die ; and her piety 
 enabled her to find in this dispensation a cause of thank- 
 fulness. By death he would be removed from a world 
 in which he never could redeem his name from dis- 
 grace — a world — in which temptations might again 
 overcome his new-born virtue. It seemed to her as if 
 such an expiation of his guilt purified and exalted her 
 passion. 
 
 Father Theodore deeming it expedient to communi- 
 cate to Count Lanesky their surmises respecting the 
 bandit's origin — the ring was despatched by an express 
 to him, at Berlin, with a letter containing all that the 
 father had learned from Black Fritz, regarding his early 
 recollections. These vv^ere such as to induce the count 
 to set out instantly for Prague. In the mean time the 
 prisoner was prepared for the probable elucidation of 
 his birth. Pride, grief, and remorse set fire to his 
 brain. On the eve of terminating a miserable existence, 
 
44 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 by a violent and ignominious death — to find himself in 
 possession of all the blessings that could have given va- 
 lue to life, was a trial too severe for a frame, already 
 disordered by suffering and confinement in the impure 
 atmosphere of a dungeon. He was seized in the night 
 by a brain fever ; and the good monk anticipated with 
 feelings allied 1o satisfaction, the probability of his be- 
 ing spared by a natural death, the dreadful doom that 
 awaited him. 
 
 On a representation of the prisoner's case. Father The- 
 odore obtained his removal to a more wholesome cham- 
 ber. His fetters were also taken off, and a physician 
 called to attend him. Contrary to ail expectations, the 
 patient's youth, and a constitution unimpaired by in- 
 temperance, carried him through the disease. With a 
 prostration of physical strength proportioned to the 
 violence of the fever, expired the last embers of his 
 wild and intractable spirit. When his senses returned, 
 and he was once more capable of collecting his thoughts, 
 he motioned to the friendly monk, who had nursed 
 him with parental care, to sit down by his bed. <<I 
 see it now — holy father," said he, in a voice scarcely 
 articulate from weakness, "I see it all now. Oh ! par- 
 don the anxiety and sorrow I have caused you." 
 
 " And what seest thou, my son ?" inquired Father 
 Theodore. 
 
 '^ Oh, father! I see my way out of the dark labyrinth 
 of despair in which I have been wandering. I feel that 
 God has in mercy bestowed upon me all that can con- 
 stitute the happiness of man on earth, at the moment 
 when I am about to leave it — that I may atone for my 
 crimes, by resigning with a willing spirit, the blessings 
 by which I could be reconciled to life, even under the 
 contumely of a world less merciful than its master." 
 
 The monk gladly encouraged a notion which seemed 
 to afford consolation to his penitent, who soon after fell 
 into a deep and tranquil slumber, from which he 
 awaked refreshed in body and mind. 
 
 Next day, whilst Father Theodore was with Alber- 
 tine, to whom he had gone to report the state of his 
 patient, a noble-looking man, somewhat passed the me- 
 ridian of life, was ushered in, whose form and features 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 45 
 
 bore so remarkable a resemblance to the bandit, that 
 both Albertine and her companion started. The for- 
 mer advanced towards him, exclaiming — '^ Good hea- 
 vens! Count Lanesky!'^ 
 
 He looked surprised, and Albertine coloured as she 
 made her obeisance. 
 
 *^ I regret to find that my friend. Count Darmstein, 
 is from home,'^ said the visiter. *^ How soon may I 
 hope for his return V^ 
 
 *' My uncle has been absent for some days on business, 
 but he will return to-morrow. In the mean time I shall 
 be happy to render his house as agreeable to you as possi- 
 ble." 
 
 She presented Father Theodore to the count, who took 
 the monk's hand without speaking. Then, turning to Al- 
 bertine,, asked how she came to know him at first sight? 
 She hesitated, and her voice faltered as she replied, 
 
 *^I was struck by a singular resemblance to — to — 
 one — " 
 
 " To Black Fritz, the robber, you would say ?" inter- 
 rupted the count, abruptly. "Is it then so? shall the 
 recovery of a long-lamented son, serve only to bring 
 dishonour on my name!'' 
 
 Father Theodore attempted to calm the asperity of 
 the unfortunate parent, by describing the penitence and 
 resignation of him whom they supposed his son. While 
 he spoke, his auditor's countenance exhibited a violent 
 struggle between pride and grief He made no reply, 
 but walked out on the balcony, from whence he return- 
 ed in a few minutes, and addressed himself to Albertine. 
 
 " In speaking of Count Darmstein just now, you cal- 
 led him uncle ; you are then the daughter of his sister, 
 Adelaide Baroness Branow ?" 
 
 She bowed, and he continued with suppressed vehe- 
 mence of tone and manner. '* Know you then, young 
 lady, the lot once assigned to you ? Know you that you 
 were betrothed to my son at your birth ? To him, per- 
 haps, whom you must now regard with detestation and 
 abhorrence !" 
 
 Albertine's lips trembled, her eyes filled, and she 
 answered with a low but energetic accent — '* No, no, I 
 do not — cannot abhor him." 
 
46 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 *^ How! what say you ? a bandit ? a murderer ? a con- 
 demned felon ?" 
 
 "To me, Sir, he has ever shown himself noble and 
 generous. It is not for me to judge him farther." She 
 wiped away the tears she had been unable to repress ; 
 and related the particulars of her connection with Adrian 
 from the day when she saw him save the child from 
 drowning in theMoldau to their interview in the prison. 
 Lanesky heard her with visible emotion, but he kept 
 his looks bent on the ground, as if unwilling to betray 
 the feelings which agitated him. When she had done 
 speaking, he rose with a desperate effort at self-command, 
 which increased the harshness of his manner. 
 
 " If it be so, if I am doomed to find my lost Adrian 
 in the person of a robber, let me see him at once. Any 
 further prolongation of suspense would be intolerable: 
 reverend father, let us go, and you, Lady Albertine, 
 will you not accompany us?'^ 
 
 The count's carriage conveyed them in a few minutes 
 to the prison. Tliey were introduced into a large 
 irregularly-shaped room, usually allotted to state prison- 
 ers, but to which Adrian had been removed on account 
 of his illness. It was scantily furnished ; but the win- 
 dows, though strongly grated, admitted the cheering sun- 
 beams. The door was situated in a deep recess, where, 
 apprehensive lest her presence should embarrass the 
 prisoner, Albertine preferred remaining an unseen wit- 
 ness of the interview. Adrian was seated at a table, 
 deeply intent upon a devotional book. It was easy to 
 perceive how much he had suffered, by the ghastly 
 paleness of his features, and the emaciated hand which 
 he extended to Father Theodore, as he slowly rose to 
 receive him. 
 
 "My son!" said the monk, " I have brought with 
 me a gentleman, commissioned by Count Lanesky, to 
 hear from your own lips what you have already com- 
 municated to me relative to your earliest reminiscences." 
 Adrian bowed respectfully; but the strong emotion 
 that shook his feeble frame, compelled him to sit down. 
 
 The count's full, dark, and searching eye, rested on 
 his features for a minute, and then he proceeded to ques- 
 tion him with forced and stern composure: the prisoner's 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 47 
 
 answers were mild and explicit. Towards the end of Ihe 
 examination, the conflicting passions in the breast of the 
 interrogator became more and more apparent. ^< One 
 more proof," said he, * is wanting — one only to con- 
 firm a wretched father's shame.'' 
 
 A deep but momentary flush sufi'used the prisoner's 
 pallid countenance, leaving it more ashy than before. 
 
 <* The lost son of Count Lanesky had a scar on the 
 right temple, in consequence of a fall in his fourth year." 
 
 Adrian's trembling hand lifted the rich curls that 
 covered the decisive mark. 
 
 <* Then he is my son !" shrieked the count, with an 
 accent of despair, and striking liis clenched hand against 
 his forehead — turned away and retreated into the embra- 
 sure of a window. 
 
 ^*My father! oh my father!" cried Adrian, starting 
 up and extending his arms ; but he reeled and would 
 have fallen, but for the friendly support of the monk. 
 Albertine rushed from her concealment, and throwing 
 her arms round her fainting lover, exclaimed in heart- 
 thrilling tones, <«Let thy cruel father — let Heaven it- 
 self reject thee — thou only are my betrothed, and 
 never will I forsake thee!" 
 
 The prisoner's languid eyes beamed for an instant 
 with grateful affection, whilst the lovely enthusiast 
 spoke ; but they closed with her last word, and he 
 sunk without sense, motion, or sign of life into Father 
 Theodore's arms. 
 
 They laid him on his bed, chafed his cold hands, and 
 bathed his pallid brow, in vain. Count Lanesky slow- 
 ly turned towards the group. The sight of his son's 
 lifeless body in the care of strangers, seemed at once to 
 crush the aristocratic pride which warred with every 
 softer feeling. He threw himself on his knees by the 
 insensible Adrian, clasped him to his heart, and said, 
 while large tears flowed down his proud and stern coun- 
 tenance — ^' Still thou art my son! the only being I have 
 left to love!" The accents of parental tenderness 
 seemed to recall the suspended faculties of the prisoner ; 
 and after a time he was sufficiently recovered to con- 
 verse with his father on their strange and melancholy 
 position. 
 
48 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 At the count's desire, Adrian gave him a succinct 
 account of the principal events of his life, requesting to 
 be allowed to suppress all details of the guilty deeds for 
 which he was about to suffer ; solemnly declaring that 
 from the hour which brought him acquainted with Al- 
 bertine, he had shunned every occasion of shedding 
 blood, and had resolved to seize the first opportunity of 
 detaching himself from his fierce associates, and in ano- 
 ther climate to obtain honourable fame, or die in the 
 pursuit. 
 
 At the conclusion of the prisoner's narrative, the 
 heart-stricken father remained silent. He was revolv- 
 ing in his mind the possibility of obtaining the pardon 
 of his son, through his personal interest with the em- 
 peror. He proposed to set out immediately for Vienna; 
 but Adrian resolutely opposed the measure. It was 
 too late — he was too well known — and all the lustre of 
 his father's name would be insufficient to efface the in- 
 famy his crimes had brought upon it. Humble sub- 
 mission to the fate awarded him by his country's laws, 
 was the only atonement he could now make for having 
 defied them. Besides, how could he suffer his rank to 
 procure for him the impunity which would not be ex- 
 tended to his com.rades. 
 
 The gaoler now entered, and announced the hour 
 for closing the prison gates for the night. Lanesky 
 accompanied Albertine home, where her uncle soon af- 
 ter arrived. He expressed equal joy and astonishment 
 at the sight of his old friend ; an explanation ensued 
 of the motives which had induced the latter to visit 
 Prague. At first, disappointment and vexation pre- 
 dominated in the breast of Count Darmstein, at the de- 
 struction of long-cherished schemes, for securing, as he 
 had believed, the happiness of Albertine, as well as 
 that of his darling Frederick. But though somewhat 
 tenacious of his purposes, Count Darmstein was essen- 
 tially kind, equitable, and religious; so that reflection 
 speedily brought him to submit his own will to the 
 conviction that 
 
 " There's a divinity who shapes our ends, 
 Rough-hew therei how we will." 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 49 
 
 He could not deny the legality of the first contract, 
 which bound his niece to Adrian ; neillier could he alto- 
 gether condemn a passion, the strength and truth of 
 which had overcome such apparently invincible obsta- 
 cles, in order to efi'ect their predestined union. 
 
 The order for the execution of the banditti having 
 arrived from Vienna, their doom was fixed for the 
 third day at noon. It was Father Theodore who com- 
 municated the intelligence to Albertine, Her fortitude 
 did not forsake her yet — no flush crimsoned her pale 
 cheek — no tear dimmed her eye, as it glanced upwards 
 with a look of blended resignation and enthusiasm. 
 A slight contraction of the lip, and the cold damp fin- 
 gers which tremulously pressed her uncle's hand, were, 
 all that revealed her feelings when she asked his per- 
 mission to pass the intervening days with Adrian, un- 
 der the protection of her confessor. He consented, 
 and moved by the distress of his friend, even offered to 
 accompany her himself ; in the hope that this show of 
 sympathy might soothe the feelings of the unhappy 
 father, though he could not yet bring his mind to feel 
 in perfect charity with the disturber of his peace, both 
 at home and abroad. 
 
 But this last spark of resentment was quenched by 
 the sight of its object. By the customary indulgence 
 shown to condemned criminals, Adrian's chains had 
 been taken off", and a plain suit of black substituted for 
 the torn uniform which he had worn in the dungeon. 
 His wasted, but still majestic form, and a deportment 
 where native loftiness of mind contrasted with the 
 touching humility of penitence ; his melancholy smile, 
 and the deep melody of the voice in which he bid 
 them welcome, effected so sudden a change in the feel- 
 ings of Count Darmstein, that he opened his arms to 
 the criminal, and blessed him as a son. 
 
 How that day and the next were passed by these 
 individuals, needs no description, for such as have 
 looked on the death-bed of their nearest and dearest 
 friend. 
 
 Albertine betrayed no weakness, and she alone might 
 know the work of destruction that was going silently 
 Vol. n.— E 
 
50 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF GERMAN LIFE. 
 
 on within her. Her step was firm as she slowly fol- 
 lowed the afflicted parent out of the presence of him, 
 for whom, or with whom, she was equally ready to 
 live or die. The door of the prison closed heavily be- 
 hind the mourners, and Albertine still felt the pressure 
 of the last embrace, when she stopped, struck her hand 
 convulsively against her heart, whilst her features sud- 
 denly became contracted, and before her uncle could 
 catch her in his arms, she fell with her face on the 
 pavement of the court. She was carried home senseless. 
 
 The government was anxious to impress this act of 
 severity on the minds of the people by every possible 
 solemnity ; the church bells tolled as for the dead, and 
 minute guns fired from sunrise, to announce the last 
 hour of the robbers. With a heavy heart and wet eyes 
 Father Theodore performed the last sad duty of accom- 
 panying his penitent to the place of execution. Adrian 
 was calm and collected. He had often fearlessly en- 
 countered death on the field, why should he shrink 
 from it now, when it appeared to him as a haven of 
 rest, where his soul would find pardon and peace. 
 Weaned from all earthly feelings, he walked erect and 
 firm through the gazing multitude, who loudly ex- 
 pressed their pity and admiration for the youth and 
 noble bearing of the criminal. 
 
 Arrived at the scafibld, he embraced his fellow-suf- 
 ferers ; and, receiving the last benediction of his ghost- 
 ly father, he bowed his head upon the block — the axe 
 fell — and the bandit stood in the presence of him who 
 alone beholdeth the thoughts as well as the deeds of 
 men. 
 
 Father Theodore turned from the bloody scene to 
 fulfil the last request of his friend, by delivering to 
 Albertine the scarf (her gift) which had bound her 
 lover's eyes ; but 
 
 " That heart had burst — that eye was closed — 
 Yea, closed before his own!" 
 
THE 
 
 / 
 
 OLD STAROSTY 
 
THE 
 
 OLD STAROSTY.* 
 
 The year 1796, the first of Napoleon's victorious career, 
 brought with it many a night of terror for both Ger- 
 mans and Italians. I had just completed my studies at 
 the University of Jena, my native city, and taken the 
 degree of Doctor Utriusque Juris, and consequently 
 thought myself qualified to decide all the differences of 
 the European potentates with the French republic, 
 without recurring to the sword; (a species of argument 
 which I have always held in aversion) would they have 
 been content to appeal to the combined wisdom of Gro- 
 tius, Puffendorf, and the learned Dr Daniel Lammherz 
 — in which opinion I was confirmed by my mother. 
 My friends obtained for me an iippointment as Commis- 
 sary of Justice (the principal law officer of the crown 
 in provincial towns) in New East Prussia. 
 
 It was no small luck as well as honour for a Jena 
 student of two-and-twenty to be thus entrusted with 
 the sword and balance of justice for the government 
 of several thousand souls — and much as I respect 
 my mother's opinion on such matters, I have since 
 been led to believe that I ov/ed this flattering ap- 
 pointment more to the fall of *' Warsaw's last cham- 
 pion," and the creation of a New East Prussia, where 
 places were usually at discount, than to my own tran- 
 scendent merits. I shall take this opportunity of men- 
 tioning that our late King Frederick William, of blessed 
 
 • The government house. 
 VOL. II. — E 2 
 
54 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 memory, was blamed by many persons for having aided 
 and abetted the act of dismembering and devouring Po- 
 land, but as every evil produces some good, this trifling 
 deviation from the line of right, gaVe bread to thousands 
 of Prussian poets, who would otherwise have starved. 
 Throughout nature, the destruction of one is the life of 
 another. The herring is destined for the whale's belly, 
 while the entire animal and vegetable worlds, and even 
 the mineral (undigestible as it may be), are all made to 
 contribute to the support of human existence. 
 
 Handsomely provided with shirts, money, and ma- 
 ternal benedictions, I set out for my brilliant destination 
 in New East Prussia, a province, of which, geographers 
 now know no more than if it had started up and vanish- 
 ed again at the stroke of an enchanter's wand — and yet 
 truly, it was no fairy land either. I will not weary the 
 reader with a long detail of my travels. 
 
 All-bountiful nature allots to every creature its own 
 element, in which only it can exist. The fish dies in 
 the air; and the Polish Jew in the perfumed atmosphere 
 of a boudoir — then 1 arrived one evening, a little before 
 sunset, at Brczwezcisl, a little town of a cheerful friend- 
 ly aspect, in spite of its dingy, ill-built houses, unpaved 
 streets, and dirty inhabitants. But a sooty-faced chim- 
 ney-sweeper may look as gay and good humoured as 
 the most elegant opera dancer. Perhaps Brczwezcisl 
 made a more favourable impression on me at first, be- 
 cause 1 had heard its deformities exaggerated. Perhaps, 
 too, the unutterable name of the place, which had al- 
 most cost me a lock jaw the first time I attempted to 
 pronounce it, might have contributed to inspire certain 
 feelings of awe and apprehension. Names exercise 
 great influence over our conceptions of unseen objects — 
 and as the good and bad of this world dwells less in 
 things themselves than in our ideas of them, life may 
 be embellished by a melodious combination of syllables. 
 
 My awe of the New East Prussian theatre of my juri- 
 dical career, may also have been increased by the cir- 
 cumstance of my never having lost sight of the chim- 
 neys and spire* of my native city before this journey. 
 And although I knew, from various geographical works, 
 that the feeders on human flesh inhabited tolerably dis- 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. ^ 55 
 
 tant parts of the world, yet I continually wondered, 
 and thanked my stars that I was not murdered in tra- 
 versing; some of those dreary and desert tracts of coun- 
 try, where I mig;ht have been shot a thousand times, 
 without a probability of my sudden disappearance from 
 the earth being ever accounted for. Truly we never 
 acquire just confidence in our fellow creatures, till we 
 have mingled as a stranger amongst them. Misanthro- 
 pistsarenarrowminded,andselfishnessisa malady of the 
 soul, increased, and sometimes engendered, by constant- 
 ly living on one spot ; and to cure it, we should travel. 
 Change of air is as good for the mind as for the body. 
 
 My heart beat quicker as I caught the first glimpse of 
 Brczvvezcisl. It seemed to lie upon the plain like a con- 
 fused heap of black mud; but Paris and Berlin, with all 
 their splendid palaces, probably look no better to the 
 aeronaut who hovers over them. Here was the object 
 of my journey, the commencement of my professional 
 career, and perhaps too, the end of it, should the Poles, 
 so lately transformed into New East Prussians, take it 
 into their heads to massacre us, their countrymen of the 
 west. I went there an utter stranger, knowing no one 
 except a former college associate, named Burkhardt, 
 who had lately been appointed receiver general of the 
 taxes at Brczwezcisl, and to whom I had written to an- 
 nounce my arrival, and request him to prepare a lodg- 
 ing for my reception. 
 
 This Burkhardt, who had formerly been rather more 
 than indifferent to me, and whose society I had even 
 avoided at my mother's request, because he united the 
 qualities of sot, gambler, and fighter — rose rapidly in 
 my esteem and friendship, the nearer I approached 
 Brczwezcisl. He was my only acquaintance in a strange 
 and barbarous Polish town, and 1 felt for him as one 
 should do for a companion in shipwreck, cast by the 
 waves on the same desert shore. 
 
 I don't consider myself as superstitious; but still I 
 cannot help now and then believing in prognostics, and 
 when none present themselves naturally, 1 make them. 
 I resolved then to take particular notice of the first per- 
 son I should meet at the town gale — and that a man 
 should be the harbinger of evil, and a younrg maiden of 
 
56 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 good. I had scarcely determined this point, when I 
 looked up, and found that I was within a hundred yards 
 of the gate, under the arch of which I perceived what 
 I believed to be, a young and well-formed female figure. 
 *' Lucky dog," I exclaimed. I could have jumped out 
 of the old crazy vehicle, and gratefully thrown myself 
 at the feet of my good genius. I wiped the dust from 
 my spy-glass, (for I am near sighted) and examined her 
 attentively. On coming near, I discovered that my ge- 
 nius was tall and meagre, with the t'eatures of a Kalmuck, 
 and the complexion of a death's head. I could scarcely 
 believe my eyes — again I rubbed my glass, and saw the 
 damsel, who, no doubt suspected that I was a Prussian, 
 thrust out her tongue at me with a gesture of derision 
 and abhorrence. 1 took off my hat in return, and the 
 lady, as unprepared for my politeness, as I had been for 
 her discourtesy, nodded her head, and laughed immo- 
 derately. My postilion drew up to an inn, over the 
 door of which, the newly painted and gilt Prussian 
 eagle, had been bespattered with mud by the juvenile 
 patriots of Brczwezcisl, two or three of whom were 
 amusing themselves with pelting it. 
 
 THE OLD STAROSTY. 
 
 I INQUIRED civilly of the postmaster where my friend, 
 the receiver-general, Burkhardt, lived : the man seem- 
 ed not to hear me, for he returned no answer ; however, 
 as he entered into discourse with a letter-carrier, who 
 was going by, I concluded he was not afflicted with 
 deafness, but with the consequential impertinence of a 
 fellow who knows that your convenience depends on his 
 will and pleasure. After the sixteenth inquiry, he turned 
 to me, and asked gruffly what I wanted if I did not want 
 post-horses? I repeated my question, for the seventeenth 
 time, with true Berlin suavity of tone and manner. 
 
 *< At the old Starosty," growled the postmaster, puf- 
 fing a cloud of tobacco smoke in my face. 
 
 " Pardon me for giving so much trouble," I returned 
 in the same tone, '' but 1 must beg you to inform me 
 where I am to find the old Starosty." 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 57 
 
 *' I have no time," quoth the postmaster. '< Here, 
 Peter, go with him." 
 
 This command was addressed to a ragged hostler, who 
 had appeared to be lying fast asleep on the stone bench 
 at the stable-door. He started up, shook himself like a 
 dog, and jjroceeded down the street, without once look- 
 ing back to see whether I followed him. Notwith- 
 standing my natural gentleness, I was provoked at heart 
 by this brutal treatment. I clenched my hands in my 
 coat pockets, and swore internally that if ever the post- 
 master fell into the claws of justice, whose minister I 
 had the honour — and began to think, the misfortune — 
 to be at Brczwezcisl, I should make him remember his 
 insolent behaviour. 
 
 My conductor Peter was a Pole, who understood but 
 little German, and spoke less. My conversation with 
 him was at once so confused and terrific, tliat I shall re- 
 member it as long as I live. He was an ill-looking, one- 
 eyed vagabond, with a sharp yellow face, bristly black 
 hair, and a beard of the same colour,of a month's growth 
 at least. 
 
 a My good friend,'^ said I, as I waded slowly after 
 him through the deep mud, '« do you know the Receiver- 
 General Burkhardt, of Jena ?" 
 
 *< The old Siarosty!" answered Peter. 
 
 "But do you understand, my good fellow, that it is 
 to this Burkhardt that I wish to be conducted?" 
 
 <<The old Starosty!" repeated Peter. 
 
 ** But what am I to do in your old Starosty ?" 
 
 *<Die !" said the guide. 
 
 ** The devil! I have no such intention, I can tell 
 you, friend Peter." 
 
 *' Stark dead — die !" said Peter. 
 
 **But why ? what have I done," said I, beginning to 
 feel uneasy. 
 
 " Prussian! no Pole!" replied he. 
 
 <«ButI am a Prussian," said I. 
 
 <« Yes,I know." 
 
 << Why, then, die ? What do you mean ?" 
 
 ** So — and so — and so," said the fellow, with the ac- 
 tion of stabbing with a dagger. 
 
 Then he pointed to his breast, groaned, and rolled his 
 
58 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 eyes horribly, as if he was in the agonies of death. My 
 uneasiness increased as the discourse continued. 
 
 The man was clearly in his senses ; he appeared to 
 understand what I said, and it was not likely that the 
 postmaster should keep a mad hostler. 
 
 ** Perhaps we do not quite understand one another, 
 my good friend," I resumed — <*What do you mean 
 by dying?" 
 
 <^ Make dead," replied he, with a wild staring look. 
 
 <« Make dead ! Do you mean that I shall be mur- 
 dered?" 
 
 '' At night," said Peter. 
 
 ** At night ! This night!" asked I anxiously. 
 
 << Poles — not Prussians," was Peter's reply. 
 
 I shook my head, and was silent. It was clear we 
 did not understand one another, and yet there was some- 
 thing very terrifyingin his words to one well aware of the 
 hatred of the Poles towards the Prussians. 
 
 I had heard of several instances of my countrymen 
 having been assassinated, and it occurred to me that the 
 fellow went to warn me out of humanity, or that his 
 patriotic insolence led him to betray his knowledge of 
 some plot to murder all the Prussians in the town. The 
 more I reflected, the more probable this supposition ap- 
 peared, and I determined to communicate my suspicions 
 to my friend Burkhardt. In the mean time, we arrived 
 at the '^ Old Siarosty," which had so much perplexed me. 
 It was an old high building, of dark-coloured stone, in a 
 back street. I remarked that several persons who pass- 
 ed by it kept to the opposite side of the way, looking 
 up at the windows of this gloomy prison-like abode, 
 with a peculiar expression of curiosity. My guide only 
 pronounced the words «'01d Starosty," with an ex- 
 pression of terror in his countenance, and pointing to 
 the door, took to his heels, without saluting me, or de- 
 manding remuneration for his trouble. 
 
 Thus far, my entrance into Brczwezcisl had ofiered 
 nothing very prepossessing. The first persons I had 
 encountered, the uncourteous fair one at the gate, 
 the ungracious postmaster, and the unintelligible lout 
 who had just left me, took considerably from the plea- 
 sure which my appointment had originally given me. 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 59 
 
 I congratulated myself, however, on being about to see 
 and converse with one human being, at least, with 
 whom I had formerly breathed the same air. It is true 
 that Burkhardt had not enjoyed the best reputation at 
 Jena ; but men alter with their situations ; for what is 
 character, but the result of circumstances ? Fear some- 
 times lends to the weak a giant's strength. On the 
 field of battle the coward becomes a hero, while, 
 amongst women Hercules relinquished his club for a 
 distaff. But, granting that the receiver-general's prin- 
 ciples had hitherto been somewhat lax, yet the fact of 
 his being my countryman and old acquaintance, varnish- 
 ed over his demerits, nay, almost transformed his vices 
 into virtues. His quarrelsome disposition, in particular, 
 and his reputation as a duellist, was, under my actual 
 circumstances, a positive recommendation ; for, be it 
 said in confidence, the soft, modest, timid character, so 
 often and highly commended by my mamma, was little 
 fitted to encounter the perils of a popular commotion. 
 In fact, there are virtues which, in some situations 
 would be faults, and faults which in others would be 
 virtues. Things are not the same at all times, or in all 
 cases, although no real change may have taken place in 
 their natures. 
 
 On entering the old Starosty, as it was called, I was at 
 a loss where to find my dearly beloved friend Burk- 
 hardt. The creaking hinges of the lofty door echoed 
 throughthespaciousbuildingwithahollow,empty sound; 
 yet not a living soul appeared. 1 ascended the broad 
 stone staircase, expecting to find somebody to direct me. 
 
 On the first landing-place I saw a door on the left, at 
 which I knocked very gently, but no friendly voice 
 answered, '^ Come in." 1 knocked louder ; — all still as 
 the grave. I grew impatient ; — my friend became 
 every moment dearer to my heart. 1 tried the lock ; — 
 it gave way. I entered, and beheld a cofiin on tressels 
 in the middle of the room ; accounting satisfactorily, 
 though not agreeably, for my having knocked so long in 
 vain. 
 
 I am, by nature, respectful to the living, and still more 
 so to the dead. I was about to retire as gently as possi- 
 ble, when I caught a view of the features of a dead man, 
 
60 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 which I instantly recognized for my friend, the receiver- 
 general, who had paid the last tribute of mortality. 
 There he lay, reckless of dice and champagne, as stiff, 
 solemn, strange, and unconcerned, about tlie external 
 world, as if he had never shared an interest or a pleasure 
 with his fellow-men. Struck to the heart, I glided soft- 
 ly from the chamber, and leaned pensively on the heavy 
 stone balustrade without. Daylight was rapidly fading, 
 and its last rays glimmered faintly through the narrow 
 panes of the dust-coated windows of the staircase ; not 
 a step — not a voice, gave me reason to believe there 
 was another living creature beside myself in the house. 
 The sound of my own breathing, and the ringing of my 
 boot heals upon the granite floor as I shifted my position, 
 became oppressive to me. I began to feel the dread and 
 repugnance of the living to the dead, and wondered how 
 I could have been led by meditative disposition to look 
 so long upon the corpse. My helpless and embarrassing 
 situation now stared me in the face ; a hundred weary 
 German miles from my native home, and from my mo- 
 ther's tender care ; in a strange and, what was worse, a 
 hostile town, whose barbarous name I never heard till 
 I was appointed to the task of Prussianizing its inha- 
 bitants, and my only fiiend and acquaintance returned 
 to the dust from whence he came, without afibrding me 
 the counsel and comfort for which 1 had depended on 
 him. 
 
 The questions now arose, where should I lay my head 
 that night? How should I find the lodging which the 
 deceased had hired for me ? 
 
 While revolving these matters in my perplexed and 
 anxious mind, the rusty hinges of the house door utter- 
 ed a shriek so piercing and supernatural, as convulsed 
 every nerve in m.y body. A man, who, as well as I 
 could see in the dusk, wore a shabby livery, flew up 
 the stairs, three steps at a time, stared at me with open 
 mouth, and then began to speak. My knees shook un- 
 der me. The fellow talked on — but fear at first depri- 
 ved me of all power to reply ; and then I perceived that 
 his words were unintelligible, and probably Polish. 
 Seeing that I continued silent, he addressed me in Ger- 
 man, the sound of which restored my presence of mind. 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 61 
 
 I told him my name, my quality, and all the circum- 
 stances of my arrival in this cursed place, with the un- 
 speakable name. His tone became civil — he took off 
 his hat, and told me with interminable circumlocutions, 
 that his name was Lebrecht, and that he had been valet 
 and interpreter to the late receiver-general Burkhardt, 
 whom it had pleased Heaven to remove to a happier 
 existence — that Burkhardt had dined the day before 
 with some Polish noblemen. Heated by wine, a dispute 
 arose at cards — ^blows ensued, and Burkhardt was stab- 
 bed to the heart with a knife, by one of the company, 
 who immediately absconded. The narrator assured 
 me that he had been most zealously employed in my 
 service by his late master's desire, and that not only an 
 apartment, but an excellent German cook had been, for 
 several days past, prepared for my reception. He said 
 much of the deadly hatred which the Poles took every 
 opportunity of manifesting towards the Prussians, and 
 warned me against provoking their revenge. He con- 
 cluded by saying that he should himself return to Berlin, 
 as soon as his master Was buried. 
 
 Lebrecht now prepared to conduct me to my apart- 
 ment, which he said was on tlie ground floor. I follow- 
 ed him down stairs, where, after passing through a 
 desolate suite of unfurnished rooms, we arrived at one, 
 in which was an old-fashioned, high testered bed, of faded 
 yellow damask, half a dozen ponderous chairs, the stuff- 
 ing of which was oozing out at all the corners ; and a 
 heavy marble table, cracked across, supported by griffins 
 which had once been gilt. The walls were decorated 
 with the broad scroll-patterned gilt frame of an absent 
 looking glass, and an ill-conditioned tapestry, represent- 
 ing the Judgment of Solomon — Daniel in the Lion's 
 Den — and Judith with the bloody head of Holofernes — 
 all larger than life. 
 
 I saw nothing very consolatory in all this, and I 
 vished myself at the inn, however wretched a Polish 
 inn might be — would to Heaven I had gone thither at 
 once ! But partly from timidity, and partly to show 
 that I was not afraid of the neighbourhood of a dead man 
 —1 said nothing. Besides, I had no doubt that Lebrecht 
 Vol. H.—F 
 
62 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 and the German cook would keep me company in 
 the Starosty. Lebrecht lighied two candles that stood 
 on the table ; then volunteered to bring me some cold 
 meat and wine for supper, to send for my luggage to 
 the post-house, and to announce my arrival to the Ger- 
 man cook. I felt as if he was gone an age, though ac- 
 cording to my watch, he acquitted himself very expedi- 
 tiously of his errand ; and returned with a liberal supply 
 of the requisites for bodily comfort. But it is impossible 
 to describe my consternation and despair at his wishing 
 me good night, and withdrawing as soon as he had re- 
 ceived payment for what he had expended. He disap- 
 peared so promptly, that some instants elapsed before I 
 comprehended his intention. I started up from my 
 seat, and rushed to the door to entreat him not to leave 
 me ; but shame prevented me from proceeding farther. 
 I was reluctant to expose my weakness to a stranger. 
 1 flattered myself that he would at least pass the night 
 in his master's apartment overhead. But no such thing. 
 The screeching of the house door declared the horri- 
 ble truth. I ran to the window, and saw Lebrecht 
 tearing down an opposite street, as if he had had the devil 
 at his heels. He was soon lost in the increasing darkness, 
 and thus was I abandoned in the desolate old Starosty, 
 with a corpse for my only companion. 
 
 THE SENTINEL. 
 
 I don't believe in ghosts : but I was always afraid 
 of them when alone at night — and this is not unnatural. 
 Nobody believes in all that is possible; but how ready 
 are we ever to hope and /ear things barely possible ? 
 
 Stillness, like that of a midnight church-yard, reigned 
 around me. Not even a step was to be heard in the 
 street, which, as far as 1 could see, seemed to consist only 
 of half demolished and deserted houses. I turned from 
 the window in despair, and threw myself into one of 
 the old damask chairs. The grim visages of the tapes- 
 try seemed to advance from the walls, and my fascin- 
 ated eyes were as if compelled to look on them, until I 
 could have sworn that the goggle eyes of Holofernes' 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 63 
 
 bloody head began to roll, and glare upon me. I 
 thought of the dead man over my head, and the hatred 
 of the Poles to my nation — I became almost delirious 
 with teri'or. Though hungry 1 could not eat ; and 
 though tired to death, I could not sleep. I examined 
 the windows, to see whether I could escape from them 
 into the street in case of need ; but they were both 
 strongl}^ guarded with iron gratings. On a sudden I 
 heard a great noise in the house. Doors opened and 
 shut ; voices, and the trampling of feet, sounded in all 
 directions. It was most unaccountable ; but unaccount- 
 able things are just those for which some imaginations 
 most easily find a cause, and an inward voice warned 
 me that 1 was the object of all this uproar. This was 
 the murderous conspiracy which my guide Peter had 
 alluded to. 
 
 How could 1 save myself? An ice-cold shiver ran 
 through my veins, and 1 already saw the blood-thirsty 
 villains consulting on the manner of my death. I heard 
 their footsteps approaching through the rooms that led to 
 mine. They seemed to speak lower as they advanced. 
 I started up, and had scarcely secured the door, when 
 an attempt was made from without to open it. I stood 
 as if nailed to the ground, overcome by intense and 
 agonizing apprehensions. I dared not breathe, lest I 
 should betray myself. Though they spoke low, I could 
 distinguish that it was in Polish. Unfortunately for me, 
 I had begun to study that language when I received my 
 appointment as Commissnry of Justice, and had just ac- 
 quired enough of the vocabulary to be able to recognize 
 the words, '* Blood!" ^' Death!" and <' Prussians!" 
 
 I shook all over, and a cold sweat bedewed my fore- 
 head. A second attempt was made to open the door of 
 my chamber, after which I heard the ruffians retreat. 
 
 Whether the Poles aimed at my life, or only at my 
 money — or whether they meant to change their plan of 
 attack — I could not decide ; but I determined to put 
 out the candles, (fire tiiere was none, as we were in the 
 middle of August) lest the light should betray me to 
 any of the assassins, who might be in the street, and 
 who might shoot me through the windows. 
 
 Night is unfriendly to man, and he is therefore a 
 
64 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 born enemy to darkness. Even children, who have 
 never heard of ghosts, manifest dislike to being in the 
 dark, and a corresponding pleasure in light of all kinds. 
 
 I had scarcely extinguished mine, when the most 
 horrible images and possibilities presented themselves 
 to my mind. Real and visible dangers are not half so 
 terrifying as unknown or imaginary ones. It was in 
 vain that I endeavoured to drive them from my 
 thoughts. In vain did I throw myself on the bed, and 
 pray for sleep. My eyelids were stretched open with 
 supernatural force. The room smelt like a burial vault, 
 and when I removed to other parts of it, I heard rust- 
 ling and breathing, as of some one near me. Which- 
 ever way I turned the ghastly form of my countryman 
 appeared before me. The cold, stiff features spoke to 
 my imagination with such horrible eloquence, that I 
 would have given all I was worth in the world, and 
 thanks into the bargain, to have found myself once 
 more among the living. 
 
 My nerves were shaken afresh by the tolling of mid- 
 night ; the sound seemed to come from the top of the 
 Starosty, and reverberated fearfully through the empty 
 rooms. Every stroke fell upon my heart. It was in 
 vain I called myself a fool — a superstitious ass. In vain 
 that I argued against the suggestions of my fears. My 
 situation, at length, became intolerable. I made a des- 
 perate effort to move, and groping along the wall till I 
 found the door, I withdrew the bolt, determined to 
 make my way out, even at the risk of my life. The 
 door flew open, and displayed — Heavens! what a spec- 
 tacle! — I staggered back with horror. 
 
 By the gloomy light of a lantern hanging against the 
 wall, I beheld the corpse of my friend lying in the cof- 
 fin, just as I had seen it upstairs, on first entering the 
 house; with this difference only, that the pall which 
 had covered all but the face, having fallen off, the 
 bloody shirt of the murdered man was now visible. 
 My horror was at its height. I tried to recover my- 
 self, and to believe it was all unreal — the false creation 
 of a brain heated by fear and fatigue. To satisfy myself 
 that this was the case, I rushed upon the horrible vision, 
 with the momentary courage of despair. But strik- 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 65 
 
 ing the coffin with my foot, it returned a hollow sound, 
 and I saw the corpse raise its head and open its eyes. 
 
 The last remnant of sense forsook me. I retreated 
 precipitately into my chamber, without shutting the 
 door, and fell backwards upon the bed. 
 
 Here my benumbed senses were again recalled to 
 new and vivid impressions of terror, by a noise from 
 the adjoining room, that convinced me that Burkhardt 
 had really awakened from the sleep of death — for it 
 was the stumbling and scrambling of one extricating 
 himself with difficulty. I distinguished moans, and 
 soon after I saw the faint light which proceeded from 
 the outward room obscured by the figure — no doubt 
 that of the late occupant of the coffin. It leant for a 
 moment against the door-post, and then staggering for- 
 wards, vanished in the darkness of my room, into 
 which the dim rays of the lantern could not penetrate. 
 My doubts as to the destination or intentions of the 
 re-animated corpse were soon ended, b}^ feeling myself 
 suddenly almost crushed to death and smothered under 
 the leaden weight that fell upon me. 
 
 I cannot now comprehend how I survived this horri- 
 ble moment — and to describe the agony I suffered 
 would be impossible. I know not hoW long I lay in 
 the state of insensibility that followed, biit it must have 
 been a considerable time ; for, on hearing the clock 
 strike one, I thanked Heaven that the " vVilching hour" 
 was passed, hoping to be relieved frorii my horrible 
 burthen, but the clock struck two, and my heart died 
 within me. Who can imagine my sufferings? stifled 
 by the sickening smell of death — the body which crush- 
 ed me by its weight breathing warm, and tormented 
 with hiccup, indicating the agony of a second death ! 
 -^— I myself, alive only to the horrors of my situation. 
 All the tortures of Dante's Hell are a jest, when com- 
 pared to those which I endured. I had neither thought, 
 or courage to think of liberating myself. At last I began 
 to think that Burkhardt must have only fainted with 
 loss of blood — that the Poles had disposed of him has- 
 tily, without ascertaining whether he was dead or not 
 — and that he was now dying in earnest. He now 
 seemed, by his movements, to die very hard ; my 
 VOL. II F 2 
 
66 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OP GERMAN LIFE. 
 
 wish to assist him was frustrated by my own ex- 
 hausted state, which compelled me to remain passive, 
 and to let him take his chance ; then came the thought 
 that all that had happened in the last few hours was 
 but a painful dream — a nightmare. 
 
 But a new incident convinced me of the reality of 
 all the rest. 
 
 It was daylight — not that I could see — for the broad 
 shoulder-blades of my dying friend completely covered 
 my face ; but I guessed it to be morning from noise of 
 people in the street. I soon heard near footsteps, and 
 loud rough voices in the room, but I could not under- 
 stand what was said, as it was in Polish. I heard that 
 they were moving the coffin. "Doubtless," thought I, 
 *Uhey will seek the body here, and deliver mel'^ And 
 so they did, but not precisely in the manner I expected. 
 
 One of the speakers approached the bed and bela- 
 boured the dead, or d3nng man, so lustily with a stick, 
 that he started up and stood on his own legs, without 
 support by the bedside. Some of the blows fell on me, 
 so that I cried out and scrambled up as well as my 
 cramped and enfeebled limbs allowed me. I perceived 
 that the room was full of men, mostly police. The 
 police had come to take away the body of the receiver- 
 general for interment. It was still lying as dead as 
 ever in the coffin in the anti-room ; where the drunken 
 Poles, who had been ordered to bring it down to the 
 porter's lodge, had for some reason of their own pre- 
 ferred to leave it. 
 
 They had, however, chosen to deposit it in my apart- 
 ment instead, and left one of their party to guard ihe 
 corpse, who awaked, probably, by the noise I made ; 
 and being acquainted with the locality, sought instinc- 
 tively, drunk as he was, to sleep off his over-dose of 
 brandy on my bed. 
 
 My nerves were so shaken by the occurrences of the 
 night, that 1 was seized by a fever, in which I raved 
 seven weeks long about the horrors that beset me dur- 
 ing the memoraiole night, and even now that — thanks 
 to the Polish insurrection — I am no longer commiss- 
 ioner of justice at Brczwezcisl, I cannot think, without 
 a shudder, of my adventures in New East Prussia. 
 
THE 
 
 RIVAL PEARLS ; OR, THE TRAVELLER 
 MALGRE LUL 
 
THE 
 
 RIVAL PEARLS 
 
 To the better understanding of the following original 
 letters, the reader is informed, that the writer, Count 
 
 Stanislaus G , and his sister Severine, were one 
 
 night, in January 1807, at a ball given by the Countess 
 Annelie Z — ka, at Warsaw. The entertainment was of 
 the most brilliant description ; but the enjoyment of 
 the company was more apparent than real, for not only 
 was this the city occupied by the French, but scarcely 
 a week had elapsed since the dissolution of the regency, 
 at the head of which had been the good but calumniated 
 Malachaoski. 
 
 The lovely hostess was on that evening more enchant- 
 ing than ever. She wore a pearl neck-lace of great 
 value, the new-year's present of her uncle, Prince Mi- 
 chael S . 
 
 Mademoiselle Severine G. happening to have re- 
 ceived one of a similar description, a dispute arose 
 between the ladies as to the beauty of their respective 
 etrennes, which Count Stanislaus G. was requested to 
 determine, by going home for his sister's necklace, in 
 order to compare them together. 
 
 Count Stanislaus G to the Countess Ante- 
 lie Z — ka. 
 
 *• Blonle,* January 21, 1807. 
 
 *' On bended knee, ma charrnante amie, I entreat 
 
 * The first stage from Warsaw to Posen. 
 
70 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 your pardon for having conveyed Sophy's necklace to 
 Blonie, instead of to your ball-room. But I shall re- 
 turn to Warsaw this evening, and lay it at your feet. 
 In the meantime, to divert a ledious hour, I will account 
 for having absconded so unceremoniously, as a courier, 
 who will precede me by several hours, has offered to 
 deliver my letters into j^ourown fair hands. I think I 
 know you well enough to reckon on your indulgence, 
 when you learn that I sinned against you solely in the 
 cause of friendship. 
 
 ''I had taken the necklace out of its case, and put it 
 into my waistcoat-pocket ; and my foot was on the step 
 of the carriage, when my chasseur said that a French 
 officer was inquiring for me. I turned back to ask his 
 business, and found that he was the bearer of a letter 
 
 from my earliest and best friend Felix L y, whom 
 
 I had not seen for ten years, during which he had served 
 in the campaigns of Napoleon, and is now colonel of a 
 Polish Hulan regiment. 
 
 ^^His letter was very brief; it merely stated that he 
 was just arrived from Posen at Blonie, where he had 
 accidentally heard of my being at Warsaw ; but could 
 not come on to see me, as a courier from head-quarters 
 had met him with orders to proceed to Thorn without 
 delay. The weakness occasioned by a wound, from 
 which he was scarcely recovered, rendering some hours' 
 rest imperatively necessary, he should not set forward 
 till daylight this morning, and entreated me therefore 
 to come to him, if it were but for an hour. 
 
 ''At the peril of incurring your displeasure, then, I 
 threw a travelling-cloak over my ball-room attire, and 
 jumping into the carriage, ordered the coachman to 
 drive to Blonie as fast as he could — it would still have 
 been too slow for my impatience had we galloped all 
 the way. But we were not less than four hours toiling 
 through the new-fallen snow, without any light but 
 what proceeded from the carriage-lamps. My compan- 
 ion (for I had insisted on the officer's returning with 
 me in the carriage, leaving his horse to be led back by 
 one of my grooms) had neither left a mistress, nor was 
 going to meet a friend, and therefore slept soundly by 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 71 
 
 my side, insensible to the curses, (pardon the word, fair 
 lady) that I showered ever}' two minutes upon the 
 roads, the driver, and the darkness. 
 
 ** At last we arrived, and I almost think it would 
 have made you swear to have met with such a disap- 
 pointment as awaited me. Felix was no longer there ! 
 He had left a note for me, desiring me to follow him to 
 Sochazen, which you know is the next post, where 
 
 General I) had summoned him to receive further 
 
 instructions. Here is a perplexity ! 
 
 '* Having come so far, it would be stupid to go back 
 without accomplishing my errand ; and yet one of my 
 horses is dead lame, and there is not a post-horse to be 
 had, the French army having put every beast of draught 
 and burthen in the country under requisition. The post- 
 master says he expects the horses which conveyed Col- 
 onel S — ky to Sochazen, to return in the course of an 
 hour. So as there is no other help for me, 1 must have 
 patience. It is the last resource, and that which a man 
 never adopts but on compulsion. 
 
 '^ t^dieu, done, la plus chlre et la plus belle ! — ti ce 
 soir.^^ 
 
 LETTER n. 
 
 ** Kutno, January 23. 
 
 *' You will not be more surprised than I am at the 
 date of this letter. Destiny has again made me faith- 
 less, and I am inconsolable. What will you think of 
 me, dearest Amelie ? And yet, I am an innocent man, 
 < more sinned against than sinning.' 
 
 *'The only agreeable part of my adventure was my 
 meeting with Felix S — ky at Sochazen. It would be 
 difficult to say which of us was most happy. Ten 
 years' separation at our time of life is an age ; and yet 
 our pleasure was not without its due portion of sadness, 
 at having to part again so soon, and perhaps for ever ! 
 I think you must have known my friend at Paris, since 
 he was aide-de-camp to Napoleon, just about the time 
 you were there. He is so much altered by the burning 
 sun of Egypt, and a cut from an English sabre, that at 
 first sight I should not have recognized him. However, 
 
72 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 it is all so becoming that perhaps it is just as well that 
 you should not have an opportunity of comparing us 
 together, until it will be too late for you to change your 
 mind. When I see you, which will be the day after 
 to-morrow without fail, you shall have a rechauffee of 
 his narrative. Heavens! how strangely men are ban- 
 died about in these times. No one can feel certain in 
 which of the four quarters of the world he may eat his 
 last loaf. 
 
 ** After being long a staff officer, he now commands 
 a regiment of his own raising. He has been ordered to 
 join Marshall Lamers's division, and assures me that Na- 
 poleon will spend the summer at St Petersburg ; partic- 
 ularly if, as is believed, the Turks have really declined 
 war ; what is certain is, that the Russian minister Ital- 
 insky has quitted Constantinople. 
 
 " I flatter myself you and Severine are dying to 
 know how I came to be in this wretched town of Kutno, 
 
 instead of the Place de at Warsaw. You will 
 
 laugh at my disaster, and so I may as well make the 
 best of it, and laugh myself, in spite of all the vexation 
 I have suffered, and still suffer, at being so long detain- 
 ed from you. 
 
 "I spent the whole of yesterday with my friend, and 
 it was late in the evening when we parted ; he to go to 
 Thorn, and I — tired as I was, to return to Warsaw. 
 
 '« As there was no possibility of getting post-horses, 
 S — ky sent to the commissary to let me have one of the 
 carriages in requisition, to convey me to Blonie, where 
 I had left my own. A very respectable britscka, with 
 three strong horses, accordingly drove up to the door. 
 I bade my friend once more adieu, and stepped in. 
 
 '' Completely exhausted through want of sleep, and 
 excitement, as soon as I became sensible of the solitude 
 of the carriage, it acted upon me as a sedative. Feel- 
 ing drowsy, I buckled up the apron, and closed the 
 blinds ; then wrapping my cloak closer about me, I 
 tucked myself as snugly as I could into the corner, and 
 fell asleep. Luckily my servant had thought of giving 
 me a great-coat, as well as a cloak ; but my feet, still 
 decked in silk stockings and dancing-pumps, were forced 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 73 
 
 to seek shelter in the hay with which the bottom of 
 the britscka was filled, — I know not whether for the 
 purpose of keeping the occupant warm, or of feeding 
 the horses. My sleep was disturbed, but my dreams 
 were delightful, for I dreamt of you, adored Amelie. 
 As often as I was awakened by a merciless jolt, I imme- 
 diately closed my sleep-drunken eyes again, and it was 
 ever you who led me back to my lost paradise of love. 
 At length a jolt, more violent than the rest, threw me 
 forward, with my face against the blind, the pain of 
 which awoke me to perfect recollection, and I was con- 
 founded by the sight of daylight, for I had calculated 
 on arriving at Blonie before midnight. I opened the 
 blind, and discovered that we were driving into a town, 
 which, to my knowledge, I had never seen before. 
 
 '* Holla! postilion! where are we! What is the 
 name of this place !" 
 
 ^'Kutno!'^ he replied, drily, and without stopping. 
 *^ Kutno!^^ I exclaimed, in fury, ^« And what the devil 
 have you brought me to Kutno for ? — it was to Blonie 
 I wanted to go, — turn about instantly.^' 
 
 *'But no — my friend drove on, without appearing to 
 hear me, and soon drew up at the door of an inn. I 
 alighted, for I felt as if I had been broken in the wheel 
 — yet I was sorely tempted to horsewhip the rogue of 
 a driver through every street in the town. He declar- 
 ed that the French officer had directed him to Kutno, 
 at least that he had so understood ; and applying the 
 whip to his tired horses, he took himself off with all 
 speed. The innkeeper informed me that the man was 
 a voiturier of the place, and had been pressed into the 
 service of the French about a week before ; — that he 
 was a sharp fellow, and had apparently taken advantage 
 of the darkness, and of my being neither Frenchman 
 nor soldier, to return home instead of to Blonie. 
 
 *«This conjecture seemed very probable ; but con- 
 jectures could not help me. Here I was plante^ at 
 Kutno, without any possible means of getting back to 
 Warsaw, or even to Blonie. 
 
 ^« The landlord did his best to comfort me with a bad 
 breakfast, and exerted himself to the utmost to procure 
 Vol. H.— G 
 
74 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 me a conveyance ; but every thing was engaged for the 
 use of the army. I even humbled myself before the 
 villanous voiturier, who brought me into this scrape, 
 and entreated him to take me back upon his own terms, 
 however exorbitant they might be ; but he swore again 
 and again, that his carriage and horses had been seized 
 a second time. My host, however, believed this to be 
 a subterfuge, and that the equipage was concealed some- 
 where in the countr}^, where it might escape new re- 
 quisitions. 1 have at last efiected an arrangement by 
 means of a French officer of engineers, lodged in the 
 same inn with me, going to Kladowa. I am to accom- 
 pany him thither ; when he promises to resign his con- 
 veyance to me, with authority to use it as far asBlonie. 
 To make the matter sure, I have explained the arrange- 
 ment to the driver, and engaged not to take advantage 
 of the circumstances, but to pay him handsomely for 
 his trouble. What weather to travel in! But go I 
 must, for the landlord, as well as the engineer, assures 
 me, that unless 1 keep with the carriage, it will be im- 
 possible for me to secure its return here. 
 
 ** The wretchedness of the country as we go on is in- 
 describable. Bread is scarcely to be had for money. 
 Our liberators make us pay dear for our deliverance. 
 
 " This goes by the esiaffete. Happy letter! to touch 
 your hands two days sooner than I can have any hope 
 of doing. More than once yesterday, I was tempted 
 to set off on foot for Warsaw. But reason, in the form 
 of my obliging landlord, suggested the inconvenience, 
 if not the impossibility, of accomplishing forty miles 
 through the deep slough of mud and snow, especially 
 in white kerseymeres and dancing-shoes. 
 
 " Adieu, ma belle et bonne. Comfort my poor little 
 Severine." 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 "Posen, January 26. 
 
 <<I am certainly bewitched — I could now believe 
 
 every tale of sorcery that Germany ever produced. 
 
 To-day, that I waste have been at Warsaw, and at your 
 
 feet, most adorable Amie — this very day, all the evil 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 75 
 
 spirits that delight in tormenting mankind, have com- 
 bined to bring me to Posen — and what is more, in the 
 character of a prisoner. Don't start at the word, for I 
 am at large again. 
 
 *^ Since the creation of man, there was surely never 
 such a chapter of accidents as transported me from your 
 ball-room hither, — a distance of 120 miles. 
 
 **I am like one oppressed with nightmare ; the more 
 I strive to go forward, the more forcibly am I pulled 
 back. 
 
 '^All my desires, my impatience, my zeal, my fore- 
 thought, are of no avail, but to drive me every moment 
 further from the object I have in view ; as the storm 
 drives the most skilful mariner back from the haven for 
 which he steers. 
 
 ^* My engineer and I set out yesterday together as 
 agreed, for Kladowa. In this vilest of human habita- 
 tions was a French commandant, to whom the engineer 
 reported himself, immediately on our arrival. There 
 he found orders awaiting him to proceed instantly to 
 Sempolno. He came back to me with a million of 
 shrugs and apologies for not being able to keep his en- 
 gagement. Prayers, remonstrances, curses, were all 
 vain. In vain I represented the awkwardness of my 
 situation — my words were spent on ears insensible to 
 all but orders from head-quarters. 
 
 "However, while the horses were baiting, the engi- 
 neer ran to the commandant, and obtained an order, 
 enforced by the accompaniment of four soldiers, empow- 
 ering us to visit all the stables, in search of another con- 
 veyance for me. But it was all in vain — nothing was 
 to be found but an invalided dung-cart! 
 
 " Since there was nothing better to be done, I now 
 resolved to go on with the engineer to Sempolno, in 
 order to make sure of his carriage, when he had done 
 with it. At all events, I hoped to obtain a more habit- 
 able lodging than in this filthy, squalid village of Kla- 
 dowa. 
 
 '* The engineer agreed to my proposal, but still I 
 could not recover my temper. 
 
 " We performed our journey in sulky silence, and 
 
76 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 parted coldy at the end of it. 1 was more gracious to 
 the driver, and gave him a couple of ducats, in earnest 
 of further liberal payment of his services ; in return for 
 which the fellow promised to be ready to set out before 
 break of day. He was as good as his word, and we 
 were off by four o'clock ; but we had scarcely reached 
 the top of a hill, three miles from Sempolno, when, on 
 looking back, I saw some French mounted chasseurs, 
 evidently in pursuit of us. My driver, full of fearful 
 presentiments, flogged his beasts, alternately cursing 
 and invoking all the saints in the calendar. His terror 
 seemed to me as superfluous as his efforts to escape the 
 soldiers. They were soon up with us, ordered us to 
 halt, and abused the poor fellow for having, as they 
 said, withdrawn himself clandestinely from the service 
 of the army ; telling him that he would be shot for mu- 
 tiny. The voiturier knew not a word of French, but 
 there was no misunderstanding the gestures of these 
 heroes, and the poor devil cast most lamentable and im- 
 ploring looks at me. I interfered, as the soldiers seemed 
 to expect, for they answered me civilly, asked who I 
 was, and whether I had a passport. They deemed it a 
 suspicious circumstance that I had not one, and requested 
 I would have *la complaisance' to accompany them to 
 the commandant. 
 
 "Accordingly with two soldiers trotting before the 
 carriage, and two behind it, we returned to Sempolno. 
 As soon as the commandant was informed of the cir- 
 cumstances, I was declared to be a suspicious person, 
 an enemy of Napoleon, and a prisoner of war. 
 
 "My only comfort was to find myself regarded as 
 of consequence enough to be sent to head- quarters, 
 where I hoped to find the means of justifying myself 
 from all imputations of disaffection. In two hours' 
 time I was on the road to Posen, under the guard of a 
 corporal and a subaltern officer, who happened to be 
 going thither. 
 
 " We are easily provoked by trifling and unlooked for 
 crosses, probably because we think to conquer them d, 
 force de volonte, but our powers of endurance increase 
 with those exigencies which defy all hope of successful 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 77 
 
 opposition, and call upon our philosophy to play its 
 part. 
 
 "I was now quite as much amused by finding my- 
 self in the character of a prisoner on the frontier of 
 Poland, as I had hitherto been annoyed by the minor 
 vexations I had encountered. la fact, the disaster was 
 not in itself so great, and I can imagine you and Seve- 
 _rine as much entertained at my adventures as /now am. 
 
 <•' Absence from you is the only real evil 1 have to 
 complain of. You see what mischief arises out of the 
 rivalry of women. Troy was laid in ashes, and here 
 am I driven, day after day, from post to pillar, with 
 Severine's necklace in my pocket; and all because it 
 pleased you two ladies to dispute who had the finest 
 pearls. 
 
 <' I am glad to find myself in Posen. I was received 
 very hospitably at the French head-quarters. Apolo- 
 gies without end were made to me for the inconveni- 
 ences 1 had suffered from the strong measures requisite for 
 the service. AH the national politeness was insufficient, 
 however, to control the general's laughter at my narra- 
 tive of the circumstances which had transported me from 
 Warsaw to Posen, in the depth of winter, in ball-room 
 paraphernalia, considerably the worse, as well as my 
 person, for five days' travelling, since all this time I was 
 forced to abstain from brushes, razors, and clean linen. 
 My first business, therefore, was to discard my silk 
 stockings and gold buckles, in favour of a more fitting 
 travelling costume, whose military cut, together with 
 my passport, will secure the respect of the commanding 
 corporals of la grande armee. 
 
 ^' I have bought a strong horse, and nothing detains 
 me here but the unfinished labours of the tailor and 
 boot-maker. I cannot get away till to-morrow. It is 
 always upon trifles that we poor mortals are most de- 
 pendent. The hours move slowly, for nothing interests 
 in this whirling turmoil of military life, and I am tired 
 of the unceasing uproar of drums, fifes, and trumpets, 
 the clank of sabres and the swearing of soldiers. 
 
 "P.S. January 2Sth.^ — My letter could not go till 
 to-day, as there is a post but twice a week. All is ready, 
 VOL. II. — G 2 
 
78 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 I set out lo-morrow in company with some Polish and 
 French officers of my acquaintance. Tell my sister to 
 expect me on Friday." 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 *' Mag-deb urg, April 2. 
 
 <' Heaven knows, my dearest Amelie, whether my 
 pencil scrawl from Dresden reached you, or whether 
 you will ever see this. At all events I will repeat the 
 contents of my last, and beg you and my other friends 
 to use their interest with our Regency and the French 
 envoy to obtain my release, 
 
 "We had left Posen about three hours, when we 
 were surprised, surrounded, and made prisoners by a 
 party of Prussians, between Schwersens and Kostrzyne. 
 One of the French officers with me was killed, and 
 another wounded, I was the only one who escaped 
 being plundered, as I was able to explain in German to 
 the commander that I was not a military man, but a 
 traveller, and only by accident associated with my pre- 
 sent companions. This was confirmed by my passport, 
 and the declaration which I thought it prudent to make, 
 that far from being a partisan of Napoleon, I was a faith- 
 ful subject of Prussia; and of noticing more desirous, 
 than to see the French driven out of the country. I 
 told him that several French regiments were to march 
 that day from Posen to Warsaw. He resolved on the 
 spot to change his route for Silesia, but signified to me 
 at the same time, under the actual circumstances, I could 
 not be released. 
 
 << After several days spent in traversing the most de- 
 testable roads, we crossed the Warta, half starved, and 
 more than half frozen. I supplicated and stormed to no 
 purpose. I took care, however, to conceal Severine's 
 necldace, and my remaining gold, lest the Prussians 
 should take it into their heads to treat me as they had done 
 the rest of my companions. 
 
 "The Prussian commandant, whose rank was that of 
 a major, at last proposed to me, since there was no 
 chance of my being released till he could communicate 
 with his superiors, that I should prove my loyalty by 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 79 
 
 serving the king, at least as a volunteer. Asa Prussian 
 subject, I could not decline, without laying myself open 
 to suspicions which might prove very disadvantageous 
 to one in my predicament. Therefore, making a virtue 
 of necessity, I consented to do the duty of an adjutant, 
 with the rank of lieutenant. 
 
 << But the further we adventured into Silesia, 
 the more I despaired of ever recovering my liber- 
 ty. What we suffered from frost, snow, and insuffi- 
 cient food, is indescribable. Wherever we went we 
 were compelled to take by force what we wanted. 
 The most pitiable objects, however, were the prison- 
 ers whom we dragged about with us. The Poles proudly 
 rejected all my attempts to mitigate their sufferings. I 
 read in their eyes that they considered me as a traitor. 
 This was more painful to me than all the rest, and it 
 was not long ere I felt the effects of their resentment. 
 The major had directed his route towards Glogan, but 
 we did not reach it. One morning, while our detach- 
 ment, consisting only of two companies, was preparing 
 to march from the village in which we had halted for 
 the night, a troop of French hussars fell upon us. 
 
 <' Our commander would have resisted valiantly, but 
 they were soon joined by a regiment of infantry. Our 
 valour was vain. We had, in fact, fallen in with the out- 
 posts of Vendamme's army. The Prussians fought like 
 devils, and took two of the fieldpieces which had been 
 fired upon us; but the end of the matter was, that we 
 were overpowered, and obliged to yield, with the loss 
 of several men killed, and many wounded. 
 
 *' To none was this victory more welcome than to 
 our French and Polish prisoners of war. The latter 
 pointed me out immediately to the French general as a 
 Polish deserter, and an enemy of Napoleon, who had 
 not only betrayed and delivered them into the hands of 
 the Prussians, but was bearing arms in the Prussian 
 service. I had nothing to say in my defence; for the 
 major acknowledged me as his adjutant, and tlie passport 
 granted by the French general at Posen, seemed to prove 
 the accusation of treachery. 
 
 «' I was plundered of my horse, my watch, and my 
 
80 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 purse, and compelled to wade on foot through snow and 
 mud, with the rest of the prisoners to Dresden, where 
 we halted a few days. 
 
 '<■ Thus far you should know of my misfortunes, if 
 (as I greatly doubt) you received my letter from thence. 
 From Dresden we were marched to Leipzig, and from 
 Leipzig to Magdeburg, where I have now been about 
 eight days. The inhabitants are very kind and compas- 
 sionate to us; their own distresses disposing them to 
 sympathize with ours; for they detest the French, and 
 are deeply attached to their unfortunate monarch. 
 
 '^ If the greatest efforts are not made in my behalf, at 
 Warsaw, I shall probably be detained here till the end 
 of the war. My money, which I did so well to conceal, 
 is almost exhausted, and I beg my sister to send me a 
 bill on some banker here for a fresh supply. The 
 French governor of Magdeburg is a pleasant gentlemanly 
 man. I had an opportunity of relating to him the cir- 
 cumstances by which I have become his prisoner. He 
 laughed heartily, but could scarce bring himself to be- 
 lieve me. He happens fortunately to be an intimate 
 
 friend of Felix L y, but his good will cannot go the 
 
 length of setting me at liberty. However, he allows me 
 many indulgencies, and, best of all, promises to forward 
 my letters to you and Felix. 
 
 << Sometimes a fit of the blue devils comes over me, 
 and I curse the fate which separates me from you ; but 
 I never was much given to despondency, and, on the 
 whole, am cheerful enough. My health is excellent, 
 so that you and Severine have no cause for anxiety 
 about me. I shall count the days and hours until I re- 
 ceive an answer to this." 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 " Nancy, May 20. 
 *< Hurrah! This, indeed, is advancing in the world. 
 I begin to think that, before I have done, my wandering 
 star will have led me to Paris, and from thence to Lis- 
 bon — across the Atlantic, and by the north-west passage 
 over Asia, back again to Warsaw. I no longer hope to 
 retrace my steps, and by-and-by it will not be worth 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 81 
 
 while — "returning were as tedious as go on." Had I 
 but one line from you, I think I could be content, tor- 
 menting as is my position. Who knows but a letter 
 may be waiting for me at Magdeburg, from whence, in 
 about a week from the date of my last letter, I was des- 
 patched with a great posse of prisoners to Mayence. 
 But there was to be no rest to the sole of my foot ; no 
 sooner there, than we were shoved on into France. The 
 horde of prisoners to which I belonged, has been split 
 into fifty parts, and sent to all points of the compass. 
 We are like a community of ants dispersed by the acci- 
 dental tread of a horse's hoof ; or a flight of insects 
 borne by the storm-wind into distant lands. 
 
 " I shall put these few lines into the post-office close 
 to our barrack, to still any apprehension which might 
 arise from your not receiving an answer to the letter 
 you have surely directed to Magdeburg. 
 
 " I can hardly believe that I have not been absent 
 twenty years. How many lands, mountains, rivers, 
 and nations, lie between us! Who can answer that 
 I may not yet become your antipode ? Ah! Amelie, 
 what chances lie between the cup and the lip. Sup- 
 pose you were to die, or (what would be the same to 
 me) suppose you were to becomethe wife of another 
 — for I never yet heard or read of true love between 
 antipodes. 
 
 " Since we poor captive heroes crossed the Rhine, 
 we have been allowed much more liberty than on Ger- 
 man ground. I may wander where I will, provided I 
 attend the roll-call. 
 
 *' I may eat and drink where I please, provided I pay 
 for it. How lucky it was that I had provided myself 
 with so large a sum to meet the chances of Count S — 's 
 Faro bank! The first and only good I ever knew arise 
 from gambling. 
 
 '*! understand our final destination is at the foot of 
 the Pyrenees, and I shall probably not write again 
 till I am settled, when I hope to be allowed to remain 
 in peace until I obtain my liberty ; or, at least, long 
 enough to hear from Warsaw. Yet such is the perver- 
 sity of my fate, that I should not be surprised if I should 
 
82 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 have to date my next letter from the Peak of Tenerifie, 
 or the Island of Madagascar." 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 " Acqs, June 27. 
 
 " At length I have reached my destination. It is 
 here that I am to wait an exchange of prisoners, a 
 peace, or any other lucky accident that may set me 
 free. My destiny is more endurable than I at first ex- 
 pected. To be removed per force from Warsaw to the 
 frontiers of Spain, is, to be sure, no trifle ; but still it is 
 some comfort to stop short of Otaheite and Bengal, 
 though, by all accounts, there is more to see there 
 than on these desert banks of the Adour. 
 
 *^I never saw a Frenchman in Poland who did not 
 abuse my father-land ; now I can repay them to the 
 very smallest fraction of their abuse. What a bare, 
 flat, and beggarly country have I passed through to the 
 extremity of La belle France. I begin to suspect that 
 the French government carry on war, in order to 
 people their solitudes ; for I have seen almost as many 
 prisoners as natives. 
 
 ** The little town of Acqs, twelve miles from Bay- 
 onne, is half in ruins, but my host prides himself on its 
 antiquity, and the wonderful qualities of its hot baths, 
 in which he persecutes me to boil myself, as if it was 
 not enough to be scorched by the sun. The heat is 
 insufferable, and I am already the colour of a mulatto. 
 The old man, however, has a pretty, amiable daughter, 
 who is a far more agreeable object of contemplation 
 than mouldering walls, were they those of the great 
 Babylon. Don't be jealous, Amelie. 
 
 '^The prisoners are billeted on the towns-people. 
 We have nothing gratis but lodging ; ever)^ thing else 
 must be paid for. My money being at an end, I have 
 been obliged to borrow some of Severine's necklace — 
 I hope it will console her for the loss of her jewels, to 
 think that they are converted into food and clothing for 
 her poor captive brother. I have already sold the dia- 
 mond-clasp, and a string of the pearls, to a jeweller 
 from Bayonne, who comes here in the bathing-season. 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 83 
 
 He could only pay me a part of the money on account, 
 and must go to Bayonne for the remainder. 
 
 ** I have now the means of living comfortably. I 
 have hired a servant, bought a pony, and am enabled to 
 assist my fellow-prisoners.^' 
 
 LETTER VII.* 
 
 " Acqs, July 13. 
 
 " Te Deum laudamus ! We have peace at last ; 
 we are all shaking hands, and wishing one another joy 
 of our approaching return to our country and friends. 
 The French talk of nothing but Tilsit, and their god- 
 like emperor ; — Csesar and Alexander, say they, were 
 not worthy to be his aide-de-camps. The mayor of this 
 place pronounced an eloquent harangue in honour of the 
 joyful event, in which he informed his auditors that 
 Tilsit was situated far north, on the borders of Asiatic 
 Tartary ; and that the left wing of the conquering 
 army had extended its advanced posts across the eter- 
 nal ice of the north-pole, where no mortal had ever 
 before set his foot. The good people of Acqs actually 
 shivered with cold at the mayor's vivid description of 
 the white bears and icebergs that their valiant coun- 
 trymen had encountered. 
 
 **I expect every hour to hear that the order for our 
 liberation has arrived. I wish I could hear from you 
 before I set out on my return. That no time may be 
 lost after the order arrives, I shall immediately look 
 out for a travelling caliche, and have all things in rea- 
 diness to take the road to Warsaw as fast as post-horses 
 can carry me. I shall take my servant, an honest gas- 
 con, with the high sounding name of Themistocles. 
 We have become attached to one another. His only 
 fault is an incurable love of talking : any subject, or 
 none at all, will serve his purpose. I like, however, 
 to be overwhelmed with his torrent of words, when I 
 do not wish to think, and cannot forget myself in sleep. 
 
 ** As I shall not stop on the way, unless compelled by 
 untoward accidents, there will be no use in your reply- 
 
 * Some letters appear to be lost. 
 
84 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 ing to this, or any other letter that I may find time to 
 write on the road. As I have kept a journal pretty 
 regularly, you will learn, not only all my adventures, 
 but all the thoughts, observations, and reflections that 
 have occupied my brain since I crossed the Rhine. 
 You will see, too (in spite of the black eyes of my land- 
 lord's daughter), how constantly, fair Amelie, you have 
 been present to the mind of the truest knight that ever 
 vowed love and fealty to fair lady." 
 
 LETTER VIII. 
 
 "July 28. 
 
 " Take your sky-blue and gold-bound Atlas, most 
 beautiful Countess, and look for the map of Spain, and 
 there for the kingdom of Navarre, and there again for 
 the city of Pampelutia, its capital, situated at the foot of 
 the Pyrenees — for there am I, your devoted Stanislaus ! 
 
 '' I can no longer doubt that I am the sport of the most 
 mischievous and ingenious of all the evil spirits that 
 ever tormented mankind. No sooner do I feel sure of 
 returning to you than something happens to widen the 
 distance between us ! The world is at peace, and I am 
 nothing the better of it, since I am compelled in ex- 
 change, to wage war with Alcaldes, Regidores, Procur- 
 atores, Escribanos, and God knows what plagues besides. 
 Now that I have passed the Pyrenees, nolens volens, 
 there is still some chance of my returning to Warsaw, 
 via Cape Horn, Calcutta, and Constantinople. Trust no 
 more to what I may say of my travelling plans. 
 
 " I had just received, and was for the twentieth time 
 reading your letter, with the enclosures from dear 
 Severine, and m}^ uncle Michael, when I was summoned 
 by a gens-d'armes to accompany him to the mayor of 
 Acqs. The mayor conducted me to the Judge de Paix, 
 and the Judge de Paix into a chamber, where there 
 were several people assembled, and amongst them, the 
 jeweller who had purchased a great part of Severine's 
 necklace. I was shown the diamonds and pearls in a 
 case, and asked if I recognised them, and if I had sold 
 them to the man before me. 1 replied that to the best 
 
or GERMAN LIFE. 85 
 
 of my remembrance, the jewels were the same that I had 
 sold to the person in question. The mayor, the justice, 
 and the jeweller shook their heads. I was told that I 
 should be sent forthwith to the gaol atBayonne, and seals 
 put upon all my property till the affair was cleared up. 
 At Bayonne I underwent a new examination, and was 
 questioned with great naivete as to the abode of my 
 fellow thieves, when I learned, for the first time, that a 
 Spanish duchess had been plundered some weeks before, 
 on the road to Turin close to the frontiers. The jewels 
 I had sold to the jeweller were found to answer in every 
 respect the printed description of a necklace which had 
 been taken from the duchess. I was then unceremonious- 
 ly deposited in the gaol, while a hint was given to me 
 that I might escape, or at most only be sent to the galleys 
 for life, by turning evidence against my comrades, and 
 by confessing what had become of the remaining con- 
 tents of the duchess's caskets. My assurances that I 
 was neither thief, nor abettor of thieves, were utterly 
 disregarded, and at the end of a week I was handcuffed, 
 mounted on a mule, and conveyed between two soldiers 
 to Pampeluna, in order to be confronted with the rob- 
 bers, my supposed associates, who had been apprehend- 
 ed during my imprisonment at Bayonne. I cannot 
 suppose that my detention will be of long duration — but 
 business goes on slowly in this country ; and you would 
 suffer more alarm at my non-appearance at the time 
 I gave you reason to expect me, than from knowing 
 the cause of my delay. 
 
 *' I am permitted to write, provided my letter passes 
 open through the hands of the police. 
 
 ** Tell Severine that if I am promoted to a gallows in 
 Spain, it will be her fault. 
 
 **S. G-" 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 "Bayonne, Aug-ust 14. 
 *< I trust you have not been made uneasy by my last. 
 I was liberated the second day after my arrival at Pam- 
 peluna ; the duchess herself, to whom the jewels were 
 shown, having declared they were quite different from 
 Vol. II.— H 
 
S6 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OP GERMAN LIFE. 
 
 those she had lost. So I was neither confronted with 
 the robbers, hanged, nor sent to the galleys. Many- 
 apologies were made. The viceroy asked me to dinner, 
 and the duchess to her tertullen. But notwithstanding 
 all their civilities the Spanish ground seemed to burn the 
 soles of my feet, and I hastened back to Bayonne. 
 My passport is ready. Themistocles is gone to Acqs 
 for my caleche and luggage, and to-morrow by daylight 
 I shall be on the way to Warsaw unless a new adventure 
 sends me in the direction of Madrid and Morocco. 
 Some sorcerer must certainly be in love with you, and 
 jealous of me ; for in the natural world a man does not 
 take the Pyrenees in his way from one street to another, 
 in Warsaw. You may expect to hear of me next at 
 Algiers, if I do not appear before the end of September. 
 Adieu." 
 
 "September 30. 
 " Dearest Amelie — Stanislaus is this moment arrived 
 He will be with you as soon as he has changed his dress. 
 He has travelled all night, and is covered with dust ; 
 but he seems in excellent health and spirits. 
 
 ' < Ever yours, 
 
 " Severine G — ska.^^ 
 
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE 
 
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE. 
 
 The Christmas of 17 — brought with it a fresh accession 
 
 of students and snow to the university of L . 
 
 Julius Eimar was one of the last of the stragglers, that 
 came dropping in the last day of the vacation ; and after 
 making hasty visits to the professors, he went to provide 
 himself with a lodging. He found all the houses in the 
 principal streets occupied. Without an acquaintance, 
 or even a kind countryman to help or direct him in his 
 search, he went from one street to another, looking on 
 every side for notices of apartments to let, till his fruit- 
 less wanderings led him into a very retired quarter. A 
 dilapidated castle, and some old wooden buildings, 
 which had once served for barracks, stood on the side 
 of a broad moat, which surrounded the town. These 
 were connected with the more populous and frequented 
 streets, by a few solitary houses of poor artisans. On 
 one of these, small but neat in its appearance, besides 
 an inscription signifying that good wine and beer were 
 to be had within, there was a board, offering furnished 
 lodgings for a single man. Julius was not deterred by 
 the circumstance of its being a wine house, but, anx- 
 ious to get a roof over his head, (it being already dusk) 
 he entered, and was favourably impressed by what he 
 saw within. The walls of brown wainscot were fur- 
 nished with shelveSjOn which were ranged a bright show 
 of tin and pewter utensils — a buffet was crowded with 
 glasses and china bowls of all dimensions, and the glass 
 doors of an old fashioned walnut-tree press, exhibited a 
 goodly assem.blage of wickpr-coated brandy flasks. A 
 lamp hung, already lit, from the ceiling, and cast its 
 
 VOL. II. — H 2 
 
90 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 broad lights and shadows on the form of an old grey- 
 haired man, sitting in a high backed elbow chair of an- 
 tique form, and reading in a silver-clasped bible. 
 
 The mistress, an elderly woman, though much younger 
 than her husband, was coaxing a large tortoiseshell cat 
 to come down from the top of the stove, where it sat 
 purring, to a saucer of milk, held out in the hand of a 
 little fair-haired, rosy cheeked girl, of four or five years 
 old. There were no guests, nor traces of any party 
 carousing there, and the whole scene had an air of seri- 
 ous tranquillity, strangely out of character with a 
 house of entertainment. Neither the host or his wife 
 immediately answered the student's request to see the 
 lodgings, but looked at one another in silence. The 
 man at length asked what profession the inquirer fol- 
 lowed. Julius thought the question rather unneces- 
 sary, but replied that he was a student of divinity, and 
 about to take orders. Hereupon the old man nodded 
 complacently, and desired the woman to light a candle, 
 and show the gentleman up stairs. Julius remarked 
 that she proceeded to obey the mandate with an air of 
 hesitation and reluctance, looking from time to tifne 
 significantly at her husband, as if she felt some objections 
 to the proceeding, which she could not express before 
 the stranger. <' 1 fear," said she, at last, ^* that the Herr 
 Student will not be comfortable. The customers might 
 disturb him." 
 
 " Oh, I don't mind noise," said he. 
 
 <« But you may not like the stillness of this retired 
 street," returned the woman. <' Except the old in- 
 valided commandant at the castle, who is confined three 
 parts of the year with the gout, you will see nobody, 
 or only a few artisans, and a sea-faring man or two, who 
 have long frequented our house." 
 
 i'Such quietness is congenial with my pursuits," said 
 Julius. 
 
 << Besides, we should not like our house to become 
 the resort of young students." 
 
 <' You need not fear that," he replied, ** I am a per- 
 fect stranger here, and do not easily make acquaint- 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 91 
 
 " We are old people, Herr Student, and our ways 
 may not be agreeable to such a young gentleman." 
 
 "I shall not meddle in your concerns," said he, '^ at 
 all events we need only agree by the month. However, 
 if you object to me as a lodger, say so at once, and I will 
 try to suit myself elsewhere." 
 
 The woman again looked at her husband ; " Sarah," 
 said the old man, impatiently, <« what is all this chatter 
 about } show the gentleman the room above, and have 
 done with it." 
 
 The hostess took the candle, and desired Julius to 
 follow her. 
 
 If his desire to be lodged in her house had been ex- 
 cited by her opposition, it was confirmed by the clean 
 comfortable aspect of the room. The bed stood in a 
 curtained alcove at one end, leaving a sufficiently large 
 sitting-room ; and the furniture, though old fashioned, 
 was in good preservation, whilst the whiteness of the 
 counterpane and the clearness of the mirrors and win- 
 dow-panes, testified both the industry and cleanliness 
 of its owner. 
 
 She, however, continued to say in the same anxious 
 tone as below stairs, that the student might not like the 
 lodgings, and that the last inmate had complained of the 
 coldness of the room, the aspect being north. 
 
 Julius smiled, and replied, that he preferred a temper- 
 ate atmosphere, and that in his father's house he had 
 been unused to luxuries. It occurred to him that the hos- 
 tess might be afraid lest her furniture should be injured; 
 he therefore told her that his mother had brought him 
 up in habits of tidyness — that he never spilt the ink, 
 never read in bed by candle-light, and above all things 
 detested smoking. These assurances seemed to bright- 
 en the cloud upon the old lady's brow, though they did 
 not dispel it altogether. 
 
 She made no more difficulties, and only shrugged her 
 shoulders as Julius and her husband proceeded to set- 
 tle the terms. 
 
 Rejoiced at having overcome her reluctance, Julius 
 hastened back to the inn where he had alighted from the 
 diligence, and brought away his luggage on his own 
 shoulders. 
 
92 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 He had soon settled all his effects in the various draw- 
 ers and presses whicli he intended them to occupy ; and 
 being; too tired to go out any more, but not yet disposed 
 to sleep, he thought he would have an hour's chat with 
 his host, by name Meister Grone. 
 
 Seeing through the half-open door that there were no 
 guests in the room, he entered, and found Grone and 
 his wife sitting close together, in low, but earnest dis- 
 course, which they suddenly broke off on perceiving 
 their lodger. 
 
 The latter endeavoured to establish a conversation, 
 but all his remarks on wind and weather were replied 
 to so drily, that he was rather disconcerted, and began 
 to play with the little girl, who crept out from under 
 the table with her hands full of toys, and looked up in 
 his face as if she saw in it something that promised her 
 a good playfellow. The acquaintance was soon formed, 
 and Julius made himself so agreeable, that the little 
 damsel was regardless of every body else. She would 
 not leave her new friend, who discovered ere long, that 
 in gaining the favour of the child, he had gained that of 
 the ungracious hostess. Meister Grone, too, smiled to 
 see the little Christina hang about Julius's neck, play- 
 fully twisting her fingers in his glossy hair, which, stu- 
 dent-fashion, curled upon his shoulders. 
 
 «Is she your child?" asked Julius. Both the old 
 people replied with a melancholy shake of the head, 
 and Grone related how they had been bereaved of their 
 only son, adding that Christina was the child of his 
 wife's nephew, an idle dissipated man, and an unkind 
 father. They had first taken his infant out of compass- 
 ion, and now loved it as their own. 
 
 Julius applauded their kind feelings, and had soon 
 occasion to remark, that tlieir affection for the little girl 
 approached nearer to idolatry than to parental tender- 
 ness. Christina's childish despotism was fully exercised 
 over both the old people — neither ventured to contra- 
 dict her. No wonder, then, if she tried to extend her 
 dominion over her new friend. 
 
 "Don't go away," said she, clinging to his neck, as 
 he offered to put her down, and to wish his hosts good 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 93 
 
 night " You must sup with Christina — Christina loves 
 you — ^" 
 
 Grone smiled. The aunt repeated her little niece's 
 invitation, which Julius frankly accepted. Frau Sarah 
 added a plate and napkin for him, and when the wooden 
 clock on the wall struck eight, she opened the door 
 leading to the kitchen and called for supper. It was 
 brought in, and Julius became acquainted with a fourth 
 inmate, a girl of about eighteen, whose soft and touching 
 beauty Raphael might have wished to paint, and which 
 contrasted strangely with her coarse attire, and her ap- 
 parent menial situation. When every body was helped, 
 the young woman curtesied humbly, and without speak- 
 ing or raising her eyes from the ground, took a seat 
 opposite the student. Julius endeavoured to notice her 
 as little as he perceived his hosts did, and particularly 
 Frau Sarah. But once — that Meister Grone went to 
 the buffet for some choice liquor for his guest, and his 
 wife was occupied in fishing the largest plums out of 
 the dish for her darling Christina, Julius ventured to 
 raise his eyes to the girl, and was surprised to find hers 
 fixed upon him with an undefinable and intense express- 
 ion. He turned away, embarrassed, and before he 
 dared look again, Frau Sarah had despatched her to set 
 the kitchen in order. 
 
 *' Susan is an orphan cousin of my husband's," said 
 the old lady, volunteering her information to the student. 
 ''We took her in, when her mother died, and keep her 
 out of charity — for she is of little use. Old as I am, I 
 am ten times more active." 
 
 '* Blessed are the merciful I" replied Julius. " Allow 
 me to drink your health, and that of the object of your 
 kindness." 
 
 The old people were flattered by this attention, Meis- 
 ter Grone bowing his thanks, returned the pledge. 
 "Success to your studies, my good Herr.'^ 
 
 ''Julius Eimar," rejoined the student, "and if you 
 wish to know any thing of my parentage, I will add, 
 son to the distinguished preacher of that name, at 
 Newstadt." 
 
 "Newstadt!" at once repeated his hosts. Meister 
 
94 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 Grone's head sunk thoughtfully upon his hand, and 
 Frau Sarah rose from her chair, after drawing a deep 
 breath . 
 
 Julius looked and wondered, but seeing that neither 
 of them was disposed to speak, played a little with the 
 child ; and after wishing them all a friendly good night, 
 retired to his room. 
 
 The following days were dedicated to the most es- 
 sential matters : such as attending the classes, the de- 
 livery of introductory letters, purchasing books, and 
 other necessaries, and some final arrangements in his 
 lodging. 
 
 Sunday brought his first leisure hours. The sabbath 
 stillness that reigned in the street, where a door was but 
 seldom heard to open or shut, and where passengers 
 were so rare, that every footstep on the pavement was 
 attended to, reminded young Eimar of his noiseless 
 hosts, and on his return from church he went to visit 
 them. 
 
 The sun glanced cheerfully on the well-scoured tin 
 and pewter, the canary bird sung merrily in his cage, 
 and Grone and his wife sat by the stove, attired in the 
 holiday garb of the trading classes. No dissolute sab- 
 bath-breakers were to be seen carousing in the room ; 
 indeed Julius had already remarked that the few persons 
 whom he had accidentally known to come to the house, 
 were of the quietest description. 
 
 Christina, decked like a little princess, ran up de- 
 lighted to the young student, and asked if he was come 
 to dine with her. He hesitated, but the old people 
 joined so heartily in requesting him to share their 
 Christmas goose, that he could not refuse. He looked 
 round, in hopes of seeing Susan, but the lovely cousin 
 was not there. Frau Sarah not only prepared the table, 
 but brought in the dinner herself. In the mean time 
 Meister Grone entertained his guest, occasionally en- 
 deavouring to repress Christina's importunities. He 
 related to our student how, forty years before, he had 
 come a poor weaver to L — , and that Sarah, then the 
 handsome daughter of opulent parents, had brought him, 
 for her marriage portion, the house ihey now inhabited, 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 95 
 
 the well-stocked cellar, and the good-will of the retail 
 wine business. 
 
 He said that heaven had rewarded their exertions, 
 by permitting them to pass the evening of their days 
 without solicitude — that they were both contented with 
 their lot, except when their love for little Christina 
 made them wish themselves rich enough to leave her 
 such a provision as would render her independent. 
 
 '^Heaven grants to the contented more happiness 
 with a little than often accompanies the possession of 
 great treasures," observed Julius, <<and Christina will 
 still have great cause for gratitude, even should you 
 have nothing to leave her." 
 
 Grone smiled. '*It is eaj^y for you to talk thus, 
 Herr Eimar; you are a rich man's son — your manners 
 betray it, even more than the texture of your coat, and 
 your massy watch chain. You have all you want, 
 without thinking from whence it comes, and you know 
 little of the troubles of those who have to work for 
 such a sum as you would think nothing of spending on 
 your amusement." 
 
 As he said this, the old man's countenance wore an 
 expression singularly unpleasant to the student, who 
 replied, fondling the child — '<be assured, Herr Grone, 
 that I don't begrudge riches to you, or my little friend 
 here — but to talk of something else, I should have won- 
 dered very much at your apparent knowledge of my 
 native town, and of my father's circumstances if I had 
 not chanced this very morning to discover that an old 
 schoolfellow and townsman of mine had lodged here ; 
 from whom you probably derived your information." 
 
 *' Your schoolfellow and townsman!" exclaimed both 
 Grone and Sarah, with surprise. 
 
 << Yes, truly," replied the student, « Philip Witten- 
 hoff, whose name I found scratched upon one of the 
 window-frames — was my schoolfellow and friend. 
 What is more curious is, that I afterwards found one 
 of my own letters to him at the back of a drawer in the 
 Japan bureau ; I had forgotten his address, but now 
 that I recollect — " 
 
 Disturbed by a rustling noise behind him, the student 
 
96 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 looked round and beheld Susan, standing like a statue, 
 with her fixed eyes turned towards the place where he 
 sat. Julius irreparably lost the thread of his discourse, 
 and Frau Sarah, who became aware of her relation's 
 presence at the same moment, hurried out of the room 
 with half a dozen orders to the kitchen. 
 
 Susan obeyed, but stopped at the door, looking hard 
 and eagerly at the student. 
 
 '*Yes," said Grone, when she was gone, ^^ Herr 
 Wittenhoff did lodge with me for some time.^' 
 
 *^ A fine young man," added Sarah, something de- 
 jected in her tone of voice. 
 
 " A fine young man, indeed," returned Julius. "An 
 excellent fellow — every one's favourite. There have 
 been so many strange reports about him at Newstadt, 
 that I should like very much to get at the truth of the 
 matter. Perhaps you can give me some information. 
 Why did he leave the university so suddenly ? And 
 where did he go ? His family have never heard of him." 
 
 Meister Grone, who was spending all his energies on 
 the dissection of the goose, wiped his forehead with the 
 napkin, and shook his head. His wife took up the 
 subject. 
 
 <«Dear Herr Eimar, we know nothing about him 
 either. I dare say your friend might be a religious 
 upright man — indeed we are generally lucky in our 
 lodgers," (bowing to the student.) '< But only God 
 can see into men's hearts. Herr Wittenhoff came into 
 this room to us one evening, and said, in his usual short 
 manner : < I leave this to-morrow, dear Grone. I am 
 glad we have been always such good friends. Here's 
 your money — good night, and God bless you !' We saw 
 no more of him, for a carriage came and took him away 
 early the next morning, before we were awake. We 
 heard afterwards that neither carriage nor driver belong- 
 ed to this place." 
 
 "Indeed!" said Julius, a little disturbed by observing 
 that the speaker endeavoured to conceal some feeling 
 of embarrassment. "But did you make no inquiry 
 about him — or is a lodger no more thought of when the 
 latch falls behind him?" 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 97 
 
 "You are mistaken, Herr Student, if you think we 
 have forgotten your friend," said Sarah, '^on the con- 
 trary," and she sighed as she spoke, <*we think of him 
 every day." 
 
 "I am glad of that," thought Julius, but he was 
 shocked by the sudden paleness that overspread Grone's 
 face, at the appearance of a police sergeant at the door 
 of the room. 
 
 *' Meister, is not your nephew, Frank Adams, here ?" 
 he asked, in an authorative tone, and casting an inquisi- 
 tive glance around him, Grone seemed unable to speak, 
 and Sarah answered shortly, << No. What's the mat- 
 ter now ?" 
 
 The sergeant told them of a fray in which Frank had 
 been concerned that morning at a tavern, and left a sum- 
 mons for him to appear next day before the magistrate. 
 
 As the policeman retired, old Grone shuddered. 
 
 " You don't seem to like these gentry," observed 
 Julius. Grone shook his head with a look of dismay — 
 but said nothing. 
 
 *' Since those blue coats have been the fashion, there 
 has been no peace or comfort for us," said Sarah. 
 
 A silence of several minutes ensued. Julius knew 
 not why he felt so ill at ease in the company of these 
 people, and thought of retiring. 
 
 '< Here's father!" exclaimed Christina, who had be- 
 taken herself to the window. 
 
 *' The scoundrel !" muttered Grone, in an under 
 voice. 
 
 '^He has surely been drunk already, this morning," 
 sighed Sarah. The signal proved that she was not mis- 
 taken. 
 
 A tall, strong-built man, in the working dress of an 
 artisant, rolled into the room, and fell at his length upon 
 a bench. Christina laughed, and the Frau scolded. 
 
 ** What have you been at now, you graceless rogue ? 
 The police has been here after you. Can't you be con- 
 tent to hammer your lasts and heel taps, and let your 
 neighbour's bones alone ? You will reach the gallows 
 at last, if you go on in this manner." 
 
 <' Confound the gallows!" returned the wretched man. 
 Vol. II.— I 
 
98 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 ''What do I care? If I am hanged — damme, but you 
 shall both swing too." 
 
 Christina screamed, and took refuge in the lap of her 
 aunt, from the brawny arm which her father tossed 
 recklessly as he spoke. 
 
 Frau Sarah pacified the child, and began to reproach 
 Frank for his misconduct. But Grone checked her. 
 Don't you see that he is quite drunk, Sarah. Be quiet; 
 you know how curious the neighbours are. It would 
 be better for me to take him home to his house." 
 
 <' Right — do so, Whilhelm — take him to his poor 
 wife, and stop his mouth." 
 
 «*Ha! ha! ha!" roared the drunken shoemaker. 
 '* What's that about stopping my mouth ? I've no mind 
 to have my mouth stopped after your fashion, Gaifer 
 Grone! Ha! ha! ha! mind that cousin. Keep off, or 
 I'll cry murder!" 
 
 Disgusted with the scene, Julius retired to his room, 
 and left his hosts endeavouring to calm their brutal 
 nephew, and persuading him to let himself be con- 
 ducted home. 
 
 On entering his chamber the student walked up to 
 the window, where his eye immediately fell upon the 
 name of his schoolfellow, Philip Wittenhoff, which had 
 so surprised him in the morning. 
 
 With his mind full of uneasy thoughts, he threw him- 
 self on the sofa. When he had been there for some 
 time, a gentle knock preceded the entrance of Frau 
 Sarah into the room, with coffee. She apologized has- 
 tily for her nephew's indecorous deportment, and took 
 her leave, saying that she was going to afternoon ser- 
 vice. Soon after, Meister Grone knocked at the door, 
 opened it, and without taking his hand from the lock, 
 requested the student to excuse Frank Adams' mis- 
 conduct. 
 
 ^' Say no more about it, Meister Grone; if you will 
 do me the favour to come in for a moment, I will get 
 my hat and cloak and accompany you to church." 
 
 *' Excuse me, sir!" answered Grone, ''my old head 
 needs a pillow more than a sermon. I must take my 
 afternoon's nap." 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 99 
 
 "Well, well; but come in for a moment, and see 
 howr nice I have made the room. I'll wager that there 
 
 is not an old maid in L who can show a more 
 
 'point device' dwelling." 
 
 The old man advanced a step, still holding the lock 
 of the door in his hand, cast a hurried glance around, 
 and declining his lodger's invitation to sit down, betook 
 himself up stairs to his sleeping room. 
 
 " There is, surely, a strange air of mystery and fear 
 about these people!" thought Julius, as he turned to- 
 wards the glass to arrange his shirt collar, in the inten- 
 tion of going to church. He was taking down his hat 
 from the peg when he heard the lock of the door rattle, 
 as if somebody tried to open it. Wondering who it 
 could be, he opened it himself with a loud *' Who's 
 there ?" and started at beholding Susan in her modest 
 Sunday attire. He bowed, and felt at a loss whether 
 to go on without further notice, or to address her. 
 The gir] clasped her hands with an onxious and im- 
 ploring look. Julius stepped back into his room, and 
 gently asked her what she wanted, and whether he 
 could do her any service. 
 
 Susan made him no reply, but listened and looked up 
 the stairs by which Grone had ascended. All being quiet, 
 she tremblingly entered the student's apartment. *' Par- 
 don me, Herr Eimar, said she to the wondering, yet 
 pleased student, in a tone so low, that she might have 
 been supposed afraid of her own voice — '<I hope I am 
 not doing wrong, especially to-day, but such another 
 opportunity will not occur for a week. Meister Grone 
 is asleep, and his wife gone to church with Christina. 
 If I could be sure that you would not betray me, sir, 
 I would reveal something." 
 
 *'How could I betray you, my good girl?" replied 
 Julius, whose curiosity was now raised to the utmost ; 
 for no sportive smile played around her mouth, to in- 
 dicate levity of purpose ; on the contrary, her pale 
 features expressed only grief and agitation. 
 
 Her language was not, perhaps, refined enough to 
 please a fastidious ear ; yet there was a tone of simpli- 
 city and truthfulness in what she said, that interested 
 our student quite as much as her beauty. 
 
100 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 She opened the conversation by drawing a miniature 
 from her bosom, and asking Julius if he knew it! 
 
 "Philip Wittenhoff!" he exclaimed — "the same of 
 whom I was speaking below.'^ 
 
 " I heard all the good you said of poor Wittenhoff," 
 returned Susan, wiping the tears from her eyes. *«I 
 was sent out of the room, but I stood at the door, till I 
 had heard all. Herr Eimar, you are the first person 
 to whom I have opened my lips about him, since he 
 left this three years ago. Since that time God only 
 has heard me name him in my prayers ; but you are 
 his friend, and I can speak of him to you, if you will 
 allow it." 
 
 " Most willingly," replied Julius, laying aside his hat 
 and cloak, ''most willingly shall I give up going to 
 church for my friend's sake and yours. Sit down, and 
 now tell me what you have to say." 
 
 Susan blushed slightly, and dropped her eyes on her 
 fingers, with which she was twisting the strings of her 
 apron. 
 
 " You must know," said she, in a voice scarcely 
 above her breath, ''that — that — I loved Philip Witten- 
 hoff before he had been a month in our house. He was 
 so good and gentle. But the last thought I had, was 
 that he could care for a poor girl like me ; and I was 
 satisfied and happy, to serve and wait upon him. One 
 day, however — it was a Sunday, and my relations were 
 gone to church— and I thought him gone too. He 
 came home, and called me into his room, where he told 
 me he loved me ; and asked if I would be his wife. 
 It was so unexpected, that I could not collect my 
 thoughts ; I felt ashamed and happy, and confounded, 
 all at once ; and I was obliged to go out of the room to 
 recover myself, without making him any reply. It was 
 some days before I saw him alone again. Indeed I 
 avoided it ; for I could scarce believe, good as he was, 
 but that he had been jesting with me. He was taken 
 very ill, and I was desired to carry him some tea. He 
 seemed to be in such great suffering, that my heart was 
 full. He repeated what he had said the preceding 
 Sunday. I felt he was in earnest, and I was able t© 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 101 
 
 tell him all that had passed in my mind. It seemed to 
 give him great joy, and to make him forget how ill he 
 was. *Dear Susan,' he said to me, ' I know of nothing 
 that either of us have done to deserve being unhappy, and 
 yet I see no prospect of my being able to marry at pre- 
 sent. My stepfather would force me to adopt a learned 
 profession against my inclination ; and 1 must obey be- 
 cause my mother has nothing to give me, while he is rich 
 and childless. It w^ould break her heart if I was to dis- 
 oblige him. However, let me hope that you will con- 
 tinue pious and industrious and faithful to your Philip; 
 and the time will come when I shall be able to deliver 
 you from this house of bondage.' He alluded to my 
 situation here. I attended to his wishes, and I submit- 
 ted without repining to the harshness of Cousin Grone 
 and his wife, as for God's sake an unfriended orphan 
 should do. But I had hope now to support me under 
 all my troubles, and they became endurable." 
 
 Susan paused, and gave a sigh to the past ; Julius 
 felt more and more interested in his visitor, who re- 
 sumed her simple narrative. 
 
 ^* Thus we loved one another truly for nearly a 
 year, without its being known to any one ; for my 
 mistress was so much engaged and occupied by little 
 Christina, whom she adopted about that time, and who 
 was only beginning to walk in leading-strings, that she 
 paid little attention to me. 
 
 <' One day Philip received a letter sealed with black. 
 He remained several hours in his room, and then ap- 
 peared with his eyes red with weeping. His mother 
 was dead. 
 
 " About a fortnight after came another — a thick let- 
 ter, which he opened and read before me. ' Susan,' 
 he said, ' all my hopes of a provision are at an end^ 
 my step-father's property has been destroyed by fire ; 
 and a fit of apoplexy, caused by the shock, has termi- 
 nated his life. The creditors have seized the little that 
 was left, and in this paper is contained all I have in the 
 world.' He showed me a strip of thin paper, which 
 he told me was an order upon the bank for six hundred 
 thalers. This, to me, seemed a large sum ; and to his 
 
 VOL. II. — I 2 
 
102 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 question of whether he might make his proposals for 
 me to my employers and relations, I said, 'Why not? 
 if you are still disposed to marry such a poor girl as 
 me, now that you are grown rich.' He laughed at my 
 answer, and went down to talk to cousin Grone. 
 
 '*My heart beat, and my cheeks burnt, when, after 
 some time, my mistress came into the kitchen, and 
 said angrily, 'What's this I hear between you and the stu- 
 dent, Susan ? Let me hear you speaking another word 
 to him — a pretty business, indeed, to think of marrying 
 a gentleman!' 
 
 ''I could not help crying, but I said nothing. In 
 the evening, as Herr Wittenhoff was coming home 
 from the bankers, with a bag of money under his arm, 
 he stopped at the kitchen window, where I sat watch- 
 ing for him, as I used to do whenever I had time. 
 < Your relations,' he said, 'have given me a positive 
 denial — the foolish people object to me, because I am 
 a student, and of a rank of life above them ; but I'll 
 throw away my gown, and take to something else, that 
 will enable me to maintain a wife ; only be patient and 
 faithful, dear Susan! sunshine will come at last.^ 
 
 " I could not answer, my heart was too full ; so he 
 went on to say, if I would go with him to America, it 
 would not be difficult for him to obtain a passage in one 
 of the American ships then in the harbour, under a 
 borrowed name. *By half-past seven to-morrow even-n 
 ing,' said he, 'I shall know something positive to tell 
 you.' 
 
 "At that moment I heard my mistress coming to- 
 wards the kitchen, and calling ^ Susan.' I could only 
 give my hand in token of consent, and hastily shut the 
 casement." 
 
 Susan paused again in her narrative, and wept. " I 
 give you his very words, Herr Student," she continued, 
 " for I often repeat them over and over to myself when 
 1 am alone. I never heard his dear voice again." 
 
 "Never !" exclaimed Julius, with surprise. 
 
 "Never!" said Susan, with a melancholy shake of 
 the head. " Isaw him again twice the next day. The 
 first time was at noon, when he was going out of the 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 103 
 
 house with a light step. At four o'clock he returned. 
 I was watching at the window ; he saw me, and kissed 
 his hand cheerfully ; and about a quarter of an hour 
 afterwards, as I passed his door to go into the store-room, 
 I heard the clink of hard thalers on his table. I then 
 had to go for water to the fountain down the street, and 
 at my return Frau Sarah sent me off to an old sick re- 
 lation of hers, desiring me to stay with her, until a nurse 
 she was going to hire came to relieve me. The order 
 fell like lead upon my heart, but I had no alternative 
 and obeyed. The sick woman lived a good way from 
 this. I went — and oh, Herr Eimar! how anxiously did 
 I count the hours as they chimed from the town-house 
 clock! At last, just after midnight had struck, the nurse 
 came, and I ran homx3 as fast as 1 could. All was quiet 
 in the house ; and I wondered to see Philip's windows 
 dark, for I had felt sure that he would wait for me, to 
 tell me what he had done about the ship. I forgot, 
 poor foolish girl that I was, that he could neither know 
 whither I had gone, nor when I was to come back. I 
 went to bed wretched and uneasy. It was long before I 
 fell asleep ; and when I arose in the morning, they told 
 me Wittenhoff was gone. But, dear Herr Eimar, do 
 you think it likely he would go away without saying 
 *good bye' to me } I had done nothing to offend him. 
 He knew that he was the only trust and comfort of my 
 life ; and he was too good and kind thoughtlessly to give 
 me pain! Neither did a carriage take him away — car- 
 riages come into this retired street so rarely, that it is 
 impossible for one to have stopped at our door unseen 
 and unheard by any of our neighbours. Frau Sarah 
 would not suffer me to go into his room, but cleaned it 
 all out herself, and locked it up ; and it was not till a year 
 after that she sent me to prepare it for a new lodger. I 
 looked about as if I had expected to find somebody there, 
 but I found nothing except his name scratched upon that 
 window-pane." 
 
 <* But, my good Susan," said the student, after some 
 pause, ^* what do you mean by all this ? You frighten 
 me — such a mysterious disappearance is indeed calcu- 
 lated to excite uneasiness. What do you think of it 
 yourself?" 
 
104 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 " Herr Eimar," she replied, in a low inward tone, << I 
 don't believe that Philip went away voluntarily. At 
 the time he was here, an old sea-captain used to frequent 
 the house — a strange old man, who used to joke with me, 
 and often to say — I don't know whether he meant it in 
 earnest or not — that I must be his wife. His vessel was 
 in the harbour, and he had often asked me jokingly to go 
 on board. After Philip's disappearance, his manner 
 towards me changed entirely — he became gloomy, mo- 
 rose, and sometimes even malicious. He and cousin 
 Grone often used to whisper together, looking at me all 
 the while, and often torment me with speaking in rid- 
 dles, jeering at me because I could not understand what 
 they meant. I have often thought of what Frank said 
 one night below, when he was overcome with drink 
 and anger, and quarrelling with Grone, ' Though you 
 bring up Christina,' said he, *1 am still her father, and 
 have a right to put in my word when I please — Pm not 
 so easily got out of the way as some people — I am not 
 Philip Wittenhoff, and not — ' Grone interrupted him 
 angrily, and I am sure he looked frightened to death. 
 He took some money out of his pocket, and gave it to 
 Frank, who said no more. Now all I ask you, Herr 
 Eimar, is, whether I can be easy about the fate of your 
 friend and mine? Am I to believe that he abandoned 
 me cruelly, or that — I will not say what I have often 
 imagined." 
 
 <^ My brain is on fire with the thoughts you have 
 suggested," said the student, starting from his chair, 
 and walking about the room, <* what a mysterious his- 
 tory! and how it agrees with my dark forebodings?" 
 
 << Hush? not so loud, Herr Eimar," said Susan. "My 
 fear has always been, that the ship-captain, who left this 
 shortly after, and has never been here since, kidnapped 
 Philip for the Dutch service in the East Indies. 1 have 
 often heard how men are carried off, and sold in Hol- 
 land for soldiers." 
 
 << And you say that Philip left nothing behind, not a 
 line by which he might be traced ?" 
 
 " Not a line, nothing — but what am I saying, sir ? 
 How coruld I forget to tell you, that about five months 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 105 
 
 after his departure, Frau Grone being sick and confined 
 to her bed, I was sent to her store-room, which she 
 never suffered any body but herself to enter, for some 
 particular cordial, and, in looking about, I spied Witten- 
 hoff's trunk in a corner, and several articles which I 
 knew to have been his property, lying on the floor. 
 I felt ready to drop at the sight, and I dared not trust 
 myself to touch any thing, or to mention what I had seen. 
 And now I only ask you, Herr Student, to observe how 
 all these things hang together, and if, as is likely from 
 your condition, you have a large acquaintance, to en- 
 deavour through them to make such inquiries in Holland 
 as may lead to the discovery of poor Philip. His other 
 friends seem to have been strangely neglectful of him, 
 but you, sir, may perhaps be still able to rescue him 
 from misfortune, and I shall not die, or what is worse, 
 live broken-hearted/' 
 
 Julius was so confounded by what he had heard that he 
 was incapable of answering, when a sharp knock at the 
 door startled them both, and without waiting for the 
 student to say "Come in," Frau Grone, who had return- 
 ed from church and let herself into the house by a mas- 
 ter-key, made her appearance. She had missed Susan 
 below, and inferring that she must be with the lodger, 
 sought her in his room. Susan turned pale at the tone 
 in which the Frau addressed her. *< What are you do- 
 ing here, girl! Is this the way you mind the house when 
 I am abroad, and disturb the gentleman with your idle 
 chatter ?" 
 
 *' Excuse me, Frau Grone," said the student, hasten- 
 ing to relieve Susan's consternation by replying, '«it is 
 my fault if she is absent from her post. I am just come 
 home from church, and being thirsty, I called to her to 
 bring me some fresh water." 
 
 Saying this, he pointed to a glass, which luckily 
 chanced to be on the table; this, and his grave uncon- 
 cerned manner satisfied the angry mistress, who, in milder 
 terms, desired Susan to go down stairs, and take off 
 Christina's pelisse and bonnet. 
 
 When she was gone Frau Grone shut the door, and 
 drew nearer to her lodger with a confident air. 
 
106 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 *' I have too good an opinion of you, Herr Eimar, to 
 entertain any of those fears with respect to Susan which 
 the conduct of young students in general might justify." 
 
 << You do me but justice, Frau Grone,'' he replied, 
 rather drily. 
 
 " But at the same," she continued, " I must advise 
 you not to mind her ; she is a poor half-witted thing, 
 and often talks very wildly — though I can't say there 
 is any harm in her." 
 
 ^andeed!" 
 
 " It is very true, sir ; she sometimes fancies that she 
 has had great misfortunes, and mopes herself and every 
 body else to death." 
 
 Julius was silent, and she resumed : — 
 
 <* And yet she has no cause to complain. She is an 
 orphan, to be sure, and penniless — but then she has a 
 comfortable home with us. When we are gone, it is, 
 that she will find the difference between relations and 
 strangers.'* 
 
 "No doubt, Frau Grone." 
 
 "We have nothing to leave her but good clothes, and 
 an example of industry and honesty. On this account 
 it is that I urge her daily, and all day long to bestir 
 herself. But people never know when they are well 
 off, till they are worse." 
 
 <« True," said the student. ^^ But still I would rather 
 be in Christina's place than Susan's." 
 
 ^' You mean on account of what she is to inherit at 
 my husband's death, and mine. Ah, Herr Student, 
 people think us much richer than we are. — I wish, for 
 the poor dear's sake, that they were right. But, in- 
 deed, we are far from it, although we let slip no means 
 of increasing the little nest-egg we intend for her." 
 
 ^'' Let slip no means!" re-echoed Julius slowly. 
 " Frau Grone, I believe that God will direct and pros- 
 per all honest endeavours." 
 
 The Frau courtesied respectfully, and bidding her 
 lodger '' good evening," retired to her avocations below. 
 
 Julius was now alone with his own thoughts, the 
 complexion of which was sombred by the gloom of ad- 
 vancing twilight. All was still within, and not a step 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 107 
 
 was to be heard without the house. For the first time 
 this comfortable room seemed dismal. He lighted his 
 ]amp earlier than usual, let down the window-curtains, 
 and set down to write a letter. After tearing two 
 sheets of paper, he threw away the pen. He opened a 
 book, which he had purchased the day before — but, 
 though his eyes read the first page a dozen times, his 
 understanding had not taken in a word of it. At last 
 it became impossible for him to fix his eyes any more 
 than his attention. They wandered, in spite of his 
 will, into the dark recesses of the room. His breath 
 was oppressed, and cold creepings came over him. He 
 removed the shade from the lamp, but still there was 
 not light enough ; and he lit a pair of candles which 
 ornamented the mantel-piece. The illumination cheered 
 him a little, and he sat down again to think coolly over 
 all that he had heard. But these meditations only 
 brought to his mind all the stories, authenticated or 
 fictitious, that he had ever heard or read, respecting 
 apparitions, dreams, and presages. 
 
 '<Can Susan's statement be false, or her words mad- 
 ness?" he said, sometimes uttering his thoughts aloud. 
 ** Impossible! Truth beams from her eye — and her 
 words are too connected to be uttered by a maniac. 
 Why is Wittenhoff's form presented so distinctly to 
 my eyes, whichever way I turn them ? Has fate 
 brought me hither to pity or revenge him ? What is 
 it that is expected of me ?" 
 
 During this soliloquy the student had risen from his 
 chair, and was pacing the room with his hands behind 
 his back, and his eyes bent on the ground. As he 
 spoke the last word, he stopped. The board on which 
 his foot rested was fresher in colour than the rest, and 
 seemed to be newly put in. In the adjoining ones 
 marks of the plane, through which stains were visible, 
 attracted his attention. He snatched up a light, knelt 
 down, and ascertained that what had caught his eye, 
 were really dark red stains, in order to efface which the 
 board had doubtless been planed. 
 
 The student's hair stood on end. Trembling all 
 over he returned to the sofa, and covered his fare with 
 his hands. 
 
108 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 <* Am I then the sport of my own fantastic brain, or 
 is this fearful reality ? It must be so. The mysteri- 
 ousness of the old people — the disappearance of Witten- 
 hoff — his trunk in Frau Grone's possession — the six 
 hundred thalers too received just before his departure — 
 a large sum to those who would Met slip no means' of 
 augmenting the heritage of an adopted child. — * Let 
 slip no means!' — Strange words! — And Wittenhoff's 
 coffer in their hands! — those stains on the floor — the 
 ship-captain, too, his rival — the diunken nephew's 
 mysterious threats this morning. What a mass of crime 
 is laid bare to my view!" 
 
 Such was the train of ideas which occupied our stu- 
 dent's mind until a late hour. At last he undressed 
 himself, and strove to forget these horrors in sleep. 
 But no ; — the night wore away in devising means to 
 clear up the mystery that enveloped the fate of his 
 friend. Morning broke without his having come to 
 any resolution ; he got up, and having looked shudder- 
 ing on the stained floor, went to the window. All 
 without was wintry and desolate. At last a man ap- 
 proached the house: it was Frank, the shoemaker. It 
 would be difficult to imagine a figure more indicative 
 of brutal intemperance than his. The dejection which 
 succeeds the excitement of drunkenness, and the cares 
 attendant on an empty pocket, marked his drawn fea- 
 tures. He slunk along close to the wall, as if afraid, or 
 ashamed to be seen. A sudden thought flashed across 
 the student's mind, and, throwing up the window, he 
 cried — <<Meister Frank, come up here; I have work 
 for you." 
 
 << I have one word to say to my uncle, sir, after which 
 I'll wait on you." 
 
 But the " one word" produced a great many, and to- 
 wards the end of the colloquy, very loud ones. Grone 
 spoke low and temperately — Frank more and more 
 vehemently ; and at last, banging the door after him, 
 he rushed up stairs to the student's chamber. 
 
 << I want a pair of boots," said the latter. 
 
 ^< I am the man to serve you," replied Frank, taking 
 out his measure. — "I hope your reverence has forgiven 
 
I 
 
 OF GERMAN LIFE. 109 
 
 me for being a little noisy below yesterday. A poor 
 artisan, with nothing but his trade to support him, may 
 be excused, now and then, for trying to drown care in 
 a glass of wine." 
 
 «« Let us say no more about it, Meister : forgiveness 
 belongs to my calling — Perhaps you would like a glass 
 of good Dantzic this cold morning ; if so, my travelling 
 flask there is full — help yourself." 
 
 '« Thanks to your reverence," said the shoemaker: 
 and, stroking the black, unkempt locks from his fore- 
 head, still glowing from the late dispute, he put the 
 flask unceremoniously to his mouth, and took a long 
 draught. 
 
 <• Comfortable!" ejaculated Frank, clapping his breast 
 with his broad, unwashed hand — " Comfortable stuff, 
 after the gall old Grone gave me below. D — n— " 
 
 '^Hush! hush! friend — don't swear: you have cre- 
 ditable people here for your relations ; you should re- 
 spect the tranquillity of their house." 
 
 '^Hem! I am very dry this morning— Here's to 
 you, sir. Tranquillity is a cheaper article under uncle 
 Grone's roof than you think for — ' All's not gold that 
 glitters.' I know who could strip the wolf of the 
 slieep's skin. The fools think that in taking charge of 
 Christina they are quits with me ; but they must help 
 me too, if they want me to hold my tongue. You 
 know why they took the child ?" 
 
 '^ My good friend, I neither know or care about your 
 family quarrels — " 
 
 ^' Family quarrels, forsooth! — The whole town would 
 be in an uproar if I were to tell. And the old miser 
 denies me the ten thalers I have been fined for breaking 
 Hans Piehler's head yesterday. Any one else would 
 have peached. If you had not behaved like a gentle- 
 man to me, Herr Student, I could tell you — But I won't 
 make you uncomfortable." 
 
 << You are not very sober now, I fear, Meister Frank. 
 What can you know that w^ould affect my peace ?" 
 
 '' More than you think of, sir. If these walls could 
 speak, you would not be so much at your ease as you seem 
 Vol, II.— K 
 
110 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 now. Have you seen nothing suspicious? — Well then, 
 rij tell you— No ;— I won't—" 
 
 ^'Pray go on. Do you intimate that any danger 
 threatens the occupier of this apartment ?" 
 
 Frank cast a shy glance round the room, and then 
 fixed his eyes on the discoloured blood which had ex- 
 cited the student's suspicions. He was about to point 
 to it, but drew back his hand, and said with the tone of 
 one conscience-smitten — ^' Herr student, you are a scho- 
 lar and a clergyman, and of course afraid of neither 
 man nor devil-; but I could tell you of people who 
 would not come into this room for the world, even by 
 day, and much less by night. — I, for one, am not easily 
 frightened ; but try my old hunks of an uncle — he is 
 as much afraid of this room as he is of a police officer. 
 He would sooner encounter the devil than either.'^ 
 
 " You speak in riddles, friend — say what you are 
 about at once, and have done." 
 
 << Well, sir, 1 only tell you that you are not the first 
 student who had been lodged here. There was a 
 poor young fellow named WittenhofT, whom his ill luck 
 brought to this house — I advise you to look cut for an- 
 other lodging as fast as you can, and in another quarter 
 of the town. This is too solitary. The few habitable 
 houses are far asunder, and their occupants bad people. 
 A man might be murdered in the open street at noon 
 day, and nobody be the wiser." 
 
 Julius retreated horror-struck from the fellow, who 
 continued coolly and familiarly : <* A man need only 
 get his enemy into one of these houses ; he is soon 
 done for, and then with a stone about his neck, 
 the body lies as soft at the bottom of the canal as in any 
 Christian church-yard." 
 
 <« Meister Frank!" cried Grone, from the foot of the 
 stairs. The miscreant dropped the empty flask out of 
 his hands, and lowered his voice. 
 
 <* Another time I'll tell your reverence more. I 
 hope, from his calling me, that old skin-flint has thought 
 better of it. It is well for him, or the gentleman up 
 there at the senate-house should have heard a story about 
 the French emigrants that once lodged here. — However, 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. Ill 
 
 it may do another time. — Your servant, sir, for the pre- 
 sent. Uncle will wonder what keeps me with you so 
 long. I'll bring the boots home on Thursday — " 
 
 Frank went down in high good-humour, leaving the 
 student, on the contrary, in great agitation. The uncle 
 and nephew's voices were heard in low tones, accom- 
 panied by the chink of money, after which the house 
 door banged to. 
 
 "By all I can see and hear," thought Julius, ^*I am 
 fallen into a den of cut-throats, and the wisest mea- 
 sure would certainly be to remove with all the little 
 property that may, perhaps, have already excited these 
 people's cupidity. But would it not be faithless and 
 dastardly in me to fly without seeking to clear up the 
 mystery connected with the disappearance of WittenhofT. 
 I fear the poor youth has had a worse fate than being 
 carried to Batavia. At least, if there has been foul 
 work it shall not go unpunished !" 
 
 With such thoughts our student pursued his way to 
 the University, where he heard but little of the theologi- 
 cal lecture. He afterv/ards made some inquiries as to 
 the character of his host, at the eating house where 
 he was in the habit of dining ; and learned, that though 
 Grone's cabaret was but little resorted to, and only by 
 persons of an inferior class, no harm was known of him. 
 Some reports of his being engaged in smuggling trans- 
 actions had been at one time circulated in the neigh- 
 bourhood ; but as there was no better authority for them 
 than the word of his nephew, Frank Adam, a man of 
 notoriously bad character, they excited little attention. 
 
 Returning home towards evening dissatisfied, and ill 
 at ease, he was amazed to find the usually deserted street 
 crowded with people. They seemed all of the lowest 
 description, and were assembled before Frank Adam's 
 house, from which proceeded sounds of distress and la- 
 mentations. He met Susan pressing through the crowd 
 in great agitation. Julius caught her by the arm, and 
 asked what was the matter ? 
 
 *» Ah ! Herr Student! Meister Frank is dying." 
 
 ^' Dying! what has happened to him ?" 
 
 *^ He has been just brought home mortally wounded 
 
112 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 from the Dolphin. Hans Piehler, whom he beat yes- 
 terday, fell upon him when he was too drunk to defend 
 himself. Meister Grone sent me to see whether he was 
 alive or " 
 
 Without waiting to hear the end, Julius made his way 
 into the house, where the wounded man lay on a mis- 
 erable truckle bed. The Minister was coming out of the 
 room, Frank having obstinately, and even furiously, re- 
 jected the consolations of religion. A phlegmatic doctor 
 had also abandoned him ; and his wife lay in strong hys- 
 terics at the other side of the room, surrounded by wo- 
 men out of the neighbouring houses. 
 
 The student's blood froze at the sight of the mangled 
 wretch, whose eyes opened, and whose senses seemed 
 to return, at his approach. The dying man murmured 
 some almost inarticulate sounds, of which Julius could 
 only distinguish '^ Uncle — the blood — too late — no 
 money — for — " 
 
 A convulsion seized him, and after some dreadful 
 struggles he expired. In a state of high excitement, 
 Julius hurried from this scene of wretchedness. In- 
 stead of going to his own room, he went into Meister 
 Grone, who staggered towards him with a countenance 
 as death-like as that of the corpse he had just seen. 
 Sarah, more like a statue than a living woman, sat by 
 the stove, comforting the crying Christina. *' Herr 
 Student, for God's sake, is he still alive ?" asked Grone 
 with quivering lips and faltering voice. 
 
 ^*No," was the reply ; to which both uncle and 
 aunt returned a deep-drawn and involuntary " God be 
 praised !" 
 
 " God be praised!" repeated the shuddering and in- 
 dignant Julius. ** Gray-headed man of sin. Thankest 
 thou God for the death of a fellow-sinner ? and he thy 
 own nephew, taken away in the midst of his crimes ? 
 God forgive thee this, as well as thy past offences!" 
 
 He turned away in disgust and horror, and went to 
 his apartment. 
 
 " This shall be the last night I spend in this horrible 
 den," he exclaimed aloud, as he closed the door, and 
 threw himself down upon the sofa. Then starting up 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 113 
 
 again, he struck a light, and set about packing up his 
 things. The wardrobe and the drawers were soon 
 emptied, and his books taken down and thrown upon 
 the table. He then pulled his trunk from under the 
 bed in the alcove, where it had been pushed out of the 
 way. In effecting this, agitation of mind caused him 
 to employ some violence, as well as noise, and the cor- 
 ner of the heavy trunk, being forced against the wall, 
 loosened a piece of the skirting-board, which fell flat. 
 He brought a light in order to repair the damage, and 
 discovered a dark bundle, which seemed to have been 
 stufiTed purposely behind it. On examination, it proved 
 to be the clothes of a man, discoloured and hardened 
 by what looked like dried blood. One flap of the 
 waistcoat still showed that it was of embroidered satin, 
 such as would have been worn only by a gentleman. 
 In spite of the horror which the sight of this bloody 
 spoil inspired, curiosity urged him to the minutest in- 
 vestigation, and he further discovered, on the left side, 
 two holes, to all appearance made by the passage of 
 some murderous weapon. 
 
 The piece of skirting-board had evidently been re- 
 placed, after the deposit of the clothes, in a hurried or 
 careless manner, with two slight nails imperfectly driv- 
 en in. 
 
 Julius was still engaged in contemplating these bloody 
 witnesses of a dreadful deed, when Susan opened the 
 door of his room. She was alarmed at the fierceness 
 with which he darted from the alcove to demand the 
 reason of the intrusion. 
 
 *^ Cousin Grone and Sarah are both in distraction, 
 trembling and weeping so, that my heart aches to see 
 them. They are frightened at the noise you are ma- 
 king, and anxious to know what you are about. Meis- 
 ter Grone told me to say that he would be eternally 
 obliged by your allowing him five minutes' conversa- 
 tion in the morning. He says you may be his ruin.'' 
 
 ** Shameless hypocrite!" cried Julius, holding up the 
 waistcoat. "See here ; a witness of his long concealed 
 crime. How true the saying, that murder will out! — 
 From this, Susan, you may guess the fate of Wittenhoff'." 
 
 VOL. IL — K 2 
 
114 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 ** Ah! Lord of life and mercy!" shrieked the terri- 
 fied girl, and ran down stairs without knowing what 
 she did. Her scream brought up Meister Grone and 
 his wife. 
 
 '^ Not a step further!'' cried the student, grasping 
 a pistol as they appeared at the door ; the candles in 
 their hand gleaming on their haggard, death-pale coun- 
 tenances. '< Would you add mine to the bones alrea- 
 dy mouldering in the vaults of this slaughter-house ? 
 Back, wretches! What have you done with Witten- 
 hoff? — Do you not know this garment? — What lie can 
 help you now ?'' 
 
 At this vehement, rapid, and unexpected address, and 
 at the unsightly object in the student's hand, Grone, 
 feeble with age and infirmity, fell almost senseless 
 into Sarah's arms. "My God! the chevalier's waist- 
 coat!" whimpered the old woman. 
 
 <' Away with you!" cried Julius. '^ The police — " 
 
 "Mercy! mercy! mercy!" cried the old man, as if 
 recalled to life and agony by the word ; and throwing 
 himself on his knees before the student: "Can you, 
 whose calling is to preach mercy, deny it to us ?" 
 
 " I, at least, am innocent," said Sarah, sobbing, '^ I 
 knew nothing of the business, till long after." 
 
 *^ Begone! I tell you. — Utter another lying word, 
 and I summon the watch this very moment." 
 
 This threat drove the supplicant to despair. He 
 arose wildly from his knees, and addressed his wife. 
 *' Oh! that I had but heeded your advice, Sarah, not to 
 take this madman into m}- house. He will destroy our 
 good fame — perhaps our lives!" 
 
 He was interrupted by loud knocking at the house- 
 door. " What's that ? Who can come after ten o'clock ! 
 It must be the policemen !" 
 
 The knocking became louder, and the bell rang fu- 
 riously. The old people at last, becoming more col- 
 lected, tottered down stairs together. 
 
 Grone's last words had made an impression on the 
 student, and he almost reproached himself for being so 
 hard towards his hosts, however guilty they might be. 
 '^ It is not for a minister of Christ to wield the sword 
 of Justice!" said he to himself, after some reflection. 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 115 
 
 He wished to spare himself any further proceedings 
 against them by giving them time to abscond. But 
 then — the danger of remaining a whole night under 
 their roof! Might not they have accomplices at hand, 
 who would insure their safety at the expense of his life ? 
 
 Suddenly perceiving that his hand still grasped the 
 bloody waistcoat, he flung it from him with horror. 
 He was about to lock himself in, but he had mislaid the 
 key of the door, and it was no where to be found. 
 There was no bolt, except on the outside. Doubtful 
 and anxious what to do for his defence, he stood listen- 
 ing at the top of the stairs, and heard several voices 
 speaking together below. Yet the sounds were unlike 
 those of ruffian greetings. Julius fancied that he heard 
 expressions of joy, followed by a woman's cry : a door 
 clapped, and then all sank into a low murmur within 
 Meister Grone's room. He continued listening a long 
 time, but without arriving at any conclusion as to what 
 he heard. Meanwhile the lamp in his room had gone 
 out, and he had to grope his way back in the dark. 
 He sat down on the first chair that he stumbled against, 
 in hopes of some one coming up stairs with a light. 
 Here weariness and sleep overpowered his fears, and 
 every phantom of danger gradually faded away. The 
 design of piling chairs and tables against the door sug- 
 gested itself faintly to his mind, but instead of execu- 
 ting it he found his way to the alcove, threw himself, 
 dressed as he was, upon the bed, and was fast asleep in 
 a moment. He would have slumbered on, undisturbed 
 by terrific dreams, had he not been waked by a loud 
 noise, and a sudden heavy pressure on his breast. He 
 opened his eyes, beheld a tall figure bending over the 
 bed, and holding him down with one hand. Perfect 
 recollection of the circumstances under which he went 
 to sleep returned, and he cried out : ** Hollo! Murder! 
 Help!" struggling all the while to free himself from 
 the hands of the assassin. 
 
 <* Julius, my dear fellow, don't you know me ?'' 
 said the supposed ruffian. 
 
 '< In God's name!" exclaimed the student, looking 
 wildly about him, "what are you ? Is it possible that 
 you should be Philip Wittenhoff ?" 
 
116 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 "Yes, truly, " replied the stranger, laughing at his 
 friend's scared look: ''That very worthy gentleman, 
 and your old schoolfellow, in a proper garment of flesh 
 and blood, and no ' horrible shadow,' such as you seem 
 to take me for." 
 
 The student, still amazed and incredulous, said no- 
 thing. Wittenhoff seated himself familiarly on the bed, 
 and heartily shook the passive hand of his friend. 
 *'Tliough I am tired with my long day's journey, I must 
 still spend a little time in extricating you from the laby- 
 rinth of error into which appearances have led you." 
 
 " How strange!" said Julius, " I can't believe my 
 senses — but go on." 
 
 <*You know Susan," — continued WittenhofT, "I 
 love her as my life. My step-father's ruin and death 
 reduced me to poverty, and old Grone would not hear 
 of her marrying a beggarly student, for fear he should 
 have to maintain two instead of one. Finding that he 
 would not hear reason, I resolved to carry her off to 
 America. I had agreed with the maste* of a ship — 
 bound to New York, but an old Dutch caj^tn, a friend 
 of Grone's, found it out, and betrayed me to him. Grone 
 reproached me in the captain's presence, for my clan- 
 destine proceedings. I had nothing to plead in return 
 but my love for Susan, and her relation's obduracy. I 
 suppose that the warmth of my feelings made me elo- 
 quent, for the Dutchman was moved to pity, and inter- 
 ceded for me. But Grone was inexorable — all that 
 could be extorted from him, and that much against the 
 will of his wife, was a conditional promise — that if in 
 three years I continued in the same mind, and had earn- 
 ed such an independence as would preclude all chance of 
 my becoming a burthen to him, he would no longer ob- 
 ject to our marriage. But that in the mean time I must 
 
 quit L , and seek my fortune elsewhere. The 
 
 Dutch captain then told me that a friend of his, who was 
 to sail that evening for Batavia, was in great distress 
 for a clerk, his own having suddenly refused to accom- 
 pany him. 
 
 "You are a good accountant," said the old kind- 
 hearted sailor; "and upon my recommendation he will 
 take you. Lay out what cash you may have in such 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 117 
 
 European gew-gaws as fetch a high price beyond seas, 
 and trust to luck for the rest. In those parts industry and 
 a sharp wit turn every thing to gold. But there is not 
 a moment to lose." 
 
 After a little hesitation I accepted the offer. By six 
 o'clock in the evening all was ready for my departure. 
 I sought Susan, to break to her my change of plan, and 
 by my assurances of constancy, to reconcile her, if pos- 
 sible, to my absence. But she was no where to be found. 
 At last, Frau Sarah confessed that she had purposely 
 sent her out of the way, that there might be no parting 
 sentimentalities, to render the foolish girl more unfit 
 than she was already for the discharge of her household 
 duties. I cursed the old woman in my heart, and, I 
 fear, remonstrated in no very gentle terms, for she 
 flounced out of the room, muttering something about 
 never letting a student into her house again, instead of 
 wishing me good-bye. I wrote a hasty farewell to my 
 poor Susan, and left it in my table-drawer, where I had 
 no -doubt she would find it in arranging various effects 
 which I had left to the care of Grone. But from my 
 never hearing from her, and from what I have learned 
 to-night, I suspect the old cat of having discovered and 
 suppressed it." 
 
 <' I believe her capable of any villainy as well as her 
 husband," said Julius, «^I can produce the strongest 
 circumstantial evidence of their having been accompli- 
 ces, if not perpetrators, of a murder." 
 
 *'I guess to what you allude," interrupted Witten- 
 hoff, '• but appearances have deceived you — or perhaps 
 malicious or inaccurate reports. The Grones are greedy, 
 selfish people, but incapable of such atrocities as you 
 have attributed to them." 
 
 <'Well — you shall see!" said Julius, springing off the 
 bed, and opening the curtain which divided the alcove 
 from the rest of the room. He started back at seeing 
 Meister Grone ushering in a young man of gentlemanly 
 appearance, and an old one in the dress of an ecclesias- 
 tic of the Roman Catholic Church. Wittenhoff hastily 
 closed the curtain again, and whispered to his friend to 
 be silent. 
 
 Grone advanced with a candle in his hand, which he 
 
118 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 held to the blood-stained boards, and taking up the em- 
 broidered waistcoat which Julius had flung down on the 
 floor, presented it to the young man without speaking. 
 Thelatterexamined it attentively, and gave itto the Abbe- 
 They then spoke together in such low tones, that no- 
 thing was distinguishable, except that what they said 
 was in French. The Abbe proceeded to take a breviary 
 from his pocket, and placing himself beside the spot, 
 which Grone had pointed out, murmured some Latin 
 prayers in which the young man joined. Then closing 
 the book, the priest pronounced the benediction aloud, 
 and all three retired. 
 
 " That is the Marquis de Neuville and his tutor," 
 said Wittenhoff" as jVIeister Grone closed the door, 
 "my friends and travelling companions. My destiny 
 having removed me, at the end of six months, from 
 Batavia to the Isle of Bourbon, I was there taken into 
 the employ of a Madame Dubois, a rich planter's widow, 
 whose son this you tig man is by a first marriage. 1 
 shortly became superintendent of her extensive planta- 
 tions, with a liberal salary, and so far gained her esteem 
 and friendship, that she proposed to me to accompany 
 the young marquis to Europe, on account of the Abb6's 
 age and infirmities. My circumstances being known to 
 Madame Dubois, she engaged, with the concurrence of 
 her son, that if I would marry Susan and determine to 
 settle in their colony, they would appoint me permanent 
 agent, with such advantages as I could not refuse. She 
 made it a point that her son and the Abbe should also 
 visit this city, and offer up prayers for the soul of the 
 late Marquis on the spot where he fell. And now, Ju- 
 lius, comes the solution of the second mystery attached 
 to this house. 
 
 " This young man's father emigrated to Germany dur- 
 ing the French revolution, with his wife and child. 
 Their poverty obliging them to live in the strictest se- 
 clusion, they lodged in this house. Accident made their 
 retreat known to a countryman and former acquaintance 
 of theirs, the Chevalier de Mercceur, who was living 
 here in affluent circumstances. By repeated acts of ap- 
 parently delicate and disinterested kindness they were, 
 at length, induced to admit him to their intimacy, and 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 119 
 
 even to accept pecuniary assistance from him. In the 
 course of time, however, the Marquis discovered that 
 the object of this perfidious fViend was to seduce the 
 affections of his wife. His temper was jealous and fiery. 
 He upbraided the Chevalier with his dishonourable con- 
 duct, in the marchioness's presence. They fought, and 
 Monsieur de Neuville was run through the body in this 
 very room. It was a dark foggy niglit in November. 
 Excepting the people of the house, there was nobody 
 below butGrone's nephew, Frank, drinking with a car- 
 penter of the neighbourhood. The clashing of swords 
 brought the men up stairs, where they met the Cheva- 
 lier, rushing out of the Marquis's apartment. He es- 
 caped before the cause of the alarm was well known. 
 The Marchioness was lying in a swoon upon the corpse 
 of her husband. The carpenter proposed giving the 
 alarm, but Grone objected. The suspicious character 
 of the neighbourhood, and his own smuggling concerns, 
 (the house being at the time full of contraband goods) 
 made him fearful of attracting the notice of the police. 
 The Marchioness lay so long insensible, that they began 
 to think her dead also. Apprehension of discovery 
 urged them to use despatch, and before the lady came 
 to herself, the body had been safely deposited in the 
 canal, behind the house. 
 
 <'The disappearance of the Marquis was not observed, 
 both on account of the deep retirement in which he 
 lived, and because he was often in the habit of absenting 
 himself for days together. The circumstances of his 
 death being of a nature to reflect upon the widow's re- 
 putation, however innocent she might really be, her 
 consent to its concealment was easily obtained; and, as 
 soon as she was able to move, she departed with her son 
 under pretence of joining her husband at the Prince of 
 Conde's head quarters. The chevalier was never seen 
 here again. Grone and his coadjutors removed all traces 
 of the transaction as well as they could, and bound them- 
 selves by an oath never to reveal it. The carpenter, 
 soon after, fell from a scaflblding and was killed. Frank 
 has constantly taken advantage of his uncle's fears to 
 extort money, for the indulgence of his drunken and 
 dissolute habits. 
 
120 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 ^^Now, then, I have told you enough to clear up all 
 the mysteries which have disturbed your peace, friend 
 Julius. The events by which the Marchioness became 
 Madame Dubois would take long to relate, and are no- 
 thing to the purpose. All I shall say is, that on our arri- 
 val to-night we alighted at an hotel, and walked here 
 immediately to fulfil the widow's injunctions. The 
 Marquis and his tutor set out early in the morning for 
 Paris, where I am to join them as soon as my own affairs 
 are settled." 
 
 '^How easily may we be deceived by appearances," 
 said the Student, after some moments' musing ; " I am 
 now amazed at the facility with which my imagination 
 supplied every little link wanting to make the chain of 
 evidence complete." 
 
 '* Herr Wittenhoff!" whispered the soft voice of Su- 
 san, whose head was seen peeping in at the door; "Herr 
 Wittenhoff! the old French gentleman has sent me to 
 say, that it is time to go." 
 
 Wittenhoff started up to obey the summons, but went 
 not until he had heartily embraced the fair and blushing 
 messenger. This scene might have inflicted a pang 
 upon our Student, had he not been saved from the effects 
 of Susan's attractions by the images of mystery and hor- 
 ror which, during the few days of his residence at Meis- 
 ter Grone's, preoccupied a mind naturally addicted to 
 the marvellous. 
 
 The friends descended together; and when Witten- 
 hoff and the strangers had retired, Julius entreated the 
 old people to shake hands with him, and to forgive the 
 suspicions he had so roughly manifested. His associa- 
 tions, however, with their abode, were of too unpleasant 
 a nature to dispose him to remain there; and, the next 
 day, he removed into another lodging. Here he v/as 
 joined by Wittenhoff, and they passed together the time 
 which the latter required to conclude the necessary ar- 
 rangements for his marriage with Susan. As soon as it 
 had taken place, the <* happy pair" set out for Paris, 
 and not long after for the Isle of Bourbon; where, for 
 ought I know to the contrary, they are flourishing ^*at 
 this present writing." 
 
THE 
 
 WHITE GREYHOUND: 
 
 AN ANECDOTE, FROM THE LIFE OF JOHANNES 
 STAHL. 
 
 Vol. II.— L 
 
THE 
 
 WHITE GREYHOUND 
 
 At the age of eighteen, having finished my school edu- 
 cation at the Lyceum of the town where my mother 
 lived, I was, after the midsummer holidays, to go to the 
 University ; in compliance with my father's last v/ish, 
 that I should be brought up to the law, of which pro- 
 fession he himself was a distinguished member. 
 
 It was already the middle of xlugust, and it want- 
 ed but a few weeks to the time when I was to com- 
 mence the jovial career of a student. 1 had heard some 
 former schoolfellows, older than myself, and already 
 domesticated with the Muses at Heidelberg, declaim so 
 rapturously in favour of a college life, that I now thought 
 of little else. 
 
 There were two young men of my own a2;e who were 
 to go to Heidelberg at the same time. With these I 
 spentall my day, lounging in coffee-houses, and practising 
 billiards, fencing, drinking, and all the other liberal 
 arts by which college notoriety is to be acquired in Ger- 
 many. Yet I did not find this road to distinction either 
 as easy, or as pleasant, as 1 had been led to expect. 
 My companions, therefore, left me far behind them in 
 all the abovementioned accomplishments ; and I could 
 not disguise from myself, (unwilling as I was to admit 
 the fact) that I was spiritless enough, never to feel so 
 really happy as when ranging the fields, sitting under a 
 
124 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 tree, or dreaming on the banks of the river, without any 
 other company than my dog Fidelio, — a glossy snow- 
 white greyhound, with a pair of soft, intelligent brown 
 eyes, that would not have disgraced the visage of the 
 most admired of our town beauties. 
 
 My mother was unwearied in her labours to fit me 
 out as became a new-born son of the Muses. She knit 
 stockings, sewed shirts, and hemmed handkerchiefs, 
 from morning till night, and, as I suspected, often from 
 night till morning. In vain I begged her not to work 
 so hard for me ; and repeated what I had heard from my 
 companions, that a genuine, thorough-going German stu- 
 dent was too far elevated above the prejudices of society, 
 to have more garments in his possession than those on 
 his back. 
 
 On a sudden I remarked that her usual quiet cheer- 
 fulness had given place to restless anxiety, and I often 
 discovered the traces of tears on her cheeks ; but she 
 never returned any satisfactory answers to my inquir- 
 ies. Sometimes she would say it was all fancy on my 
 part, and sometimes that she was depressed by the 
 thoughts of parting from me so soon, and for so long a 
 time. This appeared to me natural enough in a poor 
 widow, whose narrow circumstances had obliged her to 
 live in almost total seclusion ever since her husband's 
 death. Moved by her affliction, I staid more at home, 
 kept regular hours, and applied myself diligently to 
 study, endeavouring on every possible occasion to man- 
 ifest my filial love and duty. All I could obtain in 
 return was a sickly, tearful smile, which it broke my 
 heart to see. 
 
 One evening, in a long ramble with my dog Fidelio, 
 I had indulged in my favourite pastime of castle-build- 
 ing, anticipating the time when, loaded with academical 
 honours, I should obtain a situation similar to that 
 which my father had held in my native town ; and not 
 only be enabled to give my dear mother a comfortable 
 home, but also to maintain a wife, who should share 
 with me the pleasing task of repaying, in some part at 
 least, her afiectionate care. These visions had exhilar- 
 ated my spirits, and I returned home whistling and sing- 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 125 
 
 ing — Fidelio friskino; and bounding before me. I open- 
 ed tbe door of our little sitting-room, and every stone 
 of my castle was demolished by seeing my mother with 
 her handkerchief to her eyes, in an attitude of the deep- 
 est dejection, which my entrance did not seem to dis- 
 turb. I flew to her side, embraced, and conjured lierto 
 tell me what had happened. She was at first too much 
 agitated to speak ; but at length I gathered from her the 
 fcPswing particulars. — 
 
 By great economy my father had been able to lay by 
 twenty thousand thalers for the object of securing a com- 
 fortable existence to my mother, should she survive him, 
 and of giving me a college education. About three years 
 before this time, and one before his death, my father's 
 health had declined so rapidly that he deemed it advisable 
 to make some pecuniary arrangements for our benefit. In 
 this view he called in his little capital, which was dis- 
 persed in loans, mostly without security. It occurred 
 to him that the money might be placed securely as well 
 as advantageously with an old friend of his, who was 
 one of the first bankers in Dresden. My father's request 
 was acceded to, and his mind relieved from all anxiety 
 on our account ; for, confiding in the honesty and credit 
 of his friend Damberg, he believed our independence 
 insured. The four first quarterly pa5^ments of interest 
 had been regularly made, when my father died. Short- 
 ly after this event my mother heard of Dam berg's fail- 
 ure. He wrote to her himself, and described his own 
 situation in the most moving terms, lamenting the loss 
 that his friend's family must incur through his mis- 
 fortunes, but promising to make it good if ever his af- 
 fairs should take a more prosperous turn. 
 
 My mother now found herself in a deplorable situa- 
 tion. All she had to depend upon was gone, except the 
 house we lived in, and a little bit of land, the income aris- 
 ing from which scarcely sufficed for our subsistence. Yet 
 she would not relinquish the hope of being able to ful- 
 fil my father's dying wish, that I should go to the Uni- 
 versity. She applied to the minister. Count Von A — , 
 to whom my father was indebted for the situation he 
 had held, and who had always expressed a friendly 
 
 VOL. II. L 2 
 
126 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 interest for him. He now promised his assistance, and 
 gave my molher hopes that something might be recov- 
 ered out of the wreck of Dam berg's propert3\ She 
 clung the more lenaciously to this ho]>e, as she heard 
 from various quarters that Damberg's affairs were set- 
 tled, and that he had recommenced business on a more 
 extensive scale than before the crash. 
 
 After waiting anxiously for several months, and hear- 
 ing nothing more, she again wrote both to Damber^ix)id 
 the minister. 
 
 **I have received answers to both my applications 
 this afternoon," said my mother. " Damberg repeats 
 his former professions of sorrow for the situation into 
 which his unfortunate bankruptcy has plunged me, but 
 denies that he lias saved any part of his property, and 
 laments Ins utter inability to assist his old friend's fam- 
 ily, being himself entirely dependent on his children, on 
 whom tlieir mother's estates had devolved. The min- 
 ister's letter is not more consolatory. He has caused 
 our claims to be registered, but Damberg's debts so far 
 exceed the funds ^iven up to the creditors, that after 
 the mortgages which his children had on the estate were 
 paid, there was nothing left l^or the other claimants." 
 
 My mother ceased, and her tears flowed afresh, and 
 so deej) was my first feeling of disappointment, that I 
 wept with her. She, however, no sooner saw my 
 tears, than she stove to suppress her own, and to comfort 
 me. 
 
 *« Don't despair, my dear child," said she, ^^your 
 father's wish and yours shall still be fulfilled. I have 
 been used to constant occupation, and know many in- 
 genious works, by which 1 may add to our income. 
 You don't know how much an industrious woman may 
 earn, when so strong a motive as her child's welfare 
 urges her to evertion. 1 have already realized enough 
 to set you off the first year." 
 
 Those words redoubled my emotion. 1 threw my 
 arms round my mother's neck. ^' Oh, my dearest mo- 
 ther!" I exclaimed. <'How have you slaved and suf- 
 fered for my sake! how shall I ever repay your love ?" 
 
 She dried her tears, and took my hand in hers. 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 127 
 
 <^ What I have done, Johannes, I have done cheerfully 
 and willingly. Your dutiful love, my son, will reward 
 me tenfold. '^ 
 
 A sudden resolution started up in my mind. ^< No, 
 mother," I replied. *' God forbid that at eighteen I 
 should continue to live by the sweat of your brow — I'll 
 abandon learning, and from henceforward the labour of 
 my hands shall maintain us both. I know the bailiflf 
 has been obliged to dismiss his clerk; he will, I am sure, 
 take me into the office. This very evening I'll go and 
 ask him." 
 
 Of course my mother resisted, and a contest ensued, 
 in which neither of us would yield to the other. It 
 ended, however, in her consenting to my going to Dres- 
 den, and trying what could be obtained by personal ap- 
 plication. I was too ignorant of the world to suppose 
 it possible that truth could fail of obtaining justice. I 
 proposed to exert all my powers of eloquence to arouse 
 the conscience of the banker ; by reminding him of the 
 friendship which had subsisted, for so many years, be- 
 tween him and my father, recalling the promises he had 
 made to my mother, and representing the disgrace he 
 must incur by disregarding them. Should these re- 
 monstrances prove unavailing, I resolved to apply to the 
 minister, Count Von A — , whose character stood high 
 for integrity ; and who, I made no doubt, would conduct 
 me himself, if needful, to the foot of the throne. 
 
 Buoyed by these expectations, I proposed to set out 
 the next day on my pilgrimage. The separation from 
 my mother, the first time in my life, occasioned me 
 great pain ; but the vivid colours in which my imagin- 
 ation depicted the object and result of my journey, al- 
 most overpowered it. The idea of unmasking a villain, 
 and of compelling ministers and monarchs to listen to 
 my mother's wrongs and to redress them, drew forth 
 all the latent vanity, and self-importance of an only son. 
 
 I travelled on foot, my student's havresac of green 
 on my shoulders, and a stout hazel stick in my hand. 
 Fidelio, my faithful companion, frisked and frolicked 
 by my side; and testified his joy by a thousand wild 
 freaks. My mother had wished me to leave him at 
 
128 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 home, fearing he might prove troublesome on the 
 journey, and perhaps be lost. But I could not bring 
 myself to ])art from my faithful gi'eyhound, who had 
 been constantly my companion from his puppyhood, 
 and so distinguished for his amiable qualities, that by 
 an exception made in his favour, I was permitted to 
 take him into the school-room, where his decorous be- 
 haviour might have been imitated with advantage by 
 most of the scholars. 
 
 It was on a lovely morning in August, that 1 left my 
 home. The first day passed without my meeting with 
 any adventure, and so did the second, except that Fi- 
 delio sufiered himself to be betrayed into a momentary 
 indulgence of the only vicious propensity he had ever 
 manifested: he chased a hen, and killed her. Some 
 men working in the farm-yard attacked us both with 
 their pitchforks, and would have taken "blood for 
 blood, '^ if my pocket had not supplied the means of 
 paying much more than the damage. Little thinking 
 what greater dangers and vexations poor Fidelio was 
 destined to bring upon me, I pursued my way, rehears- 
 ing the different harangues with which I proposed 
 first, — to confound the banker — then, to astonish the 
 minister — and perhaps even the king himself: my sense 
 of importance augmenting with each repetition. The 
 third day, towards evening, 1 passed through a village, 
 whose cheerful friendly aspect attracted my attention. 
 The setting sun gilded the church spire, and the vine- 
 covered dwelling of the pastor. I had studied La Fon- 
 taine's novels too diligently to contemplate such a scene 
 with indifference. Resting on my staff, I fell into one 
 of those day-dreams to which I am still prone. The 
 prominent figures in this imaginary scene were pastors' 
 daughters, simple, pious, and beautiful. I was dis- 
 turbed by the voices and merriment of children ; and I 
 could not resist peeping through a gap in the hedge 
 which enclosed this paradise of love and charity. 
 
 Truly, my imagination had never created a vision 
 lovelier than the reality which offered itself to my eyes. 
 A group of little children were gathered round a table 
 in an arbour, and a girl of fourteen, or at most fifteen, 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 129 
 
 was busily employed in distributing slices of bread and 
 butter, witb a glass of milk, to each of them. Such 
 was the playful grace of her manner and the symmetry 
 of her form, that in comparison with her, Werter's 
 Charlotte must have been an Esquimaux. I stood rapt 
 in admiration and delight. Bankers, ministers, and 
 kings — even the sorrows of my mother were forgotten ; 
 and the world seemed to contain nothing worth living 
 for, but the fascinating object before me. She looked 
 up. I perceived that she s?\v me ; and fearing that she 
 might be alarmed or annoyed by the observation of a 
 stranger, I wished myself away, but found I was inca- 
 pable of moving. 
 
 My fears, however, proved groundless, for looking 
 at me tranquilly, as if to discover what might be my 
 motive for standing there, she came towards me with a 
 firm step. 
 
 <* We are at our evening repast," said she, in accents 
 so sweet that I can never forget them. *' May I offer 
 you any refreshment?'^ 
 
 I felt myself humiliated by her words, in spite of the 
 melodious tone in which they were uttered, and coloured 
 deeply. 1 believed that if my looks had expressed any 
 thing, it must have been the tenderness and admiration 
 with which my heart was overflowing ; whereas sh-e 
 read nothing in them but a base craving for bread and 
 butter. I could not find a word to reply. My silence 
 puzzled her, and her eyes wandered over my person, 
 as if seeking an explanation from the fashion and texture 
 of my clothes. She then looked confused, apparently 
 from having discovered her error. It was clear that 
 she had mistaken me for some hungry travelling arti- 
 san, whose eyes had been fascinated by the well-fur- 
 nished table in the summer house. But my dress 
 (thanks to my mother's care) removed that impression. 
 She soon resumed her easy manner, and lifting the 
 latch of the garden-gate, she asked me to come in. 
 <'This is our mother's birth-day," said she, **and I am 
 sure my parents will be glad if you will partake of our 
 Jittle entertainment." 
 
 Who could resist such an invitation? What boy of 
 
130 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 eighteen but would Iir.ve gone out of liis way, nay out 
 of his wits on such an occasion? I accompanied her 
 to the summer-house. Fitlelio followed us, sniffing and 
 wagging his tail ; and with good reason, for the table 
 was luxuriously set out with delicate white bread, fresh 
 butter, milk, cold ham, fruit, and every thing, in short, 
 that couh.1 gladden the heart of dog as well as of man. 
 She told me to help myself, while she took care of Fi- 
 delio ; and in a few minutes we were all on the best 
 terms imaginable, especially Fidelio, who alternately 
 reposed his white taper nose upon our hostess's knee, 
 or fed out of her hand. I was envious of the privileges 
 granted to a quadruped, and called him away, before 
 his hunger was satisfied ; but I had soon cause to rue 
 my selfishness. 
 
 When the children had supped, they all ran out into 
 the garden, leaving me tete-a-tete with my divinity. 
 She told me that her name was Annette, that the child- 
 ren were her brothers and sisters, and that her parents, 
 who had gone to visit the forest-master's mother, would 
 soon come in. In return, I told her all my family 
 concerns, with the object of my journey. All the en- 
 thusiasm of my nature broke forth, and I dilated on my 
 mother's love for me, her sacrifices and privations, till 
 tears flowed in torrents down the cheeks of both speaker 
 and auditor. Our hands came in contact, and it is hard 
 to say how long they might have continued locked in 
 one another, had not Annette started up from her seat, 
 w^ith an exclamation of terror. I was alarmed, and my 
 eyes followed in the direction of hers, to the furthest 
 corner of the summer house, where a cut-glass bowl, 
 full of cream, stood on a little claw table, and there 
 was Fidelio, with his paws resting on the edge, his 
 ears laid back, and his tail vvagging, while he stretched 
 out his nose towards the enticing beverage. 
 
 '<Good heavens!" exclaimed the aff'righted girl, 
 *< if he should throw down the bowl!" ^* Fidelio! 
 come down, sir!" but I spoke too late. In his effort to 
 reach ihe cream, the table was upset, and the glass 
 shivered on the pebbled floor. Annette sprung up 
 pale as ashes. 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 131 
 
 <^ Unfortunate girl that I am!" she exclaimed, ^^ my 
 father! my poor mother!" 
 
 I flew at the dog, which crouched trembling at my 
 feet, and seemed to imjolore mercy — but I felt none. I 
 seized him savagely by the neck, threw him against the 
 wall, and ran for my stick to chastise him further. ^' Oh ! 
 don't hurt the poor animal," cried she, entreatingly. 
 <^ It was not his fault — it was mine, not to have thought 
 of the probability of such an accident, and to have put 
 the bowl out of the way." 
 
 But 1 was deaf to her entreaties, till she clung to m)?" 
 arms and cried, " Pray, pray, don't hurt the poor dog! 
 For my sake don't hurt him!" This last appeal was irre- 
 sistible — I dropped the stick, and contented myself with 
 kicking Fidelio out of the summer-house. Annette's 
 agitation, however, did not subside. On the contrary, 
 every moment that passed seemed to augment it. She 
 looked first at me, and then towards the garden-gate. 
 1 thought I divined the cause of her anxiety. I ques- 
 tioned her, and found that I was not mistaken. *^ That 
 glass," said she, '^ was the birth-day present which my 
 father designed for my mother. He sent for it to Dres- 
 den, and desired me to fill it with cream, intending to 
 surprise her with it on their return from walking. And 
 now! Oh dear, oh dear! My father is ver}^ kind-heart- 
 ed, but a little hasty and passionate. Dear Herr Stahl, 
 do me a favour ; leave me directly. I should have been 
 very glad could you have staid with us to-night. I 
 meant to have asked my parents to propose it to you, 
 I wished you to tell my mother all you have been tel- 
 ling me concerning yours. For she, too, has worked 
 hard, and sacrificed herself for her child. What a pity 
 it is that you must go!" 
 
 These words were uttered so feelingly that they sank 
 into my heart, <^ And mus-f 1 then go?" I exclaimed. 
 
 *' Oh yes, you must indeed. The first moment of my 
 father's anger is terrible. He would ill-treat your dog. 
 He might kill him — and then — he might say something 
 disagreeable to you." 
 
 <* And shall I leave you to meet his displeasure alone?'^ 
 cried I, terrified at the probable consequences. 
 
132 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 ^< Oh, I have nothing to fear, because he loves me. 
 But do, pray, go ; only think how painful it would be 
 to my mother to have a stranger witness her husband's 
 infirmity. Indeed, he has no power to command him- 
 self. He cannot help it." 
 
 It was impossible for me to hesitate any longer, and I 
 departed after vowing never to forget her. An oppressive 
 feeling, however, came over me, when I had closed the 
 garden-gate, and found myself once more on the high- 
 road. I longed to know the end of this unfortunate ad- 
 venture and to ascertain that the poor girl was not sub- 
 jected through my fault, to any violence from her harsh 
 falher. I accordingly concealed myself behind the 
 thickest part of the hedge, and soon after, heard a quick 
 heavy tread approaching the summer-house. I gently 
 separated the twigs, and saw a large coarse-featured man 
 enter. For some time I heard him laugh and speak 
 quietly, though I could not well distinguish what he said, 
 as the children were making a noise at the same time. 
 I concluded that the storm had blown over, and was 
 about to proceed on my way, when an exclamation, or 
 to express myself more correctly, an execration, some- 
 what unbecoming a churchman, burst forth in a tone of 
 thunder, '^ What is this ? Who has done this ?" My 
 blood rushed to my heart at the sound. 
 
 •'Dear father?" said the low, trembling voice of An- 
 nette. 
 
 •' I szy — who has done this ?" he repeated almost in 
 a scream, his voice and his choler rising in equal measure. 
 
 " Forgive me, papa," said the girl hesitatingly, and at 
 the same moment I heard the report of two slaps, fol- 
 lowed by audible sobs. My first impulse was to grasp 
 my stick tighter, and my second to run towards the 
 o-ate. When there, however, I checked myself, and stop- 
 ped, irresolute how to proceed. A rash intrusion might 
 nave occasioned a new paroxysm of rage in the furious 
 man ; and perhaps subjected her whom I wished to as- 
 sist, to fresh brutality. Yet honour would not suffer 
 me to leave the poor victim unsupported. I raised the 
 latch, but found that the bolt was drawn inside, and at 
 the same time I saw Annette go into the house, holding 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 133 
 
 her handkerchief to her face, while the pastor came out 
 of the summer-house, and walked to and fro with hasty 
 strides upon the gravel-walk before it, as if to cool him- 
 self. I darted a look of indignation at the savage, which 
 he could not see, and walked slowly home. 
 
 I was still nearly two leagues from the place where 
 I had proposed to pass the night — but I could not pre- 
 vail on myself to continue my journey. A secret mon- 
 itor whispered me not to part thus from Annette. 1 
 thought it my duty to implore her pardon, and, if 
 possible, to console her for the cruel indignity she had 
 suffered for my sake. I sought the wretched hovel that 
 professed to give entertainment to travellers, and as soon 
 as it was quite dark, I returned to the pastor's abode, 
 in hopes of getting a moment's conversation with his 
 daughter, leaving Fidelio behind, lest he should bark and 
 betray me. 
 
 I hovered about the house till the church clock struck 
 ten, when the lights disappeared from behind the Vene- 
 tian blinds of what I supposed to be the sitting-room ; 
 and glimmered from other w^indows in various parts of 
 the house — as if the inhabitants had retired to their re- 
 spective sleeping-rooms. I had before remarked a little 
 wooden balcony in the upper story, adorned with a 
 luxuriant vine, and several flower-pots; all arranged with 
 so much taste, as led me to conclude that it could be- 
 long only to Annette. I watched anxiousl}^ for the ap- 
 pearance of a light there, also. It came at last ; and a 
 shadow wiiich every now and then darkened the win- 
 dow, proved my conjectures right. 
 
 It was long before the other lights were extinguished ; 
 but as soon as they were, I crept along close under the 
 window, and coughed, — at first very low, then louder. 
 I was heard, for tiie shadow I had observed darker and 
 more distinct ; the w^indow opened, and a woman's head 
 appeared. 
 
 '^ Annette!" said I, in a low, but tender tone. I was 
 answered — not by Annette, but by the loud and joyous 
 bark of Fidelio, close to my ear. The window closed 
 abruptly, and both shadow and light vanished. I curs- 
 ed the beast in a rage, while I ran off terrified lest the 
 Vol. IL~M 
 
134 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 pastor, alarmed by the noise, should come out and dis- 
 cover me skulking about his premises. The inn was 
 but a few hundred yards distant, and I was soon safely 
 housed. I had not forgiven Fidelio, who unused to 
 such a rough requital of his affectionate salutations, be- 
 gan to whine and fawn upon me, as if to ask the mean- 
 ing of the change. In spite of my vexation I could not 
 remain insensible to his contrition and caresses, but 
 imitating the magnanimity of Sir Isaac Newton towards 
 his little dog Diamond, I only reproached him gently 
 for having made me repent that I had not followed my 
 mother's advice to leave him at home. 
 
 By sunrise next morning I was ready to proceed. 
 While swallowing a basin of milk and a crust, the land- 
 lord informed me that the pastor was Annette's step- 
 father ; the extreme poverty of her mother having led 
 to this second marriage — adding, that 'Uiis reverence'' 
 was a very worthy man, and a *' vigorous labourer in 
 the Lord's vineyard." 
 
 As I wended my way through woods, fields, and vil- 
 lages, refreshed by the cool morningbreeze, and cheered 
 by the sun, what a different aspect did the world seem 
 to wear, from what it had ever done before! And yet 
 yesterday the sun had shone as brightly — the weather- 
 cocks had pointed the same way, and the scenery, 
 though perhaps more pleasing, had been of the same 
 character. But, since then, I had fallen — *^ how many 
 fathom deep ?" — in love ! 
 
 I should never come to the end of my story, if I were to 
 relate all the extravagant and absurd resolutions and pro- 
 jects which passed through my brain on the road to Dres- 
 den. They were worthy in every respect of a student of 
 eighteen, and I was inexpressibly happy in my folly. 
 The object of my journey was not, however, forgotten 
 — on the contrary, it was closely interwoven with the 
 plot of my romance. 
 
 I forgave Fidelio his misdemeanours — since, but for 
 him, my adventure in the pastor's summer-house might 
 have been nothing more than a common-place meeting, 
 which both Annette and I should have forgotten before 
 the end of a week. Her crimson cheek and tearful 
 
OF GERMAN LirE. 135 
 
 eyes were now continually before me, rousing all the 
 quixotism of my nature ; and for her sake I was ready 
 to brave difficulty and danger in every imaginable form. 
 The nearer I approached the end of my journey, the 
 deeper I plunged in love, and the higher I soared in 
 courage and enterprise. 
 
 I reached the city-gate just as the guard was turning 
 out, and I was almost deafened by the confused uproar 
 of drums, carriages, and wagons, people screaming, 
 and horses prancing, in the midst of a drove of cattle. 
 All my heroism dwindled away to nothing, when I 
 found myself elbowed and pushed on every side by the 
 crowd, who were running in all directions out of the 
 way of the oxen. Even Fidelio's gaiety was quenched, 
 and he slunk along close to my heels. 
 
 As soon as I got clear of this confusion, my first 
 care was to look about for an inn of respectable appear- 
 ance; and calling to mind all the various tavern exploits of 
 travelling students, which I had heard narrated by my 
 companions, as well as the importance and privileges 
 granted by courtesy to the academical habit, I recovered 
 my spirits. 
 
 As it was too late in the day to call upon Damberg, 
 I made some inquiries respecting him of the landlord. 
 
 *^ Herr Damberg!" replied he, with an air of pro- 
 found veneration, " a most substantial firm — the firm 
 of his sons Carl and Frederick Damberg! They are 
 the king's bankers ! A year or two ago, the house 
 found itself in a little difficulty, but nothing of conse- 
 quence — nothing but what might happen to any man. 
 It happened to myself not long since ; but it blew over, 
 and the bank is restored to its former respectability." 
 
 I asked how Damberg's affairs came to be so soon 
 arranged after so extensive a failure. 
 
 '^Through rich and powerful relations," said he, 
 '^powerful friends; all persons of great influence and 
 credit! And old Damberg himself- — a clever, long- 
 headed man — he is said to be a great favourite at court, 
 and that the king's private affairs all pass through his 
 hands." 
 
 I asked him how his character stood for integrity. 
 "Irreproachable, sir," he replied. << A man of the 
 
136 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 highest respectability — otherwise how should he pos- 
 sess the king's confidence?" 
 
 This was enough to revive all the most sanguine 
 hopes of success with which I had set out. Damberg 
 still had property — was an honourable man — and my 
 father's friend. How, then, could I doubt his willing- 
 ness to satisfy a claim like ours! 
 
 Attired in my Heidelberg costume — my trusty hazel 
 stick in my hand — my cap saucily perched on one side, 
 and imitating, as nearly as a youth of my pacific and 
 poetical temperament could, the swaggering gait of my 
 student friends — I set out next morning at what my 
 landlord told me was the proper hour, to visit the great 
 banker. I allowed Fidelioto follow me, because I had 
 no inclination to pay for another batch of broken panes, 
 by shutting him up, as I had done the night before. 
 On the way, I repealed, for the last time, the discourse 
 I had prepared for this occasion. I meant to begin 
 piano — piano — in a tone of mild entreaty, and if that 
 failed, to go on crescendo through all the degrees of 
 forte diUdi fortissimo admonition, importunity, and me- 
 nace. After walking for some time, the laquais de 
 place, who showed me the way, stopped at a large 
 palace-looking edifice. As I ascended the broad flight 
 of steps, and saw the door opened to my conductor's 
 ring, by a servant in rich liver}'-, my courage suddenly 
 fell below zero. The lackey's demand, if Herr Dam- 
 berg was at home, was answered in the affirmative, and 
 I was ushered into a large and elegantly furnished apart- 
 ment. 
 
 My breathing was oppressed. I unbuttoned m.y 
 coat, and wiped the perspiration off my brows. I 
 dared not advance upon the rich carpet, lest I should 
 injure its fair texture with my brass-heeled dusty boots. 
 The splendid display seemed also to impose on Fidelio, 
 who, contrary to his usual habits, kept close to my 
 side, and only cast side-long looks at the chairs and so- 
 fas, all glorious with crimson satin, and gold, which I 
 could scarcely believe were intended for use. 
 
 In a few minutes another door opened, and Herr 
 Damberg entered. He was a well-formed, well-dressed 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 137 
 
 little man, with sharp features, and a countenance more 
 expressive of cleverness than feeling. I could hear the 
 throbbing of my heart as he approached me. His man- 
 ner was smooth and aflfable, while he seemed to scan 
 me from head to foot. 
 
 "To what am I indebted for this honour?'^ said he. 
 
 <« My name is Johannes Stahl,'^ I replied, *Uhe son 
 of your friend, the late Counsellor Stahl." 
 
 He turned pale, but only for a moment. His coun- 
 tenance immediately assumed an expression of sorrow. 
 
 " Your father was indeed my friend, and a most ex- 
 cellent high-minded man. How much greater, then, 
 must be my regret for the cruel circumstances that 
 compel me to remain in debt to his family. My dear 
 young friend, your countenance assures me that you 
 are worthy of having been blessed with such a father. 
 Could you but look into my heart! Could you but con- 
 ceive the anguish I have suffered through the conscious- 
 ness of being the innocent cause of so much ruin — " 
 
 " My father's friend could not feel otherwise, '^ said 
 I, moved by his words, and the tone in which they 
 were uttered. ''How will my poor mother rejoice, 
 and how shall 1 speak my gratitude for thus removing 
 my apprehensions respecting the payment of your debt 
 to us!'' 
 
 "Alas! what shall I say! What words can express 
 the pain I feel at being under the necessity of disap- 
 pointing your hopes! — Paym.ent is utterly impossible." 
 
 "Impossible!" I repeated, hastily and amazed. 
 
 ''It is indeed impossible!" said he. "Heaven only 
 knows how my heart bleeds to say it. I am compelled 
 to remain in your excellent mother's debt, for I have 
 not the means of paying her." 
 
 I began to see through the hypocrite. My blood 
 boiled, but I contained myself. " It is dijSicult to sup- 
 pose a man in your affluent circumstances unable to 
 discharge so inconsiderable a debt. You must be jest- 
 ing, sir." 
 
 " I wish to Heaven it were so — but these are not 
 jesting matters. Believe me — " 
 
 "Believe you! No." I interrupted warmly. "You 
 
 VOL. II. M 2 
 
138 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 inhabit a palace fit for the king himself. You are 
 clothed in purple, and fare sumptuously every day — 
 whilst you sufi'er the widow of your friend to starve, 
 after having robbed her of the provision intrusted to 
 your care! And yet, you ask me to believe your 
 word!" My indignation was no longer controllable. 
 My utterance was loud and rapid. Damberg listened 
 with apparent coldness ; but he was paler than before. 
 
 " This warmth is most becoming in a son, my dear 
 friend," said he with a sneer. <' But suffer it not to 
 confound your naturally good understanding. It is a 
 pity your father did not bring you up to business. The 
 fact is notorious to every soul in Dresden that I surren- 
 dered my property without reserve to my creditors; and 
 that I am to all intents and purposes a beggar, existing 
 on the bounty of my children, to whom this house and 
 all that you see belongs." 
 
 «' Vile, despicable wretch!" cried I, not suffering him 
 to proceed further. I could scarcely speak for rage. 
 *«I see through your hypocrisy, and will expose it to 
 all the world." 
 
 <* Just as you please, Herr Stahl," said he, opening 
 the door, and bowing me out, with the same cold sneer 
 upon his lips as before. '' I should be sorry to detain 
 you longer." 
 
 I was provoked to frenzy. "Swindler! Villain!" 
 I exclaimed, seizing the little man by the collar of his 
 coat, and shaking him with all my might, while Fide- 
 lio, as if animated with similar feelings of indignation, 
 flew at his legs. The Banker's screams brought the 
 servants to his assistance, and before I had time to res- 
 cue him from the dog — for I had no wish to do him 
 bodily harm — I was taken and pinioned by four or five 
 strong fellows in livery. Damberg retired several paces 
 towards the middle of the room, where he stood tremb- 
 ling and pale with rage and fright. <' Take him to the 
 police," he said to the servants, darting a revengeful 
 and malignant scowl at me. <^I'll follow as soon as 
 the carriage can be got ready." 
 
 They were dragging me away in obedience to his 
 commands, when he called to them to stop. 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 139 
 
 ^^ I have changed my mind," said he, *'let him go; 
 force should not be opposed to force. The law shall 
 do its own work. You are all witnesses of the assault.^' 
 This said, he disappeared through the same door by 
 which he had entered; and I took my departure, some- 
 what ashamed of my prowess, and not a little anxious as 
 to its consequences. The most prudent measure that sug- 
 gested itself to my mind, was to throw myself without 
 
 delay, upon the protection of the Minister Von T . 
 
 I inquired his residence of the first person I met on 
 going out of Damberg's house, and ran thither with all 
 possible speed. But what was my disappointment at 
 finding that he was just gone to court, and was not to be 
 seen till the next morning! Vexed and disheartened I 
 returned to my inn, and had no sooner sat down to din- 
 ner (for I had not yet attained the age when troubles 
 diminish the appetite) than I was arrested and carried 
 before the Director of Police, an elderly man of austere 
 and inflexible countenance. As I was led up to him he 
 asked, ^' What is this boy?" and appeared surprised by the 
 officer's reply. My accuser's complaint had, doubtless, 
 prepared him to see a ferocious fire-eater; whereas I was 
 a youth of gentle aspect, with blue eyes and fair com- 
 plexion. Though tall, I was slight of form, and hitherto 
 all my efforts to induce the growth of whiskers had 
 proved fruitless, so that 1 was destitute of the most in- 
 dispensable attribute of a cut-throat. 
 
 The Director examined and cross-examined me as to 
 my business in Dresden, and then with respect to what 
 had occurred in Damberg's house. I answered openly 
 to all his interrogatories, and flattered myself that he 
 looked at me com.passionately. 
 
 "I am sorry for you, young man!" said he, after some 
 moments' consideration; "the law in such cases is very 
 strict, and your impetuosity has betrayed you into a 
 breach of it, that must be attended with unpleasant con- 
 sequences." 
 
 <<Does the law, then, forbid the injured to seek re- 
 dress? — to resist robbery and oppression ?" I demanded 
 warmly. 
 
 << Itforbids violence of all kinds," replied the Direc- 
 
140 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 tor. It protects the citizen from the passions of such 
 as would take the law into their own hands." 
 
 <^ I did not hurt him,'^ said I, <^ I only wished to 
 frighten him into honesty." 
 
 *^ But Herr Damberg's legs bear witness to your hav- 
 ing set your dog upon him." 
 
 '' Pardon me, Herr Director, I must deny that part 
 of the assertion. My dog flew at him of its own accord, 
 and I even endeavoured to prevent the mischief, much 
 as the swindler deserved what he met with, and more 
 too." 
 
 ^< Your intentions are nothing to the purpose, since 
 you cannot prove them. You have offended the laws in 
 the person of one of our most influential citizens. He 
 chooses to prosecute you for the offence, and you must 
 stand 3^our trial; till then you must go to prison." 
 
 <' Prison!" I repeated, in a tone of grief and terror^ 
 for I thought instantly of my poor mother, and of what 
 she would feel at hearing that her son was in gaol. Tears 
 started to my eyes, though I did not suffer them to gush 
 forth. 
 
 ^<0h! why send me to prison, sir? It will break my 
 mother's heart." 
 
 «' I cannot help it," was the brief answer. 
 
 '< But if I can procure bail ?" said I. 
 
 " If your own account of yourself is true, you are a 
 stranger here; who then would bail you ?" 
 
 <^The minister Count Von " I replied, boldy. 
 
 The Director's deep-set penetrating eyes seemed to 
 look me through and through. Aftera moment's thought 
 he pronounced a short dry ^^No:" and rising from his 
 seat, gave me in charge to the officers in waiting. I 
 would have remonstrated further, but they hurried me 
 away." 
 
 It is impossible for me to describe the conflict of pas- 
 sions by which I was assailed, when the door of my dis- 
 mal cell was closed upon me. Rage, fear, hatred, love, 
 and grief distracted me by turns. My first sober thought 
 was to write to the Minister to claim his interference, 
 on behalf of his old friend's son. But how v/as I to get 
 materials for writing ? and who would deliver my letter ? 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 141 
 
 Despair again seized me, and I stamped about my dun- 
 geon, healing my head with my clenched fists, and 
 cursing all tlie dogs,, bankers, and magistrates in the 
 kingdom. Enfeebled and exhausted by agitation, I 
 stumbled over a wooden bench. The counter irritation 
 produced by a broken shin, proved salutary. By de- 
 grees my fury abated, giving way to a variety of sad 
 reflections. I thought of the forlorn condition of my 
 poor mother, and of the patient and ill-used Annette. 
 Softened by these images, a flood of tears came to my 
 relief, and I sobbed aloud. Something Vv^arm rubbed 
 against my legs. I started, and looked down, when the 
 dim light just enabled me to distinguish the showy coat 
 of Fidelio, who lay crouching under the bench on which 
 I sat. He must have followed me from the inn to the 
 police office, and from thence unobserved b)^ the gaoler 
 into the prison. The poor beast licked my hand so af- 
 fectionately, looking up in my face, and whining with 
 such an appearance of sympathy, that I could not find 
 it in my heart to upbraid him with having brought me 
 into such a ])erilous situation, by officious interference 
 in matters which did not concern him. 
 
 I passed two weary, never ending days, and as many 
 miserable, restless nights. On the third morning I was 
 again taken before the director of police. He sat writ- 
 ing at his desk, when I entered, and only raised his 
 eyelids for an instant, without discontinuing his occu- 
 pation. While waiting his pleasure, I employed the 
 time in examining his countenance, endeavouring to read 
 my destiny upon it. But the expression was as cold, 
 determined, and inscrutable as at our first interview. 
 He finished what he had been waiting, gave the letter 
 to a person who seemed to be waiting for it, and then 
 beckoned to me to approach. 
 
 "You are free," he said, without altering a muscle. 
 
 " Thank heaven!" I exclaimed. 
 
 "And the minister, Count Von A -" subjoined 
 
 the magistrate, — "I made known your situation to his 
 Excellency, and he oiders you to be released on his an- 
 swering for your appearance when called for. Go and 
 thank him." 
 
142 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 I did not wait a second command, but flew to the 
 minister's. He was at home. I gave my name to the 
 porter, desiring him to announce me to his master. 
 But the old man leisurely took off the spectacles through 
 which he was spelling a newspaper, and inspected me 
 from head to foot, before he vouchsafed a reply. 
 
 '^ The servants there in the antechamber will do that," 
 said he, gruffly, after due deliberation ; ^' it is their bus- 
 iness not mine.'' 
 
 Undismayed by his ungracious manner, the lot, I con- 
 cluded, of pedestrian visitors, especially if, as in my case, 
 their outward lustre had been dimmed by a three days' 
 sojourn in a prison, I hurried on to an open door to which 
 he pointed. The servants were all civility when I men- 
 tioned my name, and one of them prepared to conduct me 
 to the Count, when he looked at Fidelio and stopped. I 
 guessed his meaning, and begged him to have the dog shut 
 up till my return. 1 was a good deal agitated on en- 
 tering the room where the count was sitting. Though 
 his hair was silvered and his figure bowed with age, his 
 eye still beamed with the animation of youth. He re- 
 ceived me with a kindness and cordiality which at once 
 relieved my apprehensions. I would have thanked him 
 for having interested himself about my liberation, but 
 he would not suffer me to proceed. 
 
 '^ No thanks — no thanks, Herr Stahl!" he said, good- 
 humouredly ; '^your father and I were schoolfellows 
 and friends. I could not do less than help you out of a 
 predicament which, with less impetuosity on your part, 
 might have been avoided. On first assuming the stu- 
 dent's habit, young men are too apt to imagine, that a 
 reputation for courage is to be attained by giving way 
 to their passions. But, I trust, this experience will suf- 
 fice to convince you of their error." 
 
 Kindly as this was said, I felt the blush of shame 
 arise, and my eyes sunk to the ground. I stammered 
 out an excuse ; and, I believe, I should have retired 
 without venturing to say a w'ord of the affair which 
 had brought me to Dresden, had it not involved my mo- 
 ther's interests as much, or even more, than mine. 
 
 *' Yours is a bad case," said the minister, after I had 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 143 
 
 detailed the circumstances which had brought me into 
 such disastrous contact with Damberg 5 ''I know your 
 adversary well. Conciliatory measures alone could 
 have obtained any concession from him. But your im- 
 prudence has, I fear, shut the door to all accommoda- 
 tion. He might have been induced to make some sac- 
 rifice ; but once openly offended, he is intractable.^^ 
 
 *« But cannot the law compel restitution where the 
 case is so clearly one of such barefaced knavery ?" I 
 demanded with some heat. 
 
 *<You use strong language, my young friend. But, 
 unfortunately for you, the law, if not equity, is on his 
 side. Long before his failure he transferred a great 
 part of his property to his mother. She died about the 
 time of the bankruptcy, leaving her immense wealth to 
 her two grandsons ; who, being minors, the bank is 
 carried on by Damberg in their names. The whole 
 transaction, however questionable in its object, was ex- 
 ecuted in strict conformity to the law.^' 
 
 «' Oh Heavens!'' I exclaimed in disgust, " is this the 
 law w^hich my father condemned me to study ? — This 
 the law by which I am in future to act and judge?" 
 
 Apparently unmindful of my interruption, the Count 
 continued : — '' Damberg said the truth when he told 
 you that he was living at the cost of his children. He 
 has not a Kreutzer which he can legally call his own ; 
 and, far from its being possible for any court of law to 
 compel him to pay you out of his son's property, they 
 might call him to account for any such appropriation of 
 their funds on coming of age." 
 
 " My poor, destitute mother!" was the exclamation 
 which broke from my lips, while tears burst from my 
 eyes in spite of all my efforts to restrain them. '^ I 
 ivillgo to the King!" I cried, starting up in desperation : 
 *' Though justice may be a cold, dead letter, to the ad- 
 ministrators of law, it cannot be so to the father of his 
 people! I will unmask to him the villain who thus de- 
 vours the substance of the widow and the orphan. The 
 King shall " 
 
 How long I might have been suffered to try the good- 
 natured minister's patience wath such raving, I know not, 
 
144 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 had 1 not been silenced by the sudden apparition of Fi- 
 delio at the window, which led by a flight of steps into 
 the garden. Here it was that the greyhound stood peer- 
 ing anxiously through one of the large panes of plate 
 glass. As yet he had not discovered me, for I was at 
 the farthest extremity of the room, watching his mo- 
 lions in terror, too well knowing his summary way of 
 proceeding in suc^i cases, not to expect, every moment, 
 to see him dash through the window. 
 
 << Well! — and what now ?'' asked the minister, won- 
 dering what had so suddenly checked my eloquence, 
 and occasioned the stare of consternation with which I 
 looked towards tlie garden. His eyes followed into the 
 direction of mine, and Fidelio answered the inquiry, 
 by making a spring at the window, which sent the glass 
 flying in all directions ; and the intruder came limping 
 across the room, leaving the tracks of his bleeding paws 
 on the polished inlaid floor. 
 
 I attempted to apologize for the irreverent conduct of 
 my dog, but the inarticulate sounds were drowned by 
 his yells of mingled joy and pain. 
 
 ''It is of no consequence," said the kind old man, 
 pitying my confusion, ''say nothing more about it. 
 You must go to the King to-morrow, at twelve precise- 
 ly ; I'll take care that you shall be admitted to his pre- 
 sence. His I^.Iajesty will be alone : speak freely and 
 openly : he is good-heared, and likes frankness. Let 
 me see you after the audience. Till then, adieu." 
 
 I took my leave at once, confounded and affected by 
 his kindness. 
 
 «'But remember to leave your dog at home," said he, 
 calling after me as I closed the door ; my cheeks glow- 
 ing with shame, 1 departed. I was so thoroughly vexed 
 and provoked with Fidelio, that I was no sooner out of 
 the minister's sight than I kicked him angrily, and 
 swore that this should be the last scrape he led me into. 
 
 On arriving at the inn, my host hesitated to admit 
 within his doors one who had been so lately in the 
 claws of the police : but when I told him that I had 
 been liberated through the interference of the prime 
 minister, and that he had extended his protection to 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 145 
 
 me, out of regard to my late father, the fellow bowed 
 to the ground, overwhelmed me with expressions of 
 condolence and congratulation, and, calling to a waiter 
 to bring down the «<Herr Student's luggage" — viz., 
 my green knapsack — from the garret at first assigned to 
 me, I was shown into the best vacant apartment. 
 
 My first care was to make myself due amends for 
 three days of prison fare. 1 then stretched myself on 
 the sofa to digest my sour-krauts, smoke my pipe, and 
 meditate upon the eventful audience of the morrow. 
 At one moment the idea of it overwhelmed me with 
 awe and apprehension ; while at the next, I felt eleva- 
 ted to the highest pinnacle of gratified ambition. The 
 dazzling medium through which the great ones of this 
 earth appear to those below them, prevents our seeing 
 that they are formed of the same frail mortal stuif as 
 ourselves. 
 
 Tired, as I was, by the agitation which had not al- 
 lowed me to close my eyes during my imprisonment, 
 I could not sleep. I spent the night in tossing, tumb- 
 ling, and turning from one side to the other. Weary 
 and impatient of the interminable duration of darkness, 
 1 jumped out of bed twenty times to watch, at the open 
 window, the approach of day. The sun rose at last, 
 and 1 called up the people of the house ; 1 had my 
 boots polished, and my clothes brushed. I dressed 
 and undressed again, alwa3^s finding something amiss 
 in my toilet. I wandered into the cafe first, taking up 
 one newspaper and then another, but nothing could fix 
 my attention. My watch seemed to stand still. At 
 length the clock struck eleven. I took a last look at 
 myself in the glass, patted Fidelio, and, shutting the 
 door upon him hastily to prevent his following me, 
 sallied forth to the music of his howl, and the good 
 wishes of my landlord. 
 
 I walked boldly towards the palace. My feelings of 
 self-satisfaction and confidence must have been evident 
 to every one in the glances of exultation which I cast 
 on the people who passed me in the street, when I 
 thought that I — Johannes Stahl — a boy of eighteen — 
 was on the road to an honour which thousands of grey- 
 VoL. II.— N 
 
146 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 headed men might sigh for in vain. I was not merely 
 going, like ordinary courtiers, to kiss the royal hand 
 on bended knee — to obtain a cursory glance — at most, 
 an indifferent common-place word of notice — but I was 
 going for the express purpose of exposing fraud, and 
 of calling upon a monarch to exercise the most sacred 
 of a sovereign's duties — that of protecting the widow 
 and the fatherless. The picture I should present of my 
 mother's wrongs, and of Damberg's treachery, should 
 harrow up his soul, draw tears from his eyes, and in- 
 dignation from his lips. 
 
 My vanity — of which, I confess, I had the full share 
 of an only son — blazed forth in full splendour at these 
 thoughts, and I continued to soliloquize thus : — 
 
 *' The king will surely cast a gracious and approving 
 smile upon the tall and blooming youth, who stands 
 fearlessly before his throne to plead the cause of desti- 
 tute innocence " 
 
 <« Devil take that yelping cur!" screamed a harsh 
 voice behind me. I turned round and beheld Fidelio 
 scampering along the dirty street (there had been a 
 shower a little before), regardless of the white pantaloons 
 of a dandy guardsman, who stumbled into the kennel in 
 endeavouring to avoid the contact. I re-echoed the offi- 
 cer's exclamation with even greater energy : but the pro- 
 voking beast heeded neither of us. His wild demonstra- 
 tions of delight, and the officer's rage, soon collected a 
 crowd about us. Quaking for my clean-brushed gar- 
 ments, I shrunk from the canine caresses which me- 
 naced them. But this cause of anxiety was accompa- 
 nied by another. How was I to get rid of the dog ? — 
 If I gave him in charge of the guard at the palace-gate, 
 how could I be sure that they might not let him go, 
 when he would certainly follow me into the royal pre- 
 sence — perhaps, at the most critical point of my speech, 
 and destroy all the effect which I intended it to pro- 
 duce! My tormentor resisted all my endeavours to 
 drive him back. Blows and kicks only made him 
 crouch closer to my feet — coaxing succeeded still worse, 
 for then he jumped up and licked my face, leaving the 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 147 
 
 marks of his dirty paws upon my breast. In short, 
 there was no resource but to go back to the inn. 
 
 The landlord was standing at the door, and expressed 
 surprise at my speedy return. 
 
 '^ Have you any secure place where this beast can be 
 locked up," said I. 
 
 «' There is an empty stable in the yard," he replied, 
 laughing at my dilemma, and conducting me to it. On 
 the way he told me how Fidelio had again escaped out 
 of my room-window, which, in the perturbation of my 
 spirits, I had neglected to secure, as I had intended, by 
 means of the shutters. I tied him up myself to the 
 manger with a strong rope, locked the door, and put 
 the key in my pocket. "Are you quite certain there 
 is no second key ?" said I : the landlord assured me 
 there was not. 
 
 " That is well — but, for fear of accidents, you had 
 better charge your people to be on the look out. I am 
 ruined for ever if he follows me." The inn-keeper 
 promised to be answerable for the prisoner's safety, and 
 after removing sundry patches of mud from my habili- 
 ments, I set out a second tim^e. It wanted but a few 
 minutes of twelve, and the palace was a full mile from 
 the inn. I ran, and arrived, breathless, just as the 
 clock was striking. 
 
 On presenting myself to the officer on guard, who 
 seemed to expect me, he gave me in charge to another, 
 who conducted me across the lofty vestibule and up a 
 wide marble staircase. I followed him in silence and 
 trepidation through a long suite of apartments, the mag- 
 nificence and stillness of which struck me with awe. 
 We then passed through a long picture-gallery into a 
 spacious saloon, where my conductor stopped, pointed 
 to a half-open door at the farther end, and left me. I 
 stood for some minutes undecided and perplexed, whe- 
 ther to advance or wait where I was. Low rustling 
 sounds issued from the door to which my attention had 
 been directed. I advanced on tip-toe, entered, and 
 found myself in the company of several gentlemen in 
 glittering uniforms : most of them were whispering to 
 
148 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 one another, and all anxiously looking towards a door, 
 which I concluded led into the king's closet. 
 
 At my entrance, all their heads turned towards me, 
 with looks of wonder and curiosity ; but the attention 
 I excited proved only momentary, and they resumed 
 their sotto voce conversations. I continued to stand at 
 the door in the extremest confusion, not daring to put 
 one foot before the other ; at last, when I thought no 
 one observed me, I ventured to an open window to cool 
 my burning cheeks. Here, the barking of dogs in the 
 court-yard brought Fidelio to my thoughts. I imag- 
 ined the possibility of his escaping from the stable. 
 All the doors through which I had passed were open : 
 I imagined him following me, galloping through the 
 apartments, and astounding the assembled courtiers 
 with his cries. The mere idea deprived me of all self- 
 command, and my fancy going on beheld him rushing 
 before me into the king's presence — " It is all over 
 with rne, now!" I exclaimed, the vividness of the pic- 
 ture betraying me into my inveterate habit of solilo- 
 quizing aloud. All eyes immediately turned upon me. 
 The echo of my own voice still rung in my ears, and I 
 was covered with confusion. In this predicament, the 
 doors of the king's closet flew open, and a gentleman, 
 all covered with stars and embroidery, came out, fol- 
 lowed by a man holding a white wand, who called me 
 by my name. I obeyed the summons mechanically, 
 wiping the cold dew from my forehead with feelings 
 far more like those of a culprit led to the gallows, than 
 of the heroic advocate of oppressed innocence. In 
 passing the door by which 1 had entered, I could not 
 help casting a glance into the outward room, when — 
 how shall I find words to express my horror at behold- 
 ing Fidelio, frisking across it, with his usual outrage- 
 ous manifestations of happiness! For a moment, both 
 sight and hearing forsook me. My first impulse was 
 to seize the beast by the neck, and I would have dash- 
 ed him out of the window; had not the attendant taken 
 me impatiently by the arm, and pushed me into the 
 closet, Fidelio scampering before us. 
 
 J was close to the King, but only a tali dark form 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 149 
 
 seemed to float before my eyes. I saw nothing distinct- 
 ly but my unlucky dog, with his snowy coat and bright 
 good-natured eyes, barking his pleasure at having found 
 me. Not content with this, he extended his caresses 
 to the King, who repulsed him gently with his hand. 
 But this forbearance only deprived me of mine. Enra- 
 ged at the dog's presumption, I forgot every other con- 
 sideration, and endeavoured to drive him out of the 
 room. 
 
 ««TelI me your business, young man," said a mild 
 voice. But in my eagerness to lay hold of the culprit, 
 I made no reply. 
 
 «< Never mind the dog," repeated the same voice, 
 which I was now sensible was the King's, ''and tell 
 your business quickly." 
 
 While he spoke, the animal, between fright and play- 
 fulness, had jumped on a table, I made towards him ; 
 but, nimbler than I, he bounded, first over one chair,' 
 and then over another, till he reached the royal couch, 
 where he nestled among the cushions. This last act of 
 insolence and disrespect, on the part of a poor student's 
 dog, almost bereaved me of the little sense I had left. 
 I snatched the beast up in my arms, and bore him, strug- 
 gling for liberty, to the door, where I flung him into 
 the next room, shutting the door upon hirn with violence 
 — regardless all the while of the imperious tone in 
 which the King desired me to *' let the dog alone." 
 
 After this exploit, I returned to the King, trying to 
 collect myself sufficiently to state my case ; but his 
 INIajesty had rang the bell, and summoned two chamber- 
 hussars, who seized me by both arms, and conducted 
 me through the whole suite of apartments down the mar- 
 ble staircase, and through the gate where the guard was 
 stationed ; leaving me in the open street, with an injunc- 
 tion never to set foot in the palace again. I know not 
 how long 1 stood in consternation unspeakable, and in- 
 capable of forming any distinct idea of what had hap- 
 pened to me. On coming to myself, I had but one 
 feeling — rage, boundless, unutterable! Resolved to re- 
 venge my disgrace, and the ruin of my hopes, upon 
 Fidelio, and upon who ever had let him loose, I flew to the 
 
 VOL. IL — N 2 
 
150 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 inn, for I had looked about in the street, and not seeing 
 him, I concluded that he had run home. 
 
 ''Where's my dog?" I demanded furiously on enter- 
 ing the inn. The landlord stared, and replied that he 
 was safe in the stable for anything he knew to the con- 
 trary. 
 
 ''For anything you know to the contrary!" said I. 
 "What did I tell you ? Did I not charge you to take 
 care he did not get out. Such infernal negligence — '' 
 
 *' Softly, softly, young gentleman, I am not used to 
 be called over the coals thus in my own house. I tell 
 you, your dog is in the stable, where you put him your- 
 self' 
 
 '*lt is false,'' said I, ''the dog followed me to the pal- 
 ace, and here I am disgraced — ruined — and all through 
 your carelessness." 
 
 He seemed staggered by my earnestness, and asked 
 if the key of the stable was still in my pocket. I took 
 it out and gave it to him. "I don't understand this," 
 said he, " there is no second key to that door — so unless 
 the dog is a conjuror, he must be there still. Let us go 
 and look." 
 
 We found the stable door locked. I applied the key, 
 and kicked open the door with my foot, when Fidelio 
 sprung, barking, off a heap of straw. "See there!" ex- 
 claimed the host, triumphantly dragging me all round 
 the stable, to convince me that there was no outlet but 
 the legitimate one. 
 
 "Are you satisfied now?" said he, laughing at my 
 discomfited aspect. I could scarcely believe my sen- 
 ses. " I don't know what to make of it," said I, at 
 length, — " I surely must know my own dog, that I 
 have reared from a puppy; and I'll swear that it was he, 
 and no other, that disgraced me in the King's presence." 
 The landlord suddenly burst into a loud fit of laughter. 
 "Now I have it!" said he. " Now I have it! Cap- 
 ital! I' faith. The dog you must have taken for yours 
 is the King's favourite white greyhound. Now that I 
 look at this one, I see that they are as like one another 
 as two eggs." 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 151 
 
 I covered my face with my hands, and groaned aloud. 
 Thus had the King taken me for a mad-man ; and thus 
 had I been turned ignominiously into the street! How 
 could it have been otherwise ? — for who but a maniac 
 would have conducted himself as I had done ? << What 
 a perverse fate is mine !" I exclaimed. <^ Alas ! poor 
 mother, every prospect for comfort in thy old age is 
 blighted ; and by the son for whom thou hast toiled 
 and hungered ! Where are now the bright visions of 
 hope which cheered me by the way. All gone! And 
 here am I branded with shame, and held up to derision 
 and obloquy for ever!'^ 
 
 I threw myself on a bench, and wept with grief and 
 mortification. The inn keeper was moved by my dis- 
 tress. He drew from me the particulars of my misad- 
 venture, and strove to comfort me. *' Go to your pa- 
 tron, Count A ," said he, " and tell him your disaster. 
 
 He is all-powerful with the King, and may repair it.^' 
 
 The advice was good. Only the minister could help 
 me. I hastened to his house. He was not at home. 
 I went again, and was admitted. His brow was contract- 
 ed, and his manner grave. 
 
 "Pray, friend, are you subject to paroxysms of in- 
 sanity ?" 
 
 <<No, sir. But to-day — this morning — my unlucky 
 star—" 
 
 " Unlucky enough," said he, interrupting my hesitat- 
 ing speech. "I am sorry for you ; you have lost your 
 only opportunity. The King holds you for a madm.an, 
 and I can do nothing more in the matter.-' 
 
 I could have blown out my brains for vexation. I, 
 however, suppressed my feelings, and related my un- 
 fortunate mistake. The minister's displeasure gave place 
 to a hearty laugh. '' You may congratulate yourself on 
 your mistake. The King enjoys all that is droll and 
 original. He will be amused by any explanation of the 
 singular proceeding which he took for lunacy — and you 
 will gain your cause. Be here to-morrow at eleven, 
 and you shall go with me to the palace." 
 
 These cheering words revived my hopes. After 
 
152 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 some laughing, I departed, and communicated the result 
 of his advice to the innkeeper. I waited on the Count 
 at the appointed hour. He was at breakfast, and again 
 received me with the utmost kindness. <'As I told 
 you,'' said he, «^his Majesty was greatly entertained by 
 your adventure. It is his pleasure that you should pre- 
 sent j^ourself to him this morning with your dog; there 
 is no time to be lost — go." 
 
 1 scarcely waited the conclusion, w^hen I started off 
 to the inn, liberated my poor Fidelio, caressed and patted 
 him as my best friend, and flew to the palace. I was ad- 
 mitted as on the preceding day; but I thought I perceiv- 
 ed a smile on the countenance of my conductors. I was 
 agitated on entering the room of audience. The blood 
 went and came in my cheeks, and my heart beat. The 
 King smiled at my approach, and the dog which I had 
 so roughly handled, barked. I attempted an excuse 
 for my yesterday's behaviour; but the King, whose 
 whole attention was absorbed in the comparison of 
 the two dogs, replied only by a laugh. '^ Truly," 
 said he, " they might easily be mistaken for one another 
 — they must be of the same breed, though I did not be- 
 lieve my Caro had his fellow in the kingdom." Then, 
 turning to me, with a more serious air he exclaimed, 
 
 <' Count A has laid your case before me. Justice 
 
 is clearly on your side, though law is on that of your 
 adversary. Nevertheless, Damberg shall pay the debt 
 due to your mother. The Count will give you the ne- 
 cessary instructions." 
 
 I would have thrown myself at the Sovereign's feet; 
 but he waved his hand — the door was opened, and I 
 understood that I was dismissed. Wild with joy, I 
 hastened to the minister; my feet seemed scarcely to 
 touch the ground as I went. The whole sum, with the 
 interest, was already in his hands, and he made it over 
 to me. I laughed — I wept — in short I was beside my- 
 self with delight, that my mother was now, and through 
 my means, beyond all fear of want! 
 
 The King had sent for Damberg, and threatened him 
 with the loss of his favour, if he persisted in his refusal 
 to perform this act of justice. The appointment of 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 153 
 
 banker to the Court was too important to be risked for 
 a sum comparatively so trifling, and the money was im- 
 mediately paid to Count A . 
 
 The very same day I started for home; not, however, 
 before I had discharged what I felt to be a precious duty. 
 I purchased the most beautiful cut glass bowl that Dres- 
 den could produce, and despatched it by the diligence 
 to Annette, the pastor's daughter of Wittenback, ac- 
 companied by a note of apology for Fidelio's awkward- 
 ness. I took post horses, in order to give my dear 
 mother the news of my success with as little dela}^ as 
 possible. Her joy was equal to mine. In a fortnight 
 I was settled at the University. I was diligent, and 
 three years glided rapidly away. I had taken my de- 
 gree, and on returning home, my mother presented me 
 with a letter from my good friend Count A , offer- 
 ing me the situation of his private secretary. I accepted 
 it thankfully. My mother removed to the capital, and 
 after a short apprenticeship to the business of ojffice, the 
 minister appointed me to a place both honourable and 
 lucrative. 
 
 Finding myself independent, I walked forth one fine 
 day, accompanied only by Fidelio, bending my steps 
 towards the village where Annette lived. My feelings 
 grew deeper and sweeter, as I approached the gray tower 
 of the church, and the vine-covered parsonage. The 
 garden-gate was a-jar. I crept gently towards the sum- 
 mer-house, but Fidelio, less cautious, rushed on, and I 
 heard a faint scream from within. I quickened my 
 pace — entered — and found Annette in the full bloom 
 and beauty of womanhood. Though five years had 
 elapsed since our first and eventful meeting, she instant- 
 ly recognised my dog, and was startled by its sudden 
 appearance. She was pale with surprise; but m}^ en- 
 trance soon recalled the roses into her cheeks. In a few 
 days I obtained from her the gratifying avowal that she 
 had never ceased to think of me, and had rejected seve- 
 ral advantageous matches for my sake. Her father, 
 who, though a passionate, was not an ill-natured man, 
 willingly accepted me for a son in law, and in three 
 months Annette and I were married. 
 
154 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF GERMAN LIFE. 
 
 Fourteen years have gone by, and our happiness is 
 still undiminished. My mother spends her time in 
 nursing and spoiling my children. Fidelio died at a 
 good old age, and lies under a yew tree in my garden; 
 his faithful attachment recorded in a latin epitaph of my 
 son's composition, upon a white marble monument, re- 
 presenting a greyhound. 
 
THE 
 
 xMAGIC OF TIME 
 
THE 
 
 MAGIC OF TIME 
 
 When my father was at the University, he contracted 
 an intimacy with a young man of great talent, named 
 Waldern. Their studies conckided at the same time ; 
 and the night before they each departed to their respec- 
 tive homes, they swore eternal friendship over a bowl of 
 punch ; and promised, whatever might be their future 
 destiny, to meet once every year. Many similar vows 
 and promises have been made under similar circumstan- 
 ces, — but sobriety returns — the enthusiasm of youth is 
 remembered with a smile — times are changed, and minds 
 shape themselves accordingly. 
 
 Yet it was not thus with my father and young Wal- 
 dern. They were faithful to their vows. Their senses 
 were sobered, but their hearts retained the same warmth 
 as in youth. Their respective paths in life led different 
 ways, but their souls were tuned to the same harmony ; 
 they married, and though settled three days' journey 
 from one another, in spite of all the affairs connected 
 with their employments and their families, not a year 
 passed without their visiting one another for two or 
 three weeks. At first these visits were reciprocal ; but 
 latterly, it was my father only who left his home, and 
 availed himself of his friend's hospitality. I know not 
 how this happened, unless it was that Waldern had be- 
 come rich through marriage and inheritance, and resid- 
 ed in the capital, where he occupied a distinguished 
 Vol. II.— 
 
158 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 office in the law, — the duties of which might have pre- 
 vented his absenting himself. 
 
 On the other hand, my father's house, in the village 
 of , was small, and ill calculated for the accommo- 
 dation of visitors ; but it was the residence appointed 
 for the director of the woods and forests of the province, 
 a post which my father held, and he was not rich enough 
 to provide himself with a better at his own expense ; 
 perhaps, too, he might like the variety of a town life, 
 during the short period for which he visited his friend. 
 Be it, however, as it may, he spent some weeks of 
 every summer with the President Waldern, at Dresden. 
 
 When I was about ten years old, my mother sent one 
 day for the tailor to make me a complete new suit, and my 
 father said, as master Snip was taking my measure, 
 '^ Gustavus, you shall go with us this time to Dresden 
 — my friend Waldern has long wished to become ac- 
 quainted with his godson.^' 
 
 Who so joyful as I ? My mother was to be of the 
 party, and took pleasure in telling me of all the won- 
 ders I was to behold. And wonders innumerable did I 
 see — every day brought some new delight : life was a 
 fairy tale. The counsellor Waldern was a very amia- 
 ble man, but he had a daughter, like myself, an only 
 child, and about the same age, who appeared to me more 
 am.iable still. Augustine skipped and danced about as 
 soon as we were introduced to one another, and invited 
 me to go and see her new doll! Without waiting for 
 an answer, she took me by the hand, and dragged me 
 to the baby-house, where she exhibited the rich ward- 
 robe of the doll — its elegant bed, chairs, sofas, and 
 tables. 
 
 In four and twenty hours I had supplanted the waxen 
 favourite. Augustine played with my sunny ringlets, 
 and praised my blue eyes — she taught me to dance, and 
 I taught her the manual exercise with her father's cane. 
 Unceasingly occupied with play or prattle, it vv^as with 
 trouble we could be separated when the unwelcome hour 
 arrived for going to bed. 
 
 ^^Hark ye! Wilhelm," said the Counsellor one 
 evening to my father, as we sat at our supper at some 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 159 
 
 distance from them. ««You never saw two prettier 
 children than ours." 
 
 The words were not, perhaps, intended for us to hear, 
 but they were spoken in one of the intervals when our 
 conversation was suspended by the presence of a large 
 plate of bread and butter. I looked at Augustine, and 
 considered for the first time whether she was hand- 
 some or not; and, truly, the dark tresses circling upon 
 her shoulders, her black, sprightly mischievous eyes, 
 her coral mouth, and regular oval face, struck me as de- 
 serving her father's exclamation. 
 
 «« Wilhelm," resumed the Counsellor, '' such a friend- 
 ship as ours ought to be transmitted to our children's 
 children — what do you think of a match between those 
 two ? Do they not seem born for one another ?" 
 
 My father nodded and smiled, but said nothing, 
 <« Papa," cried Augustine, '^ do you mean that Gustav- 
 us shall be my husband ? Oh, that will be delightful ! 
 How I shall love him! Won't you be glad, Gustavus?" 
 This sally excited a general laugh. 
 
 The next day we played at matrimony. The mar- 
 riage ceremony was performed in the garden. An ar- 
 bour, in front of v/hich stood two young acacias (at that 
 time very rare plants in Germany), was the church. A 
 rustic table was the altar, and a cousin of Augustine's, 
 somewhat older than we were, but who often joined in 
 our sports, the priest. 
 
 Augustine had provided two leaden rings, adorned 
 with red and green glass imitations of rubies and emer- 
 alds, which were exchanged, with all the requisite for- 
 malities; and being too large for our diminutive fingers, 
 she had wound ribbon round them till they fitted. 
 
 ^« You must give me a kiss, now, Gustavus. You are 
 a very rude bridegroom to wait till I asked for it," said 
 Augustine, bending her rosy cheek towards me. I 
 blushed, for I felt shame at her reproof. However, I 
 kissed her, and received three to one in return. 
 
 We all adjourned to a banquet of almonds, raisins, 
 biscuits, and milk, served up in the porcelain service 
 belonging to Augustine's doll. The feast over, the doll 
 was produced, lying in a cradle, and dressed in baby- 
 
160 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 clothes. Augustine was wild with joy, and insisted on 
 teaching me to nurse our first-born in a becoming pa- 
 rental manner. But now came the ball, and the child 
 was left to cry in the cradle — the cousin played the fid- 
 dle, and Augustine and I waltzed till we were giddy. 
 
 Three weeks passed away like a dream ; and the 
 hour of separation cost many tears to the new-married 
 pair. We clung to one another, screamed, cried, and 
 entreated our parents not to part us. They laughed at 
 our heroics, and with some coaxing, and many promises 
 tliat we should soon meet again, I was taken home. 
 
 We did not return to the capital so sp-eedily asl wish- 
 ed, or as my parents had promised. <' How stale, flat, 
 and unprofitable" did home appear for a time! what tor- 
 rents of tears did I shed in secret for my beloved Au- 
 gustine! But all in this life is finite, and so was my 
 despair — and it was not long ere I was reconciled to my 
 peaceful village, and the surrounding woods. 
 
 In due course of time my father deemed it expedient 
 to send me to school, and I was accordingly delivered 
 over to the care of an old friend of my family, who was 
 rector of the high school in a neighbouring town, a good 
 and learned man, who consented to board me in his own 
 house. 
 
 My kind mother wept bitterly at parting with me, 
 and packed my trunk with her own hand, taking care 
 to cram it with more clothes, linen, and sugar-plumbs 
 than would have sufficed for two. 
 
 Though I had dried my tears, I had not forgotten 
 Augustine, and I entreated my mother to put up the 
 leaden nuptial ring. The relic was accordingly envel- 
 oped carefully in clean white paper, and laid between 
 two shirts. 
 
 I did not take much to learning at first ; but, on the 
 other hand, I was delighted to have so many playfellows. 
 However, I was won by the kindness of the old rector, 
 who treated us all as his children ; and after a while, I 
 multiplied, divided, declined, and conjugated, to his 
 and my father's satisfaction. The school was only 
 three German miles from my native village, so that I 
 visited my parents frequently. What a treat it was to 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 161 
 
 spend even a single day in their company! My dear- 
 est mother! my good benevolent father! with what 
 unspeakable delight did I always return to the spot 
 which your love had made a paradise to me! 
 
 The rector was an upright man. I loved and vene- 
 rated him as a second father; his learning and science 
 made me regard him as a superior being. He had but 
 little intercourse with the townspeople ; living almost 
 exclusively with his pupils, and with the lofty spirits 
 of Greece and Rome: ''For," said he, '' in the ancients 
 I behold excellence, and in your hearts, my children, I 
 discover its seeds. Some of you will deceive my ex- 
 pectations — yet through some of you I hope still to 
 benefit mankind, when I shall be no more." 
 
 I had now overcome the difficulties of Grammar, and 
 was introduced to Homer, Cicero, and more than these, 
 to Plutarch! 1 could have wept for the gone-by world! 
 In comparison with the heroes and sages of antiquity, 
 how contemptible were the men of modern days! I 
 read, I translated, I declaimed, and made verses ; and 
 was as happy as knowledge and innocence could make 
 me. 
 
 My father continued his yearly visits to his friends 
 in the capital, but Plato and Plutarch had completely 
 supplanted my little wife ; and the leaden ring had 
 long slept neglected and forgotten, in company with 
 other discarded playthings, which my mother had col- 
 lected and put by, in a box, on the highest shelf of her 
 store-room. My vacations were spent at home, or in 
 little excursions into the forest and mountains, with 
 some of my school-fellows. Thus I attained my nine^ 
 teenth year, and as I believed, the end of all my feli^ 
 city ; for the rector and my father now thought it de- 
 sirable that I should go to college. I could not part, 
 without grief, from the venerable, and almost paternal 
 friend, to whose affectionate care I owed so much. I 
 was still more miserable at the idea of being removed 
 so far from home. As the hour of departure approached, 
 even the inanimate objects, which I had loved in child- 
 hood, became every moment more precious to me. I 
 visited all my favourite haunts, and took leave of them 
 VOL. II. — o 2 
 
162 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 again and again. On the last day, I overhauled all my 
 propert}^, and selected, from the precious depot in my 
 mother's store-room, some of the most portable articles, 
 as memorials and relics, to be packed up with the splen- 
 did morocco Homer, and other prize-books which I 
 had gained at school. Augustine's leaden ring was 
 amongst the number. 
 
 Though I made verses bad and indifferent, in which 
 I rung interminable changes upon love and moonlight, 
 I cannot say that any of them were inspired by the said 
 ring, or by the remembrance of the donor. On the 
 contrary, T preferred the blue and black eyes of many 
 a dame and damsel, which had accidentally glanced upon 
 me, in my summer evening, or Sunday rambles. To 
 one or two of these, I had, in fear and trembling, ad- 
 dressed sonnets in imitation of Petrarch, which I never 
 had the courage to show. But, these excepted, my 
 does and Lesbins were all imaginary. 
 
 At the University I devoted myself almost exclusively 
 to the study of pandects, institutes and finance, to 
 gratify my father, whose ambition was to see me occupy 
 a respectable post in the law, connected with the ad- 
 ministration of the forests. In three years, therefore, I 
 made such rapid progress, that I took my degree with 
 honours, and many of my friends advised me to try 
 for a professorship.' But my father, who, as inspector 
 of forests, thought no department of the government so 
 honourable as his own, would not hear of any change 
 in my destination. He therefore applied, through my 
 godfather, for a subordinate situation in tlie line which 
 he had chalked out, and obtained an appointment for 
 me in a provincial town. 
 
 My studies having concluded, and my appointment 
 being procured just about the time of my parents' annual 
 visit to their friend, my father wrote, desiring that I 
 would meet them at Dresden, as Waldern wished to 
 see me before I entered upon my professional duties. 
 
 I set out without delay, and on the way thought fre- 
 quently of Augustine, but always with a disagreeable 
 recollection of our childish follies ; of which, at one- 
 and-tvventy, I felt a little ashamed. *^ She must be 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 163 
 
 grown considerably," thought I ; "I wonder if she is 
 handsome now !" But I hated the idea that, possibly, 
 our parents might now wish to unite us in earnest. I 
 suspected this to be tlie motive of summoning me to 
 Dresden, and I swore it should never be. The vow 
 was kept, though, as it will be seen, sorely against my 
 will. 
 
 After receiving the hearty embrace of my parents and 
 their old friends, on my arrival at my godfather's, I 
 perceived that there was another person in the room — 
 a lady, young and beautiful as a Hebe, whose black ra- 
 diant eyes so dazzled and confounded me, that I stood 
 like one petrified, and incapable of making any return 
 to her graceful and friendly salutation. I wished my- 
 self a thousand miles off in order to recover my confu- 
 sion, and yet I felt as if it would be death to lose sight 
 of the enchanting vision. 
 
 My parents fortunately relieved me, in some degree, 
 from my embarrassment, by reiterating their embraces 
 and congratulations, to which I was compelled to reply. 
 
 When tranquillity was a little restored, I heard my 
 godfather ask the beautiful unknown whether supper 
 was ready ? 
 
 <*Can this be Augustine?" thought I, with affright: 
 <^ is it possible that I should ever have ventured to call 
 this heavenly creature my little wife? — It were profa- 
 nation even to think of it!" 
 
 Supper being announced, Waldern gave his arm to 
 my mother, my father conducted his friend's wife, and 
 Augustine was left to my charge. I offered my arm 
 trembling. It would have been more to the purpose 
 had she supported me with hers, for I was hardly able 
 to stand. 
 
 ^' How you are grown and [altered!" said she; <' I 
 should never have known you, had we met elsewhere." 
 
 ^«I — I — wish," stammered I, <'that I were a little 
 boy again!" My tone was pathetic, but she only ex- 
 pressed her surprise at my entertaining such a wish. 
 
 '' I shall never again be so happy as I was then," 
 said 1, while the sounds almost died upon my lips, 
 and I pressed the hand which rested on my arm ; but 
 Augustine returned no answer. 
 
164 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 Supper passed off cheerfully. I accustomed myself 
 to the sight of Augustine, and could answer rationally 
 enough whenever her discourse was addressed to -me. 
 But still I forgot to eat ; and the longer I looked the 
 more heautiful she appeared. The next day, and the 
 next again, her loveliness went on increasing, until I 
 was completely bewitched. I repented the vow I had 
 made on the road, and resolved to perjure myself. 
 
 On the third evening we found ourselves by some 
 accident alone in the garden. 
 
 I had been long wishing to say something to her, but 
 I did not quite know what. 
 
 We came to the vine arbour : — well did I remem- 
 ber it! ^* How tall those two acacias are grown!" 
 said I ; *^see how their branches are interwoven with 
 one another." 
 
 " Do you still remember those trees, then ?" said 
 Augustine, with wonder. 
 
 "Oh! how could I ever forget the happy moments 
 with which they are associated ?" replied I. ^< How 
 often have I been here in thought, whilst you, perhaps, 
 have as often sat here, without once recollecting that 
 such a being as Gustavus ever existed!" 
 
 I did not mean to be insincere ; but, at that moment, 
 I quite forgot that she had ever been out of my mind. 
 
 " How do you know that ?" said she, somewhat con- 
 fused, as we entered the arbour, which was now com- 
 pletely shaded by the luxuriant branches of the two 
 acacias. 
 
 As 1 cast my eyes around, every object recalled 
 some incident connected with my childish passion. I 
 looked at Augustine, and my eyes must have betrayed 
 my feelings! for she dropped hers on the ground, and 
 coloured. I took her hand and kissed it. <*This was 
 the church!" said I. 
 
 '<And that the altar!" said she, pointing with the 
 disengaged hand to the rustic table. " I remember it 
 all/' 
 
 *<Do you really remember all, dearest Augustine? 
 All— all ?" 
 
 Her head fell upon my shoulder, and she sighed as 
 she uttered, 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 165 
 
 <<0h, Gustavus!" 
 
 The leaden nuptial ring; was in my waistcoat pocket. 
 I took it out and showed it to her. 
 
 ''Do you remember this too, Augustine?" said I. 
 
 A blush of surprise and pleasure animated her coun- 
 tenance. She examined it long, and gazing at me for 
 a moment with glistening eyes, folded me in her em- 
 brace, while her tears wetted my cheek. *' Dear Gusta- 
 vus!'^ she exclaimed, "how much better you are 
 than I !" 
 
 On recovering her composure, she took a gold ring 
 from her finger, and placed it on mine ; then, putting 
 the leaden one on her own, exclaimed with solemn ear- 
 nestness — ''This memorial of thy truth and constancy 
 shall go with me to my grave. I am thine, Gustavus! 
 and thou art mine — for ever mine! Is it not so, Gus- 
 tavus ?'^ 
 
 I answered this tender apostrophe as may be sup- 
 posed, in a style worthy of a lover, who, having written 
 love-elegies, odes, and sonnets, for the last six years, 
 at length met with a real living divinity. The moon, 
 the stars, and all the heavenly host were called upon 
 to witness our vows of eternal fidelity, and everlasting 
 love ; but it is needless to describe the scene in detail, 
 since every one knows what is usual on such occasions. 
 Every one knows how Heaven and Earth, Death, 
 Time, and Eternity, are appealed to. I will only say, 
 that three months flew away, like a summer's dream ; 
 and, when my father talked of departure, it seemed to 
 me that I had but just come. 
 
 I could not help being surprised at the unconcern 
 manifested by our parents. They must have seen what 
 was passing between us, since there was no attempt on 
 our parts to conceal it. They must have seen our eyes 
 seeking one another — -our hands meeting, as by mag- 
 netic attraction, every time we approached within a 
 yard of each other. The sentimental and mystical 
 tone of our discourse were all sufficient to prove, to the 
 most indifferent observers, that what was play ten years 
 ago was now become good earnest ; and yet Waldern 
 never said as he did then — " What a nice match Augus- 
 tine and Gustavus would make !" 
 
166 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 I was a more timid and respectful lover now, than in 
 my childhood, and never ventured to pronounce the 
 word marriage. It seemed to me <^flat blasphemy" to 
 entertain so ethereal a creature with a matter, which 
 although too prosaic to be talked of, did, in reality, 
 constantly occupy my secret thoughts. 
 
 Meanwhile the hour of separation arrived. My fa- 
 ther had postponed it three successive days in compli- 
 ance with our entreaties ; but at the end of that time 
 he became very impatient. The morning of our de- 
 parture Augustine and I met, for the last time, in the 
 vine-arbour before sunrise. We wept, embraced, and 
 wept again. The arbour once more became a church, 
 and its rustic table, an altar, at which we knelt and pro- 
 mised eternal love. I engaged to speak to my father 
 as soon as I reached home, and having obtained his con- 
 sent, of which I had no doubt, to come back and make 
 my proposals in form to Augustine's parents. 
 
 We parted, and I was scarcely seated under my pa- 
 ternal roof, when I opened my whole heart to m}^ 
 father. This was the more eas}', as both he and my 
 mother had jested about Augustine whenever they re- 
 marked my fits of melancholy abstraction on the jour- 
 ney. My father, who was an upright, prudent man, 
 as well as a tender parent, gave me a patient hearing ; 
 and much need of patience he had ; for the flood-gates 
 once raised, I overwhelmed him for the space of two 
 hours, at least, with the history of my inextinguishable 
 passion. Augustine's unalterable fidelity, and our irre- 
 vocable engagement. 
 
 *' Well, my dear child!" said he, when I had ended, 
 ^♦1 have no objection to miake. On the contrar}^, I 
 commend your choice, and I am glad you are in love. 
 The remembrance of Augustine — of a virtuous woman 
 — will be a safe-guard in many a disgraceful temptation. 
 Yet I advise you not to be in a hurry. You are scarce- 
 ly one-and-twenty. It will probably be some years 
 before your profession will yield the means of support- 
 ing a family. Augustine is rich, 'tis true ; but I trust 
 you have too much spirit to sub.mit to be maintained in 
 idleness by your wife. Nothing is more humiliating 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 167 
 
 than such dependence, and no man should think of 
 marrying who cannot maintain his wife and children, 
 either by his property or his labour. My salary as in- 
 spector, you well know, is so limited, that I shall have 
 but little to give or bequeath to you. You must, there- 
 fore, earn your living as 1 have done. Consider, also, 
 that your circumstances may be an objection to my 
 friend Waldern, notwithstanding his regard for us ; for 
 Augustine, reared in the lap of affluence, has hitherto en- 
 joyed conveniences and luxuries that habit has rendered 
 necessaries, and which you are far from being able to 
 afford her. The last point to be considered, is your 
 youth. Marriages are rarely happy where there is not 
 a balance of a few years on the husband's side, whilst 
 you are several months her junior." 
 
 My father ceased. In my apprehenison, of course, 
 nothing could be more mistaken than his views ; but, 
 though I proved them so to my own satisfaction, I en- 
 tirely failed to convince him, and I turned, therefore, in 
 despair to my mother. 
 
 " I enter into your feelings, Gustavus," said the kind 
 soul, kissing me with tears in her eyes. " Augustine is 
 an angel! I could not desire a better daughter-in-law. 
 But your father is in the right, and I can only pray God 
 to strengthen you under your trials." 
 
 The subject was discussed every day, and all day long, 
 but we never agreed upon it. At the end of a fortnight, 
 just as I was preparing to set out for Dresden, on my 
 way to my supernumerary clerkship at Adorf, there came 
 a letter to my father from his friend, in which he de- 
 scribed Augustine as having been inconsolable for my 
 departure. The violence of her agitation had occasioned 
 a fever, which confined her for some days to her bed. 
 She was now, thank God, more tranquil ; but he conjured 
 me, as I valued her peace, to abstain from seeing her 
 again, until I should have obtained such employment as 
 would ensure me an independence ; without which, he 
 said, it would be inexcusable in me to think of marriage. 
 He, however, desired my father to assure me that he had 
 no other objection to our union, and that he would gladly 
 give his consent as soon as I should be in possession of a 
 
168 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 competent income, which, with several flattering expres- 
 sions regarding my character and talents, he said, he was 
 persuaded, would be in a very i'ew years. As some 
 compensation lor the pains of absence, he permitted his 
 daughter to correspond with me. Notwithstanding the 
 tone of kindness and consideration which prevailed 
 through the letter, it drove me stark mad for four-and- 
 twenty hours. I raved and ranted against such inhu- 
 man and tyrannical abuse of parental authority, until I 
 had not strength left to utter another syllable, and fell 
 asleep from pure exhaustion of mind and body. I 
 awoke a in much calmer state, and discovered by degrees 
 that Waldern had written sensibly enough, and had even 
 conceded more than my parents had given me reason to 
 hope. 1 ceased to lament my fate, resolving to rouse 
 all my energies, and win the hand of Augustine by my 
 own merits. I profited, without delay, by Waldern's 
 permission to write, and despatched by that night's 
 post, six folio pages of present misery and future joys, 
 to my Augustine, and half as many overflowing with 
 gratitude, to her father. Waldern was a sensible man, 
 who knew the ways of the human heart, and knew that 
 to attempt to stem the torrent of youthful passion is 
 only to render it more violent, lasting and destructive. 
 
 Instead, then, of going round by Dresden to my des- 
 tination, I caught a glance only of its towers from a 
 distant hill, as I pursued my way without stopping. 
 The parting from my good parents — the journey, and 
 the various occupations attending on my establishment 
 at Adorf, and my initiation into the details of oflice, all 
 helped to bring me to my senses. I worked with un- 
 wearied industry, gathering all the knowledge that fell in 
 my way. I soon gained the applause and good-will of 
 my superiors. But, alas! I was yet too young for pro- 
 motion ! 
 
 The longed-for day, which completed my first five- 
 and-tvventy years' experience of this life, arrived at last. 
 But how little do we know, when we wish the present 
 moment gone, what the future may bring ! The blest 
 of to-day may be the wretched of to-morrow ! My 
 incomparable mother was carried to the grave on my 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 169 
 
 birth-day, and my father followed her in the course of 
 a few months ; but not without the satisraction of seeing 
 me raised to the dignity of counsellor of the woods and 
 forests. The salary, it is true, was very small, but I 
 had gained the first important step towards the accom- 
 plishment of my wishes. 
 
 In the mean time my correspondence with Augustine 
 went on uninterruptedly, with one difference, however. 
 The first year our letters were never less than three 
 pageSjdiagonally andrectangularly crossed and recrossed. 
 The second, they seldom exceeded two ; and the third, 
 they dwindled down to one only. Time effects won- 
 ders, but it cannot extinguish true love. Augustine 
 had, during this time, declined several good offers ; 
 and my letters, lamenting my inability to join the ranks 
 of her adorers (my salary scarcely sufficing to maintain 
 the exterior of a gentleman), were answered by others, 
 in which she dwelt on the increasing anxiety of her pa- 
 rents at seeing her still unmarried, whilst she approached 
 the age when lovers begin to drop off. I could not rea- 
 sonably blame this anxiety on their part ; yet, at the 
 suggestion of Augustine, and in defiance of mj'- former 
 resolutions, I wrote to Waldern, intreating his consent 
 to our marriage, notwithstanding my inabilit}^ to main- 
 tain a wife, making the most of my prospects of promo- 
 tion, and the favour of my superiors in office. He replied 
 by stating the same grounds of objection as had been 
 advanced both by himself and my father three years 
 before, gently hinting that my fruitless perseverance 
 would be productive of unhappiness to Augustine. I 
 threw down the letter with vexation, and walked impa- 
 tiently up and down the room. But as my first feelings 
 subsided, I could not but acknowledge that the man was 
 in the right, and was even generous enough to confess it 
 to Augustine, in a letter which I indited that very even- 
 ing. I had worked myself up to a paroxysm of roman- 
 tic self-denial during the composition, and said, that 
 with so little certainty as to the period when my circum- 
 stances would allow me to claim her hand, I could not 
 suffer her to waste her youth in waiting for me — that I 
 should never cease to love her, although she became the 
 Vol. IL— P 
 
170 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 wife of another — that Aer happiness should be mine, &c. 
 &c. &c. 
 
 This gave rise to a correspondence of several months, 
 in which we tried to outdo one another in generosity. 
 But at last I conquered, or rather it was the enchanter, 
 Time. For Augustine had reached hersix-and-twentieth 
 year, an anxious era for young ladies who are reluctant 
 to increase the holy band of the eleven thousand virgins, 
 already adorning Paradise. 
 
 I was surprised one day by a letter in a strange hand. 
 It proved to be from a Baron Von Winter, expressing 
 in strong terms his deep gratitude for the noble sacrifice 
 on my part, through which he had become the happy 
 husband of Augustine Waldern, and begging to be ad- 
 mitted to a share of my regard for his amiable partner, 
 who added two or three friendly lines in her own hand, 
 to the epistle of her spouse. I read the letter again and 
 again, before I could believe my eyes — and then cursed 
 my own ill-advised generosity, and the inconstancy of 
 Augustine. In more tranquil moments I tried to justify 
 her conduct, by the circumstances of her advancing 
 years, and, the tedious uncertainty of my prospects ; but 
 bitter disappointment still rankled at my heart. It was 
 no small aggravation of these feelings to hear, in less 
 than a year, that Waldern had died, leaving his daughter 
 uncontrolled mistress of all his fortune. Had she but 
 waited one twelvemonth longer! But there was no 
 use in repining. I wrote to her no more — and she 
 never complained of my silence. 
 
 Partly from a spirit of resentment, and a wish to re- 
 taliate — and partly to divert my thoughts from their 
 faithless object, I suffered my eyes to wander more freely 
 than they had ever done before among the daughters of 
 the land. JNIany a fair flower bloomed around me, which 
 it would have been sweet to pluck, and wear next my 
 heart. But my poverty forbade, and I was condemned 
 to '' pine in thought," till better times. 
 
 At last, however, fortune began to smile. I was re- 
 moved to abetter situation in another town, where I liad 
 much more to do ; but then the result of my labours 
 came necessarily under the observation of the premier 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 171 
 
 himself ; and my extensive knowledge being useful to 
 him, he employed me in various legal arrangements, in 
 which I acquitted myself so mucii to his satisfaction, 
 that on the resignation of the president of the criminal 
 courts of the province, I was appointed to succeed him. 
 
 My new situation was not only highly honourable, but 
 lucrative also. I set up a handsome establishment, and 
 soon found my society courted by the most distinguished 
 families of the countVy, especially such as had grown- 
 up daughters to dispose of. But 1 had no time to cast 
 my judicial handkerchief, for I w^as obliged to go to 
 Dresden, on business connected with my post, and to 
 be presented at court. 
 
 In spite of the pains I had taken to forget Augustine, 
 the thought of seeing her again did not fail to awaken 
 the most painful emotions. I had heard her spoken of 
 occasionally, as the gayest and most admired of the court 
 beauties, and surrounded by lovers : as dissipated, extra- 
 vagant, and fond of admiration — not a trace of the plain 
 burgher-like manners and morals of the Waldern family 
 being how discoverable in the deity of the Dresden world 
 of fashion. Her husband, the Baron Von Winter, was 
 said to be a perfect courtier, of an easy temper, but 
 much older than Augustine, and broken in constitution. 
 
 These reports always gave me pain, though I could 
 not bring myself to credit things so irreconcilable with 
 my own recollections of the celestial object of so many 
 years' devotion. 
 
 Arrived at Dresden, the minister received me in the 
 most flattering manner, and presented me himself to the 
 king, who farther honoured me w^ith the order of the 
 White Eagle. I had been three days in the capital 
 without having been able to find one moment even to 
 think of fulfilling my intention of visiting the Baroness 
 Von Winter, when I received a note from her, reproach- 
 ing me for having suffered her to learn my arrival from 
 the newspaper instead of from myself, and commanding 
 me, on pain of her displeasure, to join her supper-party 
 that evening. There was a tone of levity in this invita- 
 tion that displeased and pained me ; it was unsuitable to 
 our former relationship. I had anticipated a very differ- 
 
172 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 ent kind of meeting; the mere thought of which had, by 
 turns, made my heart sink and throb within me. Our 
 ten years' separation — the various events that had oc- 
 curred within that period of time — the love that had once 
 bound our hearts — and the wrench that had parted them 
 — all concurred to make me dread a first meeting. I 
 swallowed three or four tumblers of champaign one after 
 another, before I was able to go down to the carriage 
 which was waiting to convey me to Augustine. She 
 occupied the house formerly inhabited by her father. 
 The glare of the lamps exhibited over the porte co- 
 chtrCy the baronial coronet, surmounting a proper assem- 
 blage of lions rampant and couchant, carved in stone. 
 The vestibule was ornamented and Frenchified, so as to 
 have lost all resemblance to its former sober self ; and I 
 should r.ave been at a loss to find my way, but for two 
 light-heeled lacqueys, in elegant gold and silver liveries, 
 who skipped up the broad staircase before me, and threw 
 open the folding doors of a saloon, brilliantly illumin- 
 ated, and filled with company. 
 
 On my name being announced, a lady advanced to- 
 wards me, with an air at once graceful and gracious. It 
 was the baroness, but not the Augustine whose portrait 
 had been indelibly engraved on my heart. The per- 
 son was altogether larger, and, though the features were 
 essentially the same, yet the expression was quite dif- 
 ferent. The beauty of the form now before me was of 
 a more material character; the complexion less transpa- 
 rent, and the eyes less soft — their brightness was ua- 
 dimmed it is true, but they seemed to demand instead 
 of inviting homage. I was so overpowered by my agi- 
 tation, that 1 could only stammer out one or two unin- 
 telligible words. On subsequently retracing the scene 
 in my mind, I fancied that on first addressing me, 
 Augustine's cheek wore a deeper glow than I remark- 
 ed on it afterwards; but if so, it was the only visible sign 
 of embarrassment on her part. I was restored to some 
 degree of composure by the perfect ease of her manners. 
 She reproached me in a tone of playful kindness, for 
 having been so long a stranger ; and, taking my arm, pa- 
 raded me through the rooms, presenting me as we pass- 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 173 
 
 ed to her innumerable << select friends,'^ as an old com- 
 panion and playfellow whom she had not seen for ten 
 years. I soon recovered myself, in the gay confusion 
 of music, dancing, cards, and conversation. Augustine 
 was called away from me to do thehonoursof her house 
 to the fresh guests who were dropping in from the 
 opera. I could not but admire the grace with which she 
 acquitted herself. She seemed to say to every one just 
 what it was most agreeable to them to hear. As we met 
 again in the crowd, she asked me how long I purposed 
 to remain at Dresden, and gave me a general invitation 
 to her house. <' I appoint you my cavalier servente,^^ 
 said she, ^' and require you to be in daily attendance." 
 
 She was glidmg on, when I asked to be presented to 
 the Baron Von Winter. 
 
 ^^ Mon BieuP^ replied she, "How can I tell where 
 he may be at this moment. I heard something about 
 his dining at the Prince Royal's villa— rt;?rojyo5, Presi- 
 dent, are you married ?" Without waiting for the an- 
 swer, which I could not for my life have uttered at that 
 moment, all her attention seemed to be absorbed by a 
 young man, who asked her opinion of the new singer. 
 The night wore on — hopeless of farther conversation 
 with her, I departed. 
 
 The following evening the Baron appeared in his 
 wife's drawing-room. He was a pale, emaciated man 
 of about fifty ; but the fashionable cut of his coat, and 
 the perfumed curls of his wig, a PAntinous, proved that 
 he had not relinquished his pretensions to youth and 
 good looks. Augustine having caught my eyes fixed 
 upon him, perhaps with an expression of surprise at her 
 choice, said, in a half-whisper as she passed close by me 
 — '^Iln'estpas beau — mais, pourtant, c'est ce qui me 
 convient." For, in her new character, she had also 
 adopted the fashionable foppery of speaking French, in 
 preference to her native language. 
 
 The dissipated tone of the Baroness's society displeas- 
 ed me ; and, only my affection for her, could have in- 
 duced me to frequent it as I did : which was as much as 
 my official business permitted. Besides, though 1 could 
 not approve Augustine, her beauty, wit, and playfulness, 
 VOL. II. — p 2 
 
174 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 fascinated and attracted me, as often as my old remi- 
 niscences, and the comparison of her former with her 
 present self, would have estranged me. I felt that even 
 now, she might again endanger my peace, in spite of her 
 inconstancy and worldliness. 
 
 ^' But, tell me, Baroness, are you really happy ?" said 
 I to her, one night at the Opera, when we found our- 
 selves, for the first time, tete-a-tete. 
 
 *^ What do you mean by happy ?'' returned she, while 
 she smiled, and shook her fan at some one in an oppo- 
 site box. 
 
 '^ 1 mean," replied I, taking her hand and pressing it 
 affectionately — '<! mean such happiness as we once 
 dreamt of enjoying together. *^re you happy ?" 
 
 " Why, do you doubt it, President ?" 
 
 " Then I am happy too, dearest Augustine ! that is — 
 if your are sincere !" I added, hesitatingly. Sheavoid- 
 ed my inquiring looks by bending down her head to 
 adjust the diamond bracelet upon an arm, still unequalled 
 for whiteness and symmetry. 
 
 '' Sincere ! — Is it possible. President, that you should 
 still be as great an enthusiast as you were ten years 
 ago ? I thought you wiser ; but your romance becomes 
 you still. Pray recollect, however, that an opera-box 
 is not the most appropriate place for such confessions 
 as you would extort from me. To answer you satis- 
 factorily, our tete-a-tete mxisih^lGSS liable to interrup- 
 tion. Come and breakfast with me to-morrow." 
 
 I had scarcely assented to her invitation when a gen- 
 tleman, whom 1 had seen at her house, entered the box, 
 and was followed by a succession of visitors. I fixed 
 my eyes on the stage, but the melodious warblings of 
 Tancredi fell on a lifeless ear. I only awoke from my 
 reverie on being touched on the arm by Augustine's fan, 
 v^^hen she was ready to depart. 
 
 From the theatre I attended her to a ball ; where I 
 left her, at a late hour, waltzing with a foreign prince, 
 and, to all appearance, as little concerned about me, as 
 if we had never met before in our lives. 
 
 I presented myself the next morning at Augustine's 
 door, a slip-shod y>'o//ew/' having informed me that her 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 175 
 
 excellency was not awake, I looked at my watch and 
 found it was not nine o'clock. I strolled round the 
 park, skimmed the newspapers in a cajft, and walked 
 about the town for near two hours, when I returned, 
 and was admitted. 
 
 I was agreeably surprised to find her simply attired in 
 a white morning dress. It was the first time I had seen 
 herunincumbered with the brilliant paraphernalia of rank 
 and riches, and for the first time I thouglit she looked 
 like 7723/ Augustine. ''You are come to receive my 
 confession, then, President?" said she, extending her 
 hand with a smile, which renewed the fascination of the 
 preceding night; and, desiring me to seat myself beside 
 heron the sofa, I learned, that, when young ladies awake 
 from the dreams of romance, they rest their happiness on 
 moresubstantialand tangible things;— that the old-fashion- 
 ed prejudices imbibed in the nursery make themselves 
 wings and fly away, when the eyes of the understanding 
 are opened to their absurdity ; and, lastly, that she was 
 well satisfied with her husband, because he suffered her 
 to follow her own devices unmolested, with the tacit 
 understanding that she should interfere as little with his. 
 She farther confessed, that she did not love the Baron 
 as well as she had loved me ; '' But, then," added she, 
 with a look of malicious meaning, "he is better calculat- 
 ed for a husband than you are, though you may have 
 been the most agreeable lover." 
 
 I defended myself warmly on this point, but she 
 turned all my arguments into jest ; and breakfast being 
 announced, we proceeded towards the well-remember- 
 ed garden — the scene of our parting ten years before. 
 But the well-remembered garden proved to be as much 
 changed as all the rest. The parterres had vanished, and 
 in their place w^ere clumps of young trees and shrub- 
 beries, intermixed with green sward and winding gravel 
 walks, after the fashion of what the French have term- 
 ed Jardins Anglois, The vine-arbour was transformed 
 into a Chinese pagoda, over the bells of which waved 
 the branches of the two old acacias. The interior was 
 fitted up 3iS 3i boudoi?^ in the newest and most expensive 
 Parisian taste. A pink satin sofa, and a rich buhl table 
 
176 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 covered with coffee and chocolate, and all thee^ ceteras 
 of a luxurious breakfast, served in sevres and chased 
 silver, filled the place of the rustic bench and table of 
 other (and to me at least), happier days. 
 
 <* Oh, where is our beautiful vine-arbour — our church 
 — our altar, and the happy days of our childhood ? — 
 All gone !" said I, with a deep sigh, and a look which, 
 probably, conveyed a melancholy reproach to Augustine. 
 
 ^^Does happiness depend on a vine-arbour, then?" 
 she replied, laughing. <^I almost think the reason you 
 don't love me as well now as you did ten years ago, is, 
 that I wear a different gown." 
 
 '^ But, Augustine/' said I, ^< for here I feel a right 
 once more to call you so, have you no regard for the 
 memorials of any of those passing moments of life which 
 are worth all the rest ? Look at this little gold ring, 
 the only relic of my past happiness, and which I have 
 never taken off since you put it on my finger, ten years 
 ago, where we are now sitting." 
 
 ''Well, and pray what do you say to this leaden one, 
 which I wear in honour of you — during breakfast, at 
 least" — said Augustine, holding her hand close to my 
 eyes. " Look! how black it is become, though it lodges 
 in a corner of my jewel case." 
 
 At the sight of the ring a mixed feeling of bitterness 
 and satisfaction overcame me. I seized the beautiful 
 hand and devoured it with kisses. Augustine drew it 
 back hastily. '* You are still the same impassioned en- 
 thusiast, Gustavus ; — you are bad company for me." 
 
 Neither of us had much appetite for breakfast. Au- 
 gustine was absent, and thoughtful — at last she started up, 
 and urged me with sportive earnestness, to leave the 
 pagoda. '< President ! President !" said she, holding 
 up her finger, with a threatening gesture, " I must take 
 care how I again Consent to make you my father con- 
 fessor." 
 
 She laughed and jested all the way across the garden 
 to the house ; where, after receiving her orders to attend 
 her in the evening to the court ball, I took my leave. 
 
 Though I remained a fortnight longer at Dresden, I 
 never had another opportunity of seeing Augustine alone 
 
or GERMAN LIFE. 177 
 
 — perhaps, because I avoided it; for though the last spark 
 of my former reverential love expired on the threshold 
 of the pagoda, I could not conceal from myself that her 
 society was more dangerous to my peace (though in a dif- 
 ferent way) than ever it had been before. 
 
 At length the day of my departure came. How differ- 
 ent was that separation from the last ! Our adieus were 
 drowned by the crash of an orchestra, and the " squeak 
 and gibber'' of a multitude of masquers at the ridotta, 
 after we had been waltzing together the last night of the 
 carnival. She accompanied me to the door of the ball 
 room, and saluting me with a last and smiling *^ adieu, 
 mon ami V she gave her hand to a fresh partner, and 
 plunged again amidst the brilliant crowd. 
 
 I had run my time to the latest moment ; so exchang- 
 ing my domino for a travelling cloak, I stepped from 
 the theatre into my carriage, which was waiting for me, 
 ready packed, at the end of the street. 
 
 I rejoiced from the bottom of my heart at being once 
 more my own master, and at having escaped from the 
 wearisome tumult of what is miscalled ihe great world. 
 To call it the gai/ world, seems no less a misnomer, for 
 nothing makes me so melancholy. 
 
 Stretched in my dormeuse, I traversed forests, moors, 
 towns, and villages, revolving the future, for Augustine 
 had sickened me of the past. Such are the transmuta- 
 tions of Time ! 
 
 My journey, — two days were requisite to convey me 
 to Chemnitz — would have been tiresome, had I lacked 
 adventures, but a very agreeable one occurred on the last 
 day. I stopped to change horses at a little village, and 
 went into the inn, where the host was disputing with a 
 rude, half drunk voiturier. A very young, well dress- 
 ed lady, in travelling costume, sat, with a countenance 
 of timid anxiety, on a bench. The altercation appeared 
 to have arisen from the voiturier's refusing to fulfil his 
 agreement of conveying her, as expeditiously as possible, 
 to a certain place, contending that the bargain had been 
 made with an understanding that he was to go to a town 
 several miles out of the way, to take up some other trav- 
 ellers. The host had taken the part of the distressed 
 
178 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 damsel, but there was no making her intoxicated con- 
 ductor listen to reason. Finding on inquiry, that she 
 was the daughter of the pastor of a village in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Chemnitz, where I was going, and but half 
 a mile out of the road, I soon settled the question. I 
 told her who I was, and, after a short hesitation, my of- 
 fers were accepted. 
 
 At first my companion was rather shy, replying in 
 monosyllables only to my attempts at conversation. 
 But we were gradually jumbled into better acquaintance, 
 and we chatted cheerfully on the various subjects which 
 the objects on the road suggested. I had never heard 
 a voice more soft and musical, while the pure, benignant 
 expression of her mild blue eyes was worthy of a Ma- 
 donna. I learned that her name was Adele Blumenbach, 
 and that her brother had accompanied her a fortnight 
 before to visit their uncle, who was burgomaster of a lit- 
 tle town, twelve miles from thv? inn where I met her. 
 Her brother having been unexpectedly called away to 
 a different part of the country, a return voiturier was 
 engaged by the burgomaster, to convey her back to 
 Bergsdorf. Thus I had to thank the blundering of 
 the uncle, or the knavery of the voiturier, for a most 
 agreeable morning. 
 
 When we arrived at Bergsdorf, the pastor was walk- 
 ing before his door. How I envied Adelaide's father, 
 when 1 saw her in her own natural character, all re- 
 serve thrown aside, spring into the old man's arms 
 with affectionate and childish delight! I was sorry 
 not to be able to accept the pastor's invitation to stay 
 the night ; however, I promised totake an early oppor- 
 tunity of visiting him, as the village was but a short 
 ride from my residence. But the promise was forgot- 
 ten amidst the distractions of business and society. 
 
 About half a year after this — I now number one-and- 
 thirty years — an age when bachelors, who are *' marry- 
 ing men," begin to look at the daughters of Eve with 
 more serious and anxious feelings, — 1 observed amongst 
 the dancers at a ball, a girl, who bore away the palm 
 of beauty from all the rest. Her evident unconscious- 
 ness of the admiration she attracted, was not her least 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 179 
 
 perfection. All the young men were fluttering about 
 her like butterflies about a new blown rose. My heart 
 glowed every time her eyes turned on me, which, to 
 my surprise, happened very often. 
 
 It now suddenly occurred to me that I must have 
 seen her before. Perhaps I had met her at Dresden. 
 I inquired of a man near me, whose attention seemed 
 as much rivetted as mine, and discovered that the ob- 
 ject of our admiration was my quondam travelling 
 companion Adelaide Blumenbach. Resolved to renew 
 our acquaintance, 1 watched an interval of the dance, 
 and joining the crowd of young men who hovered 
 about her, I was not a little flattered to find that she 
 had recollected me at first sight. We danced — I in- 
 quired about her father's health, and lamented that 
 business had prevented my visiting Bergsdorf — for I 
 could not endure to be thought indifferent to such an 
 angel! I repeated my wish of visiting the pastor, to 
 which she replied with the utmost cordiality and open- 
 ness, that her father would be delighted to see me again. 
 
 The ball completely revolutionized me. The presi- 
 dent of the criminal court again became a poet. I 
 never closed my eyes all night — I saw nothing but 
 Elysium and dancing spirits, every one of whom dis- 
 played Adelaide's features. I only wondered how 
 such a girl could have remained so long unmarried. 
 Her father was said to be as good as his daughter was 
 beautiful — but, alas! he had no fortune to give her — 
 Idiots! 
 
 The first moment of leisure I mounted my horse, 
 and galloped to Bergsdorf. The visit was repeated 
 once a week till I was installed as I'ami de la maison, 
 and Adelaide scolded, when through any accident, I 
 missed the appointed day. Tears once filled her eyes, 
 on my replying to her reproaches, that it would per- 
 haps be better if I did not come so frequentl}^ We 
 then got on to quarrelling and making up again. In 
 one of those reconciliations I hazarded a kiss, and was 
 not repulsed — her cheeks only glowed, her eyes sunk 
 to the ground, and she was silent. In short — I loved, 
 and was beloved. The old man shrugged his shoul- 
 
180 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 ders, and said, ^'Friend, my daughter's only dowry is 
 love, virtue, and frugality ; but he who can estimate 
 these, is richer than if he was master of Peru." 
 
 When the first snow drop appeared, the old man 
 gave us his paternal blessing in the village church. 
 And now, for the first time in my life, I knew what it 
 was to be rationally happy. In due course of time we 
 were surrounded with blooming children, every one of 
 which seemed to unite us more closely than before. 
 The pure, exalted character of Adelaide ennobled 
 mine. A man cannot be perfectly happy until he has 
 the courage to be virtuous. Before our marriage, I 
 was anxiously forming plans to save and accumulate 
 property for my future family ; but by the time I had 
 been married ten years, I felt that in the home of my 
 affections 1 could have borne the loss of all, but the 
 means of existence, with cheerfulness. 
 
 I now discovered and acknowledged, that my father 
 had been right in wishing to detach me from Augus- 
 tine. I felt the truth of his argument relative to our 
 equality of ages. For, now that I had entered my 
 fortieth, and my wife her thirtieth year, and that our 
 children were sporting about us, Adelaide was still a 
 beautiful young woman, while Augustine must already 
 be a respectable matron. I heard but seldom of the 
 latter, for as it may be supposed, we did not corres- 
 pond. Report described her as already in the list 
 of the ci-devants, yet retaining a numerous suite of 
 young men, for the most part poets and literati, who 
 duly appreciated the excellence of her table, and the 
 advantages of an introduction to the world of fashion, 
 under the auspices of one of its brightest luminaries. 
 
 Happening to be summoned on professional business 
 to Dresden, I received a long letter from Augustine, 
 informing me of her husband's death, and entreating 
 me, for the sake of our former friendship, to assist her 
 in a law-suit with the Baron Von Winter's family. 
 
 1 could not apprehend the same danger from such a 
 meeting, as ten years before ; I therefore went to see 
 her, this time, on the second day after my arrival, with- 
 out so much as one extra throb of my heart. I had 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 181 
 
 previously sent to let her know that I was coming to 
 discuss the affair of the law-suit, as I was told by one 
 of her friends, that she was constantly engaged, either 
 in playing the mecsenas, or at the card-table ; play 
 having of late become her ruling passion. 
 
 It was a lovely summer's evening, when I walked 
 from my hotel to Augustine's. The servant said his 
 mistress was with company in the garden. I followed 
 him to the Chinese pagoda. I felt rather comical at 
 the recollection of the two last scenes in this spot, of 
 which I had been the hero. 
 
 On entering the temple, I found several persons as- 
 sembled round a faro-table, so absorbed in their devo- 
 tions, that nobody perceived my approach. I recog- 
 nized Augustine; but, oh! how changed! — how wi- 
 thered! All-powerful time! how roughly hadst thou 
 laid thy destroying hand upon her ! No, truly, danger 
 there was none, in approaching such a painted sepul- 
 chre! 
 
 On hearing my name announced by the servant, the 
 Baroness looked up, nodded her head, and begged me 
 to wait a moment till the deal was over. She then 
 arose, overwhelmed me with civilities, called for ices, 
 and invited me to join the party. I declined, on the 
 plea of being unacquainted with the game. 
 
 *'Good gracious!'' she exclaimed, "how, then, do 
 you kill time, if you don't play ?" 
 
 She doubled her stake. The banker had an extraor- 
 dinary run of luck. All the gold of the company was 
 soon heaped before him. It was a fearful sight, to see 
 the inflamed, eager eyes, and the compressed lips, of 
 the losers ; while the winner had scarcely the good 
 manners to suppress his joy. 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha! I have cleaned you all out!" said he, 
 in his gambler's slang, and exhibiting a magnificent 
 diamond ring — <^ You were admiring my solitaire just 
 now, suppose you all stake your rings against it ?" 
 
 The covetous and vindictive glances of the players 
 
 were instantly rivetted on the sparkling treasure. "I 
 
 have no rings on to-day," said the Baroness ; ^^ I must 
 
 send for one." In that moment she looked at me, and 
 
 Vol II.— Q 
 
1S2 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 continued — '* President, perhaps you will save rne trou- 
 ble, and lend me yours for the present ; I will redeem 
 and restore it to you when we go in to supper." 
 
 It so happened, that, from long habit, I had continued 
 to wear the little gold ring, to which such tender and 
 romantic recollections had once been attached. The 
 coincidence was singular enough. I took it off, instead 
 of the more conspicuous seal ring, which had probably 
 caught her eye. 
 
 "With pleasure. Baroness : but look at it first; — 
 it is your own!" 
 
 •^ So much the better," said she, throwing it into 
 the pool, without taking her eyes off of the banker's 
 valuable brilliant. The cards were re-shuffled and cut, 
 and the banker won again. He swept the booty off 
 the table, and with it the pledge of first love ; thus lost, 
 in the very spot where it had been given and received, 
 amidst the warm expressions of youthful feeling, and 
 the oft-repeated vows of eternal fidelity. Another of 
 the magical results of Time. 
 
 We adjourned to supper, where most of the guests 
 recovered their serenity, and Augustine afiected a 
 mirth evidently little in accord with her feelings. The 
 effort to laugh, while discontent and vexation lowered 
 on her brow, gave a crafty, treacherous character to 
 her countenance. Yet I could not help trying to trace 
 the ingenuous loveliness that had once enchained me. 
 There was symmetry in the features still ; but there 
 was a harshness in their contour^ and in the deep lines 
 that scarred her cheeks. While the black eyes, once 
 so beautiful, were now sunk deep in her head. 
 
 The champaign circulated freely, but without produ- 
 cing hilarity in the company. They only talked more 
 and louder, discussing the scandalous gossip of the day 
 with more wit than good nature. It grieved me to 
 perceive that the malice of Augustine exceeded that of 
 all the rest in venom. Even the guests at her own 
 table did not escape its shafts. Ah! who could have 
 dreamt of my once adored, and adorable Augustine, 
 being, at forty, the very reverse of her former self. 
 Disgust and ennui took possession of me ; and, when 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 183 
 
 the gamblers arose from supper to return to the faro- 
 table, I escaped unperceived. 
 
 I regretted having come to Dresden ; or, to say 
 more truly, I was pained to witness Augustine^s de- 
 generacy. The business of the law-suit compelled 
 me to visit her several times, but I could not discover 
 a single redeeming point about her. Once or twice she 
 assumed the tone of sentiment, as if she would fain 
 have renewed our former intimacy, and she was evi- 
 dently piqued at my coolness. I happened in the 
 course of such conversation, accidentally to advert to 
 our ages — '' You are dreaming, President," said she, 
 darting an angry look at me — " you are dreaming, or 
 3'Our memory must have failed prematurely. When I 
 first knew you I was but five years old, while you were 
 a great boy of ten, and more. I remember it perfectly. 
 I am now, therefore, scarcel}' thirty-five. And, entvb 
 nous, it is not impossible that I may marry again. A 
 .distinguished genius, unquestionably the first poet of 
 the age, has long sighed for me, and all his compositions 
 breathe the purest flame of passion.^' 
 
 I modestly wished her joy at having again kindled 
 the *' purest flame of passion," made my bow, and 
 rejoiced to find myself once more on the road to Ade- 
 laide and my children. 
 
 It is only when we have seen the ravages of time on 
 the forms of those we have known in youth, that we 
 are aware how old we ourselves have grown. At 
 Dresden, I fancied myself twenty years older than I 
 really was. But when I embraced my good and true 
 Adelaide, while my children hung about my neck, I 
 felt myself a boy again. 
 
 My return was saddened, however, by the illness of 
 the old pastor, my father-in-law. The last words 
 which he addressed to us, were these : " It is true, that, 
 in the course of years, many of us are called to our 
 * great account,' and those weep who are left behind. 
 Yet even these separations give dignity to life — uniting 
 the here and the hereafter more intimately in our 
 minds. The child is content with a flower, a pebble, 
 or a little corner to play in, regardless of the pursuits 
 
1S4 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 and pleasures of men. But he grows up, and his de- 
 sires enlarge — he seeks wealth and honours — with the 
 lapse of years his views of life take a wider scope. As 
 the child ceases to prize his flower and pebble, the man 
 ceases to value wealth and honour. The world, all- 
 beautiful and wonderful as it is, is insufficient for his 
 soul. He demands immortality, and obtains it!" 
 
 Such were the death-bed words of Adelaide's pious 
 father. We wept at his departure, but we loved him 
 with a deeper, holier love, in life : — a love that impart- 
 ed holiness to ourselves, since our affections were now 
 divided between earth and heaven. 
 
 Our children were the sources of our earthly happi- 
 ness, for they were all good and amiable. I had taken 
 my eldest boy to the university, and soon after, on my 
 fiftieth birth-day, I was agreeably surprised by hearing 
 from my old friend, the minister, that his majesty had 
 been pleased to reward my services with the honourable 
 and easy post which I now enjoy, and which by requir- 
 ing my residence in the capital, enabled me to see my 
 son frequently during his academical studies. 
 
 Near three months elapsed after my establishment at 
 Dresden, without my having seen Augustine. My wife 
 had heard the story of my first love, and longed to be 
 acquainted with her. We learnt that she now lived in 
 the greatest seclusion, having become as avaricious as 
 she had once been prodigal. This passion had succeed- 
 ed to, and was the consequence of gambling, to which 
 she had addicted herself when the desertion of admirers 
 checked the gratification of her vanity. She was said 
 to be a constant attendant at mass, having turned catho- 
 lic during her enthusiasm for a poetical lover of the ro- 
 mantic school, with the idea that it would be a pictur- 
 esque finale to her worldly career, to take the veil, like 
 the Duchesse de la Valliere, whose portrait she was sup- 
 posed to resemble. 
 
 1 felt little inclination to visit her, but Adelaide in- 
 sisted that it was unkind in me not to do so, especially, 
 as the Baroness's situation in theworld was now less bril- 
 liant than mine. Accordingly we went. 
 
 No burly, pompous porter, with laced cocked-hat, 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 185 
 
 embroidered shoulder-band, and gold-headed cane, threw 
 open the gates at my approach. An old woman asked 
 my business through a small iron wicket, and seemed to 
 admit me with reluctant suspicion. The green and gold 
 lackeys had vanished from the hall — and at the sound 
 of a bell which rang above stairs, a slatternly maid came 
 down, and told me, *«her excellency'^ was in the gar- 
 den. To the garden, then, I went — this garden, the 
 scene of pleasing and tender, as well as painful recollec- 
 tions, was now a wilderness. The gravel walks were 
 green with moss, and long rank grass waved sadly upon 
 the lawn. The only discernible vestige of man's care, 
 was in the piles of faggots that had once been flowering 
 shrubs — and in prostrate trees (amongst them the two 
 acacias) cut down for firewood. 
 
 The Chinese pagoda was despoiled of its fantastic 
 ornaments, and a cross on the highest pinnacle gave it 
 the air of a chapel. 
 
 And such it proved to be. The door stood open, and 
 I saw an altar with a picture of the crucifixion over it, 
 before which, a female figure in black was kneeling. 
 Just as my foot trod the threshold, she arose, and not- 
 withstanding the altered style of dress, and the absence 
 of rouge, 1 could not mistake the baroness. I stood 
 still, while she advanced slowly, her eyes bent on the 
 ground — her lips moving as in inward prayer, and a 
 rosary in her fingers. She started on discovering me, 
 but saluted me with apparent pleasure, whilst I could not 
 master the melancholy feelings which the sight of the 
 place and its mistress inspired. 
 
 I felt the tears come into my eyes as I pressed her 
 thin withered hand — 
 
 '^Ah, Augustine!" said I, << think of the various 
 times we have met in this spot ! Think when, as chil- 
 dren, innocent and happy, we exchanged our leaden 
 rings — before the rustic table that stood on the site of 
 yon altar — think when ten years later we — " 
 
 •' Hush! hush!" interrupted the baroness, impetuous- 
 ly, *' forbear to recall such childish follies within these 
 holy precincts." 
 
 "You must hear me, Augustine," continued I, re- 
 
 VOL. II. — Q 2 
 
186 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF GERMAN LIFE. 
 
 gardless of her prohibition, '< was it well to convert the 
 temple of pure and innocent affection into a luxurious 
 boudoir, and afterwards into a gambler's den ! Say, 
 was it well to game away before my eyes that little ring, 
 the last, and only memorial of our early love, at a vile 
 faro-table? and now — a chapel here !" 
 
 I spoke with such rapid vehemence, that Augustine 
 was compelled, however unwillingly, to listen to my 
 reproaches. 
 
 ** Sir," she replied, highly offended, " we are not for 
 ever destined to wander in the paths of error — I have 
 been awakened from the vain and sinful pleasures of the 
 world — you pain me by this recurrence to the past. If 
 you regard your own salvation, you would rather follow 
 my example, renounce a wicked, treacherous world, and 
 seek the favour of Heaven through prayer and penance." 
 
 I would not prolong an interview so painful and un- 
 profitable to both parties, but took my leave ; and again 
 blessed the wise foresight of my father, as determined 
 never to repeat my visit, I pensively returned to my 
 happy home. 
 
 " What magic," thought I, '^ so wonderful as the 
 magic of Time ! Augustine, the innocent and tender — 
 Augustine, the vain and voluptuous— Augustine, the 
 gambler and miser — and last of all — Augustine, the bigot 
 and devotee!" 
 
^^T IS VERY POSSIBLE! 
 
^'IT IS VERY POSSIE(LE!' 
 
 This was the favourite exclamation of the late Baron 
 Stryk. It would even creep into the reports which he 
 laid before the council, and draw forth a smile, such as 
 we are wont to bestow upon our neighbour's foibles, 
 from his official brethren. The baron had possessed 
 the confidence of two successive sovereigns: he was 
 universally acknowledged to be a man of learning, 
 judgment, and profound knowledge of human nature. 
 His reputation on these points was perhaps greater than 
 he really deserved. He was not only esteemed, but 
 feared, by his brother diplomatists, since they could 
 not trust one whom they believed deeper than them- 
 selves. And yet the baron was an open-hearted, hon- 
 ourable, conscientious man, whose conduct was unim- 
 peachable in every respect. This, however, was con- 
 sidered as the result of double art, and a conclusive 
 reason for being on their guard against him. Yet the 
 reputation which he enjoyed of being the most clear- 
 sighted politician of his day, was founded on little more 
 than the tone in which he repeated on every occasion, 
 " It is very possible!" 
 
 Some anecdotes of a man so remarkable in the poli- 
 tical history of his country may afford amusement to 
 the curious in human peculiarities. We are indebted 
 for them partly to his own journal, and partly to the 
 recollections of his son. 
 
 This favourite phrase of the baron's was the main- 
 spring of all his actions. When it escaped him, as it 
 often did involuntarily, he would consider its possible 
 application to the subject in point, by w^hich he was on 
 
190 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 many occasions led to rectify or clear his views. It 
 influenced not only his opinions, but his conduct, so 
 advantageously, that he endeavoured to persuade his 
 only son Fritz to adopt it. 
 
 But Fritz, after tlie manner of young people in ge- 
 neral, imagined himself wiser than his father, and was 
 disposed to thirk the practice rather quizzical. 
 
 '' Such a peculiarity is very pardonable, my dear fa- 
 ther, in a man like you, but the imitation of it in me 
 would appear ludicrous.^' 
 
 " It is very possible!'^ replied the baron, ^* but what 
 does that signify, if by this simple expedient, you gain 
 peace, equanimity, and reflection — the chief compon- 
 ents of human happiness ? — But if you will not expose 
 yourself to »the world's dread laugh' by uttering the 
 words aloud, at least utter them mentally on all occa- 
 sions." 
 
 Fritz smiled. 
 
 "I would have you inherit my serenity of mind, 
 Fritz," continued his father; "and strange, and perhaps 
 absurd as you may think it, I can assert with truth, that 
 I owe all I am, all I possess, to these four little words." 
 
 "What could first induce you to adopt them?" said 
 the young man. 
 
 *' Misfortune and despair, under which my youth 
 would have sunk, but for the support they afi'orded me. 
 By them I obtained the mastery over myself. 
 
 '' My parents were excellent pious people, in confin- 
 ed circumstances. They left barely enough to defray 
 my expenses at college, and to maintain me until such 
 time as I might reasonably hope to obtain some employ- 
 ment. 
 
 " I was young and uncorrupted — I had studied much, 
 and my imagination had surrounded me with ideal be- 
 ings, gifted with all that is great and noble in character. 
 To this may be attributed the misfortunes of my early 
 life. For I remained ignorant of the real world, at one 
 time believing it to be peopled by angels, and at ano- 
 ther by devils, just according to what I had met with 
 last." 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 191 
 
 ««That is very often the case with me, even now," 
 observed Fritz. 
 
 *' 'Tis very possible/' rejoined his father, ^'For 
 the young man who has never fallen into such errors, 
 must either be cold or corrupted. // faut en passer 
 par la. 
 
 '* To resume my story — I was obliged to work as an 
 unsalaried clerk for a considerable time, before I ob- 
 tained an insignificant office with a meagre stipend. I 
 did not, however, complain, as it was in the natural 
 course of things, and I was prepared for it. I concealed 
 my poverty — for had it been known, both high and low, 
 rich and poor, would have rated me far below my real 
 merits. I took care, therefore, always to be well dressed, 
 occupied good lodgings, and frequented the best com- 
 pany. Now and then, too, I even consented to join a 
 party of pleasure, where I knew I should be called on 
 to spend more than was convenient to me. Yet with 
 all this, I kept clear of debts, a point which always tells 
 in favour of a young man of my age and situation in 
 life — and while every body believed me to be in afflu- 
 ent circumstances, I really spent very little. All this 
 while no one suspected the fact, that I lived more fru- 
 gally than any galley slave — never tasting anything but 
 bread and w'ater, or milk. Still I was happy, not only 
 in the consciousness of duty faithfully discharged, and 
 in the hope of a more prosperous fortune, but I was 
 really content with my present lot, and not without 
 reason, far I was everywhere well received ; I was popu- 
 lar with the women; and not disliked by the men. 
 
 " Amongst the latter, however, I had but one chosen 
 and intimate friend, a young lawyer, nam.ed Schneemul- 
 ler. It might have been said that we had but one heart 
 and one wiii, so perfectly did our tastes and feelings ac- 
 cord. He had risked his life for me in a duel at the uni- 
 versity, and given me a thousand proofs of friendship 
 afterwards. 
 
 ^' Among my female acquaintance there was also one 
 whom I preferred to all the rest. Philippine, the daugh- 
 ter of the old General Von Tyten. I loved her long in 
 silence, unconscious how deeply. I looked up to her as 
 
192 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 a being of a superior orcler, and never approached but 
 with humble adoration. My passion was known only to 
 my own heart, for I could nevei' i^ring myself to disclose 
 it. There are feelings so sacred, that we fear to profane 
 them by utterance. Hence our reluctance to speak to a 
 third person of our love, or to discuss our religious sen- 
 timents in company." 
 
 *^ Did you not confide your feelings to your friend?" 
 
 **No, not even to him — on the contrary, I heard first 
 from him what seemed at the time incredible — that it 
 w'as generally said Philippine was in love with me, and 
 that some unpleasant scenes had passed between her and 
 her mother in consequence. 
 
 *^ Schneemuller's information was, however, confirm- 
 ed about six months after, when Philippine and I hap- 
 pening to visit a mutual friend at the same time, the op- 
 portunities of greater intimacy afforded by a country 
 house, led to the disclosure of our respective feelings. 
 Of course we swore, and believed that our love could 
 only terminate with life. 
 
 *<From this moment I w^as in heaven, and fortune 
 seemed to shower her favours upon me. I obtained a 
 place in the Dowager Duchess's household, with a re- 
 spectable s.dary. 
 
 *'The gulf between me and Philippine seemed to con- 
 tract. — The general began to treat me more confiden- 
 tially, and his wife was less hard upon Philippine for 
 her romantic notions on certain subjects. 
 
 *^Soon after this a distant relation died in Batavia, 
 and left me all his property, which was very considera- 
 ble, and vested in the Dutch funds, from whence it 
 could not be drawn without some formalities. I rejoic- 
 ed in this accession, but only for Philippine's sake. 
 
 '* About this time Count Cronstad, a handsome young 
 man, and our sovereign's favourite, began to pay her 
 great attention. She perceived that I was uneasy, and 
 not only laughed and coaxed my jealousy away, but 
 urged me also to make serious proposals to her father. 
 I was a shy man, and detested such stupid formalities, 
 but I prepared to comply. It was necessary, in the first 
 place, that I should goto Amsterdam to take possession 
 
OP GERMAN LIFE. 193 
 
 of my cousin's bequest, that I might be provided with 
 all the qualifications the old general would require in a 
 son-in-law. The idea of such a long journey was, how- 
 ever, disagreeable to me ; partly because 1 could not 
 bear the separation from Philippine ; partly because 
 she herself objected to my going ; and partly because 
 the continued assiduities of the handsome and brilliant 
 count, made me a little fidgetty still. At last it was 
 agreed that, instead of going myself, I should give a 
 letter of attorney to Schneemuller, v/hose knowledge 
 of law would enable him to expedite matters, should any 
 difficulty arise with the executors." 
 
 ^'How comes it,'' asked Fritz, "that I never heard 
 you speak of this friend of yours before." 
 
 *^That you shall see," replied his father. ''Days 
 and weeks passed, without a line from Schneemuller. 
 1 wrote to him again and again. At last it struck me 
 that some dreadful accident must have befallen him in 
 the way, or that he must be very ill. Love gave way 
 to friendship ; and, in spite of Philippine's tears, I set 
 on for Amsterdam. 
 
 *' I inquired at every relay, and traced my friend by 
 the livre des voyageurs. On my arrival at Amsterdam, 
 I drove straight to the mercantile house with which he 
 was to have transacted the chief part of the business. I 
 found that he had been there, and had received the 
 whole amount of my inheritance, on giving the proper 
 receipts, which were shown to me. 
 
 ''I continued my search, and with the aid of the po- 
 lice, I discovered that a man answering to the descrip- 
 tion I gave of Schneemuller's figure had embarked about 
 three weeks before, in an American ship for New York. 
 I kept repeating to myself, and to every body else. ' It 
 is impossible !' But the fact was ascertained beyond 
 all doubt. My best and only friend had betrayed me!" 
 
 ''Horrible !" exclaimed Fritz. 
 
 " Distress of mind and fatigue threw me into a fever. 
 As soon, however, as I was able to travel, I returned 
 home, broken-hearted, not for the loss of my money, 
 though that was serious enough, since it might prove an 
 obstacle to my union with Philippine ; but for the loss 
 Vol. II.— R 
 
194 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 of my friend, and for the loss of what was far more pre- 
 cious to me than all the gold of Peru ; my confidence 
 in human nature! 
 
 " I arrived too late to present myself that evening at 
 General Von Tyten's, otherwise I should have flown to 
 Philippine, whom I had apprized by letter of my mis- 
 fortune as soon as I discovered it. The proprietor of 
 the house in which I lodged, an old companion in office, 
 came in to see me, just as 1 had made up my mind to 
 postpone my visit till to-morrow. After returning his 
 salutation, I asked what news." 
 
 ^'Nothing particular,^' replied he, " nothing but what 
 you probably know already — General Von Tyten's 
 beautiful daughter is at last married." 
 
 <' Impossible!" I exclaimed. «« You are jesting, or 
 dreaming." 
 
 <« Neither one or the other. She is married to Count 
 Cronstad." 
 
 «• Count Cronstad! imposssible! It cannnot be!" 
 
 <^ How very strange," said he, '< that you should not 
 have heard what made so much noise here. But the 
 wonder is near a fortnight old, and has ceased to be talk- 
 ed about." 
 
 <'My friend gave a circumstantial detail of all that 
 was known respecting the marriage, by which it appear- 
 ed that Philippine had not required much persuasion to 
 give her hand to this rich and powerful young nobleman, 
 and that, too, shortly after receiving the account of my 
 disasters at Amsterdam. I could not, however, give 
 full credit to my informant, but exclaimed at every 
 pause in his narrative, 'impossible!' < I can't believe 
 it !' 
 
 ** I spent the night in great agitation, yet trying all 
 the time to persuade myself that it was a mistake of my 
 gossiping host's ; still repeating ''tis impossible! im- 
 possible that Philippine should prove a jilt!' Before 
 twelve o'clock the next day, however, I had heard the 
 confirmation of my misfortune, not only from a dozen 
 acquaintances whom I met on my way to the general's, 
 but from the general himself, who was still so pre-occu- 
 pied by his daughter's good fortune, that he never ob- 
 served the consternation which I must have betrayed." 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 195 
 
 <i Infamous !'' cried Fritz, his indignation boiling 
 over. 
 
 <^ So I thought at the time," continued the baron, 
 '^ for though the general had not committed himself by 
 any positive promise, since I had not yet made any for- 
 mal proposal, yet he could not but have perceived the 
 terms on which I was with Philippine. Thus betrayed 
 by the two persons in whom all my affections, and all 
 my happiness were centered, I trusted nothing more on 
 earth. The love of woman, the truth of man, and the 
 stability of fortune, were to me but as .shadows. All 
 that I had supposed impossible, had happened — and to 
 the strangest and most unlikely things, I always answer- 
 ed, ^ it is very possible !' 
 
 " In these words is contained the whole of that wis- 
 dom for which the world has been pleased to give me 
 credit. I resolved not only to utter, but to think them 
 on every occassion. They were my comfort under af- 
 fliction. I learned to depend on nothing here below, 
 save my own W'ill. Canst thou ever again be happy ? 
 have I said to myself. * It is very possible,' was the 
 reply, and so it proved. Fortune's favours dazzled me 
 no more, for I thought of the past— and felt that evil 
 days might come again. 
 
 <^One of my happiest days was that on which you, 
 Fritz, first saw the light. But I tempered my joy with 
 the reflectioh that death might snatch you from me, or 
 you might live, and turn out a scoundrel. The < 'tis 
 possible,' sobered me, and I was armed against the 
 worst." 
 
 ^^ But God be praised, father," said Fritz, <* neither 
 has happened." 
 
 ^' Yet they were not the less possible, Fritz — since I 
 adopted these words for my motto, I take every bright 
 moment as a gift from Heaven ; but without supposing 
 that it is to last. In the same manner I am resigned in 
 every dark one, equally persuaded that the light will 
 dawn again." 
 
 No one can dispute the truth of the Privy Counsel- 
 lor's theory, yet his favourite saying brought him into 
 more scrapes than one, at least into what most people 
 
196 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 would have deemed such. But his serenity was not 
 easily troubled. For instance, one day, about the time 
 of the French revolution, a cabinet council was held, at 
 
 which his sovereign, the elector of was present. 
 
 Business being over, a conversation ensued relative to 
 the late horrible outrages committed at Paris and Lyons. 
 "Who could have supposed," said the Elector, "that a 
 nation hitherto so slavishly devoted to their kings, 
 would have proceeded to such opposite extrem.ities ! 
 Frenchmen only could be guilty of such inconsistency. 
 I am quite sure that neither my subjects, nor those of 
 any other German Prince, would rejoice over the fall 
 of their sovereign. Do you think it possible — Stryk!" 
 
 But Stryk had been absorbed in his own meditations 
 during the greater part of the conversation, and of the 
 question addressed to him by the Prince, he had only 
 heard the last words. He shrugged his shoulders, and 
 mechanically repeated his favourite phrase. " 'Tis very 
 possible !" 
 
 The Elector made a step backwards. " What do you 
 mean ?" said he, '^ what motive have you for suppos- 
 ing that my people would rejoice in my destruction ?" 
 
 " It is very posible,'^ replied Stryk, awaking from 
 his reverie. "We cannot see into futurity, nothing is 
 so unstable as the people, for the people consists of men, 
 every one of whom prefers himself to his sovereign. A 
 new order of things gives birth to new prospects — new 
 hopes. The hope of obtaining a good, is even more se- 
 ductive than the possession of the good itself. Much 
 and deservedly as your Electorial Highness is beloved 
 by your people, I would not swear that in altered cir- 
 cumstances, forgetful of your benefits, they would not 
 illuminate and shout for a republic, or for the success of 
 a usurper. It is very possible." 
 
 " You are not in your senses. Counsellor Stryk," re- 
 plied the Elector, angrily, and turning upon his heel. 
 
 Stryk fell into disgrace, and every body called him a 
 fool. 
 
 A few years after this, the French armies crossed the 
 Rhine. The Elector and his court took flight. The 
 people shouted for liberty and equality, pulled down the 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 197 
 
 electoral arms, and illuminated the capital for his de- 
 parture. 
 
 Stryk's experience and efficiency as a man of busi- 
 ness, might have obtained him a high appointment under 
 the new government, but the well-known cause of his 
 disgrace with the Elector insured it. He was looked 
 upon as a victim of the Prince's despotism, and the new 
 order of things being confirmed, he recovered his charac- 
 ter for wisdom. Though his mind was naturally ardent, 
 he never indulged in political enthusiasm. He exhibit- 
 ed no party-spirit, and consequently the Jacobins sus- 
 pected him of being at heart a royalist ; while the roy- 
 alists hated him for the Jacobinical principles which they 
 thought he disguised under outward moderation. He 
 laughed at both, and honestly discharged his duty. 
 
 A member of the French republican government 
 visited the apartment. He was received with all possi- 
 ble distinction. Every body crowded round him, and 
 sought to obtain importance in his eyes. Amongst them 
 there were not wanting some, who tried to attain their 
 object, by insinuating doubts as to the sincerity of 
 Stryk's attachment to the republic. An entertainment 
 was given in honour of the Frenchman. After drink- 
 ing with ** enthusiasm," as the newspapers would say, 
 to the rights of the people, the cause of freedom all 
 over the world, and the victorious career of the republic, 
 the great man addressed himself to Stryk, who sat next 
 him, and said, — ^< Nothing surprises me more than that 
 these monarchs should still venture to oppose us. It 
 can only hasten their own destruction. Our glorious 
 revolution will set an example to all the rest of the 
 world. What can the fools hope for ? Do they imagine 
 that all their armies united can subdue the greatest na- 
 tion in the universe, and force the detested race of Bour- 
 bon upon us ? — Blockheads ! All Europe shall perish 
 first! — What say you, citizen ! Do you thing it proba- 
 ble that monarchy should ever be re-established in 
 France ?" 
 
 '' Certainly not probable," replied Stryk, ^^ but very 
 possible." 
 
 *' How ! very possible !" cried the Frenchman, in a 
 
 VOL. II. — R 2 
 
i9S LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 voice that startled the company — ^^No man can be a 
 true friend to liberty who doubts of its duration. I 
 am sorry, citizen, that a man so high in office as you are, 
 should hold such doctrines. How can you defend 
 them ?" 
 
 '* ^VHiy it is very possible," calmly returned Stryk. 
 *'^ Athens first submitted to a Pericles and then to a king 
 of Macedon. Rome first bowed the neck to a trium- 
 virate, then to a Ctesar, and lastly to a Nero. England 
 beheaded her king — was governed by a Cromwell — and 
 ended by recalling Charles II.'' 
 
 '^Why quote Greeks, Romans, and English?" said 
 the Frenchman. "What have we to do with nations 
 so utterly devoid of character, and fit for slavery alone ? 
 Ycu cannot, surely, compare them with the French ? 
 But I forgive your mistaken views. You are born on 
 the wrong side of the Rhine." 
 
 Notwithstanding this assurance of forgiveness, Stryk 
 was arrested soon after ; deprived of his office, and 
 subjected to a series of vexatious interrogatories, for 
 having promulgated sentiments unfavourable to liberty. 
 
 In a few )'ears Napoleon became first consul, then 
 consul for life, then emperor and king. 
 
 Stryk's acknowledged ability and uprightness, and the 
 circumstance of his having constantly belonged to the 
 moderate party, caused him to be restored to his former 
 rank and employments. From this time he was held 
 in higiier estimation than ever; so much of what he 
 had foretold had come to pass, that he was looked upon 
 as a political prophet. Napoleon m.etamorphosed the 
 world, and gave away thrones. Stryk became the ser- 
 vant of one of ihe new made monarchs, who loaded him 
 with honours. Republican principles went out of fash- 
 ion, and all bowed before the new sovereign. Each 
 flattering himself that he alone had preserved his senses, 
 am.id the general intoxication. No greater insult could 
 be ofi'ered to a man than to insinuate that he had ever 
 ceased to be a royalist. 
 
 '< I see no cause for offence," said the counsellor one 
 morning, when an altercation, mixed up with bitter 
 taunts and reproaches, arose amongst a party of his most 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE.' 109 
 
 intimate friends — " You do ill to upbraid one another 
 with having caught an epidemic, from which none altoge- 
 ther escaped, and which may return under similar cir- 
 cumstances. It is very possible, believe me." 
 
 '^ What ! do you take me for such a fool ? I, at least," 
 indignantly said or thought each of those to whom lie 
 addressed himself, — '^ am not so easily blown about by 
 every wind that blows!" 
 
 "You remind me of the Egyptian sultan in the 
 Spectator," said Stryk. <« He piqued himself on the 
 strength of mind which raised him above the prejudices 
 and superstitions of the vulgar. Among the sacred 
 subjects which he was fond of ridiculing, was the chap- 
 ter of the Koran in which it is related, that the angel 
 Gabriel appeared to Mahomet one morning, as he lay in 
 bed, and conducted him through hell and the seven hea- 
 vens. Mahomet not onl}'- saw all that was to be seen, 
 but held ninety thousand conferences with God, and all 
 in so short a space of time, that on his return to earth, 
 he found his bed still warm, and a pitcher of water 
 which he had overturned at his departure, not quite 
 emptied. One day that the sultan was exercising his 
 wit on this miracle, in the presence of a Santon, re- 
 nowned for sanctity, and supposed to have perform.ed 
 miracles, — the holy man promised to heal the sultan of 
 his incredulity, if he would do as he directed. The 
 sultan assented, and the Santon led him to a tub of water, 
 and desired him to plunge liis head in, and drav/ it out 
 again immediately. The sultan did as he was directed, 
 and scarcely felt the cold water touch his head, when 
 he found himself alone at the foot of a mountain on the 
 sea shore. He cursed the Santon, and resolved to make 
 him repent his temerity. But there was nothing to be 
 done but to submit to his fate. Fortunately, he spied 
 some woodcutters at a little distance, who directed him 
 to a city on the other side of the wood. He dared not 
 say he was the sultan of Egypt, for who u^ould believe 
 it at such a distance from home, for the woodcutters 
 had told him that he was on the shore of the Caspian 
 Sea. 
 
 '« After many adventures he gained the favour of a 
 
200 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 rich man, who gave him his daughter in marriage. She 
 brought him seven sons, and as many daughters, and 
 then died. By a series of misfortunes he was plunged 
 into extreme misery, and reduced to the necessity of beg- 
 ging his bread in the streets. He wept at the remem.- 
 brance of all his former power and magnificence, and ac- 
 knowledged this reverse to be a just punishment for his 
 unbelief. Thus repentant, he undertook a pilgrimage 
 to Mecca. He stopped before he ventured to enter the 
 city, to bathe in the river. He undressed and plunged in^ 
 On raising his head above the water, however, he was as- 
 tonished to find, that instead of being in the river, he 
 was standing by the tub, in the presence of the Santon 
 and all his court ; and still more to learn from them, 
 that he had never moved from the spot, but had merely 
 dipped his head into the water, and taken it out again. 
 
 «« You, my good friends," continued the counsellor, 
 «<are in the same predicament as the Egyptian sultan. 
 Had any one told you before the revolution, what you 
 would do during its course, you would not have believ- 
 ed him. Your heads are now out of the tub, and you 
 will not confess what you thought, felt, or did, during 
 the magical moment. Should the emigre Bourbons and 
 nobles return, to France, (and it is very possible) I 
 wager, that you will disbelieve the reality of all that has 
 happened since 1789, and stand, like the sultan by the 
 side of the tub, rejoicing that all he had undergone was 
 but the <* baseless fabric of a vision.' " 
 
 The company laughed. The counsellor's story had 
 at least given them time to cool, and all were now in 
 good humour, while a few even allowed that he was 
 right. In fact, he lived to see the fall of Napoleon, 
 and the restoration of legitimate monarchy. 
 
 This re-action could not prove dangerous to a man of 
 Stryk's opinions, especially as he was disgraced towards 
 the close of Napoleon's career, on account of an unfor- 
 tunate application of his favourite saying, to the event 
 of the projected invasion of Russia. 
 
 The nevv legitimate of course re-appointed all who 
 had incurred the displeasure of the ^' Corsican usurper," 
 and Stryk was again in office. But he did not continue 
 
OF GERMAN LIFE. 201 
 
 there long. The sovereign giving him to understand, 
 one day, that his having served under so many difierent 
 governments, occasioned his being looked upon as a 
 trimmer. 
 
 ^^It is very possible," replied the old man, in his dry 
 mechanical manner. ^' For," he added after a moment's 
 thought, ^^ I have ever been a faithful serv^ant of the 
 state." 
 
 ^^ That is somewhat contradictory," said the prince. 
 *^ How can a man be called a faithful servant of the 
 state, who pays court to a rightful master, one day ; and 
 to an usurper the next ?" 
 
 ** Just because I have alwaj'-s endeavoured, sir, to be 
 the servant of the state and not of a master. Under 
 bad rulers, it becomes doubly the duty of every friend 
 of his country to devote himself to its service." 
 
 This distinction between the ruler and the people, 
 sounded somewhat radical in the ears of the legitimate; 
 and it was not long before the counsellor received his 
 eong6 with a retiring pension. But, even in retirement, 
 he preserved the esteem which his upright conduct had 
 obtained amidst all the political changes, as w^ell as his 
 reputation for political sagacity. 
 
 Being complimented by a friend, upon his singular 
 gift of anticipating the various changes of governments, 
 he smiled and said, *< It is easy to obtain a reputation 
 for superior foresight. With a sound understanding and 
 sang-froid, a man may discern much, while the rest of 
 the world, blind with passion, run against and confound 
 one another." 
 
 ^' I wish you would but teach me your art!" said one 
 of his panegyrists. 
 
 " It is very possible ;" he replied. *« In order to see 
 into the future, we must look at the past : the prophet's 
 mirror hangs far behind him." 
 
 THE END.