MORTON'S HOPE.
Malvolio. “Not yet old enough for a man, nor young
enough for a boy; as a graft is before 'tis a peasecod, or a
codling when 'tis almost an apple; 'tis with him e'en standing
water between boy and man. He is very well favoured,
and he speaks very shrewishly; one would think his mother's
milk were scarce out of him.”
Twelfth Night.
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CHAPTER I. MY AUNT.
[figure description] Page 005.[end figure description]
I am of honest parentage,—with this, if I obeyed
the dictates of my own judgment, I should dismiss
the subject.
The prejudices, however, of a respected relative,
now deceased, made an early impression upon
my mind; and although, to say the truth, there
were obstinate symptoms of a carpenter, among
my immediate ancestry, yet my aunt, who was
fond of heraldry, was not to be deterred by such
trifles from vindicating the antiquity of her race.
She elbowed her way accordingly through the
mob of operatives, who are apt to encumber the
path of a genealogically-inclined American, with
vast adroitness; and at last, after some trouble,
settled herself to her satisfaction at the end of
a line of reputable, nay, I may add, of showy
ancestors.
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Fostered by her care, our family, which to all
appearance, was but a scrub of its species, flourished
like a Banian.
Hence it will be seen, that if I had believed
all the legends and traditions which she had
carefully collated, I might now have much entertaining
matter to relate, concerning the ancient
history of the Mortons.
I own, however, it always seemed to me a
little absurd, if my ancestors had been such eminent
people as she supposed, that nobody in the
world should ever have heard of them. It is
very certain that if they were in reality as illustrious
as she would have it, they always kept it
to themselves. She was the only person I ever
heard of who interested herself at all in the matter.
The delight, however, which she took in
her favourite subject was ineffable. It was
amusing to see her hopping and chattering like
a bobalink from twig to twig of the above-mentioned
family-tree; but unfortunately when she
was fairly perched upon the top, there was no
possibility of bringing her down again into the
regions of common sense.
Accordingly the information I derived from her
was, after all, of no great value. It seems pretty
certain, however, that the Mortons had always
an unlucky facility for getting on the wrong
side. In Cromwell's time they were said to have
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been staunch Cavaliers, and so forfeited half their
estate; and just as the tide was turning, they
seemed to have turned too, and so lost the other.
The Roundhead gentleman of one generation
soured into a Puritan in the next. The Puritan
dwindled into a dissenter, and the dissenting clergyman,
after having in vain endeavoured to
learn Dutch, and smoke meerschaums with the
Congregationalists of Leyden, finally shipped himself
for America, and landed in the merry month
of November on the genial shores of Newfoundland.
Fortunately the climate proved even too
severe for the frigid constitution of the Nonconformist—
for if my respectable ancestor had not
thought proper to remove to a trifling distance
from the Arctic regions, where he first landed, it
is probable that his descendant would have been a
white bear by this time, instead of the compiler
of this pleasing autobiography.
Of my father, I shall, after this chapter, have
very little to say, at least till a future period.
There was a mystery about him which I was
a long time unable to solve. He walked in a
cloud, and there seemed to be a mark upon his
forehead. My mother, I never knew; for she
died in my infancy. But in order to put an
end to this unnecessary branch of my subject,
I may as well mention that I consider my maternal
lineage more illustrious than my paternal
-- 008 --
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one. My mother was the direct descendant of an
ancient and royal race. As, however, her birth
belonged to the description of those
“At which the herald smiles,”
I suppose I am likely to derive but little benefit
from it.
Not to keep you in suspense; she was an Indian
princess. Her family was of the best blood
of the Six Nations, and the tombs of the last
of her forefathers, who were converted to Christianity,
may still be seen, upon a lovely plain in
one of the sweetest spots of New-England.
The race, however, has of late fallen into decay;
and ill-natured acquaintances have even
gone so far as to affirm in my hearing, that
they have met with Sachems of the Uncas family
in the kitchens of certain opulent parvenus.
One evening, late in the Autumn of the year
1760, I was sitting in the parlour of my uncle,
Joshua Morton, with whom, I trust, the reader
will soon become better acquainted. It was at his
villa, some ten miles from Boston; a huge and
grotesquely constructed palace of clap-boards and
shingles.
I was then about six years of age, and on
the evening I speak of, was amusing myself
with an occupation, which was considered among
the prominent proofs of my infant talents. I
-- 009 --
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was seated in the corner of the room, directing
an exhibition of a puppet theatre. Probably there
is not a child in ten, that has not manifested
the same uncommon genius in the same uncommon
way; but the plays that I enacted, and
the wonderful characters that I invented or selected,
were the constant themes of admiration
for my uncle and aunt, and the rest of my
relations. I was considered a prodigy of dramatic
talent—mechanical ingenuity—epic invention—
the Lord knows what. On this occasion,
I was representing an ingenious comedy, of which
I recollect nothing but that the devil and French
king were the two most prominent characters.
It was during the war of Great Britain with
France, and as my uncle was a staunch loyalist,
this extraordinary effort of invention was hailed
as a proof of his nephew's incipient patriotism,
as well as a purely intellectual phenomenon.
As I was repeating my drama over and over
again for the old gentleman's gratification, the
report of a pistol was heard from without. My
uncle jumped up; a crackling of leaves near the
house betrayed the hasty steps of a stranger; they
came nearer; presently one of the windows,
which reached to the ground, was thrown violently
open, and a stranger suddenly sprang into
the room nearly oversetting my uncle in his haste.
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CHAPTER II. TWO BROTHERS.
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I had never seen the personage who made his
appearance so unceremoniously. I never saw him
again for years, but the first impression he made
upon my mind was indelible. He was tall, and
dressed in a sort of mixture of the military and
the Indian costume. He had no hat, and a torrent
of auburn hair fell over his shoulders half
way to his waist. His eyes were large and blue,
and soft as a woman's; his face was regular,
but the lower part was almost entirely concealed
by immense mustachios and beard. He had a
red uniform coat with the British button, together
with leather leggins and moccasins; a
blanket was hung round his left shoulder, and a
rifle was in his right hand. As he entered the
room, he was about to address my uncle, who
seemed to regard him with a look of surprise
and horror, when suddenly his eyes lighted upon
me. To my utter dismay, he bounded towards
me like a tiger, and his eye gleamed with joy.
He caught me in his arms, pressed me to his
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heart, and covered me with frantic kisses. For
a moment I hung motionless in his embrace, still
holding the devil firmly by the tail, in an ecstacy
of astonishment and fear. Presently, I began to
roar with anger and to cuff my new acquaintance,
with all the impotent malice of an infant's
rage. Finding his situation uncomfortable, the
stranger strode towards the window, with evident
intentions of taking me with him. He was
intercepted, by my uncle, who advanced toward
him with a pistol in his hand.
Upon this, the stranger, smiling with perfect
sweetness, stopped suddenly, and said, “Joshua
Morton, lest you should seek further to intimidate
me, the only way in which you can possibly excite
the evil spirit, which towards you at least, has
long been dormant within me, I will release the
child.” The stranger's voice was like a silver
clarion, and the tones haunted my memory for
years. As he finished, he placed me gently on
the ground.
“Joshua Morton,” continued he, advancing
close to my uncle, “I have long dismissed all
thoughts of violence towards you and yours. I
came here, through a thousand dangers, actuated
by a single hope. For the love of God, grant
me the child!”
My uncle seemed almost suffocated with conflicting
emotions. For an instant, as he yielded
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to the strange fascination of the other's voice, he
seemed to hesitate; but suddenly his hatred and
anger again obtained the mastery. “Serpent —
vulture — fiend!” he exclaimed, “you are even
more hateful to me in this aping of forbearance —
I hate you less when you are at least not hypocritical.
Why should the wolf fear to show his
fangs, however smeared with blood?”
“Morton — Morton,” replied the other, “I am
not what you think me, — guilty I am — bloodstained—
damned. But I was not always what
fate, circumstances, nay, what you yourself have
made me. — Every day, every hour, I become
worse — I feel my heart freezing within me —
give me something to love — indeed, indeed, I
am not quite a fiend!”
“Do not prate to me of love. If you would
soften me, speak to me, as you are.—Do I not
know you full of hate and of deceit?—Have I
not found you subtle as a serpent—and ferocious
as false? Will you ask of me something that
you can love — of me, who know every line of
your history?”
“One day you will discover how much of that
history was false — but I scorn to explain. All
that for a moment can reconcile me with my
nature, is that I do not pardon myself. I know
myself too deeply laden with crimes that are
my own, to care to cast off the imputation of
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others which do not belong to me. My back
aches with the burden, but I have strength to
bear all till the end. One day — you will learn
how much you have wronged me — you will
discover when it is too late, that you might still
have loved me — have still reclaimed me to virtue,
if not to happiness. But I am willing in
part to atone for my own follies and crimes, by
wearing the brand of those I was incapable of
committing — if I had time I would even now—”
A gun was fired at a slight distance from the
house. It seemed to be a signal for the stranger,
for he resumed, hastily and earnestly—“Morton—
Morton—I have but an instant's time—oh!
do not drive me back into myself. Grant my
prayer—give me something external, around which
my affections may cling. My heart is crushed—
but not dead. Give me the child—Let me still
love—Pity me — for the love of our mother, pity
me.”
“If you were writhing in the last agony at
my feet,” replied the other, “I would not reach
forth my hand to wipe the death sweat from
your face. If you hung before me on the cross,
I would not moisten your throat with one single
water-drop. If with your expiring voice you sought
me for forgiveness, I would not soothe the parting
pang by one merciful look. Is it you — is it
Maurice Morton that asks for pity — the criminal
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whose hands are dyed to the bone in the blood
which is dearest to me, that dares to ask for pity?”
“If I were not criminal, should I ask to be forgiven?—
Is it not because I am a wretch, that I
sue for compassion? If I were not guilty, should
I fear myself? I ask not to be restored to happiness—
not even tranquillity — nor peace. I ask
for the child, that I may once more know a human
feeling. I say not a word in extenuation
of my crimes; but hear me swear that I do not
hate you. You rejected my love, which still renewed
itself for you: you have answered my
entreaties with curses—my repentance with scorn—
my love with hatred.—Be it so. Be it so. I
have retreated into myself—for years I have not
known one human sympathy—the blessed tone
of my native tongue has not once penetrated my
ear. I have been leagued with savages, with
desperadoes, with demons; and I have dwelt in
the wilderness with beasts, and with men more
savage than beasts. But even now I have not
quite lost all feeling of humanity. If I could be
protected from myself, I might yet become a man.
My time is expiring — an instant and I must
be gone. Pity me, Morton. Do not drive me
back into my own heart. It is filled with spectres
that scare me — it is a fearful dungeon filled
with every thing foul and frightful; and I have
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dwelt within it till I am almost mad. Pity me —
let me take the child.”
He turned again towards me. “Hold,” cried
my uncle, “every word has passed idly by me.
Not a sound from your deceitful lips can ever
again penetrate my heart. Every cold, heartless,
hypocritical lie, has been told entirely in vain.
Begone! or remain an instant longer at your
peril—you know too well the penalty!”
At this instant, a third gun was discharged
almost close to the house, and the stranger threw
himself half frantic at my uncle's feet: “Hear
me—hear me!” he almost yelled, as he grovelled
on the ground, — “save me — save me from this
abyss! I hang suspended over the gulf of hell.
By the mother who nestled us both in her bosom—
by the father who held us both on his knee—
by the love they bore us both—by the love you
once felt for me — by the hundred benefits you
heaped upon me when a child, nay more, by
the blessed name of —” A smothered whoop
sounded close to the house, a step was heard,
and presently a dark form appeared at the window.
The stranger sprang to his feet, cast one
last imploring look at my uncle, read his sentence
in his rigid look, clasped me once more
convulsively in his arms, and vanished through
the window.
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As soon as he was gone, my uncle fell upon
the sofa in a paroxysm of tears. Those who
suppose from the scene which has passed that
he was of a stern nature will be mistaken. He
had succeeded, at the expense of much real
agony, in maintaining the iciness of demeanour
which his judgment told him was his imperative
duty. But it is only the soft and liquid in
nature that can freeze; and my uncle's heart
was as gentle as a girl's. The iceberg melted
into a torrent, and Joshua's heart found relief
in a flood of tears.
As for me, I soon blubbered myself asleep on
the floor.
I may as well remark that the eccentric individual
in the blanket, was no less a personage
than my father.
-- 017 --
CHAPTER III. MORTON OF “MORTON'S HOPE. ”
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My uncle Joshua had been bred a merchant.
He had been, however, engaged in trade but a
few years, and with indifferent success. When
my grandfather died, Joshua and my father
were the only surviving children; and as the
latter, by his erratic course of life, and various
and sundry misdemeanours, which at present I
shall only hint at, was no great favourite with
any one, it was considered highly reasonable by
every body, but the person most interested, that
the scapegrace should be disinherited, and the
bulk of my steady old grandfather's fortune go
to his eldest son, Joshua.
Joshua of course left off trade. His disposition
and tastes were literary and scientific. He had
received a tolerable education for the provinces,
and he now took himself off to the Old World
to complete it.
He remained many years in England and
upon the Continent; cultivating the arts and
sciences, pursuing various whimsical schemes,
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from one time to another, and in short, leading
much the same sort of life, which an indolent
man of easy fortune and respectable talents is
apt to lead, in any age or country. He returned
to his native province a few years before my
birth, resolutely repulsed all advances of matrimonial
alliances from the most distinguished
colonial families, the Deputy Governor's and
innumerable members of the Council among
the number; built himself a huge castle of
pine planks and shingles, which he dignified
with the title of Morton's Hope, and there shut
himself up with his schemes and oddities. He
had been disappointed in an early passion, and
had become shy of women. He had had two
sisters, Miss Plentiful Morton, who had married
a schoolmaster from Passamaquoddy, and died
about a year before his return, leaving an
enormous progeny, every one of whom he religiously
hated; and Miss Fortitude Morton,
who had remained in single blessedness, and
whom he now took with him to the Hope, as
his housekeeper. My aunt, Forty, was the
genealogical relative whom I have spoken of in
the first chapter. As for myself, I shall not
now relate the singular course of events which
made me the third inmate of the Hope; suffice
for the present, that I was adopted by my uncle
at a very early age.
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It would be very difficult for me to sketch the
character of my uncle, and on the whole I shall
not attempt it. It seems to me that every one
must have known him, and to explain his character
seems to be like explaining any one of
the natural phenomena, which we assume as
being known instinctively by every one. A few
of his leading characteristics may be, however,
traced in as many lines. He was a bundle of
contradictions, or rather he was through life
possessed with the desire of preaching what he
never once thought of practising. He was the
most kind-hearted man in the world, and he
invariably talked like an ascetic; he was idle,
self-indulgent, luxurious, and would talk to you
by the hour, of the necessity of industry, comment
on his mercantile career, and recommend
Spartan diet, and penitentiary soup, when you
knew he ransacked the country for luxuries for
his table. He was indefatigably charitable, but
always railed against the pernicious practice of
alms-giving, and would praise what he called
the dignified policy of the ancient nations, who
gave the poor and the aged to the dogs, instead
of locking them up in hospitals. I have known
him brow-beat a pauper who asked an alms,
and make a speech to him, on the necessity
of industry, till the beggar was fairly worried
out of his patience, and have then seen him
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sneak back to give him five times as much as
any one else would have done, out of pure
soft-heartedness.
In short, he made amends as he thought, for
doing just what he chose, and allowing every
body under his charge almost every kind of
indulgence, by preaching the most rigid and
ascetic doctrines. If you heard him praise a
person, you might have been sure that he was
the very reverse of himself in every particular;
if you heard him recommend any line of conduct,
or praise any particular doctrine, you would be
sure that he would act directly contrary in
every respect. If you heard him animadvert on
any sort of extravagance, he was certain not to
rest till he had been guilty of it himself. It
may be easily inferred that in regard to all
matters touching my education and management,
he was likely to be absurdly rigid in theory,
and as ridiculously indulgent in practice. I may
add to all this, that my uncle's head was constantly
full of some scheme, or some “theory,”
(to use a favourite phrase of his own) which
occupied most of his attention for a short time,
and then was thrown aside forever. Sometimes
they were good, sometimes preposterous, and sometimes
indifferent; but they were always thrown
aside for others before they had time to ripen.
As for my aunt Fortitude, she was the reverse
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of her brother in most respects, and she always
maintained a great influence over him. She
was, as we have seen, most eminently conservative
in her political principles, and it was lucky for
her that she was, from the very conformation
of her character, conservative in every thing.
Joshua would have burned down his house, or
baked me in a pasty, if he had taken it into
his head that either was necessary for the furtherance
of any theory, or scheme, that might have
employed him; but Fortitude was always ready
to resist any very extravagant innovations. She
managed with the most consummate skill, gave
him his head, when she saw that he would
kick up his heels and play the devil if she did
not, but generally succeeded in breaking him in
at last. She never argued with him or anybody;
if necessary to dispute, her only instrument was
contradiction. She met her antagonist half way,
knocked him down with a flat denial, and then
left him to pick himself up as he could. With
her brother, Joshua, she lived in the main in
perfect amity; she humoured him in his whims,
except when she thought it absolutely necessary
he should be checked. When he mounted any
one of his hobbies—and he kept a stud of them—
she contented herself with getting out of the
dust.
Morton's Hope stood, as I have said, some
-- 022 --
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ten miles from the capital of the Bay Province.
Like most New England country-seats, even to
the present day, it was nothing more than a
huge deal box. It was very spacious, with
wide entries and large parlours; for if a man
chooses to live in a packing case, he may at
least have room. There was a smart colonnade
at one end which rose to the third story, and
supported a small portico, placed there, apparently,
for no reason but that the columns might have
something to support,—and a huge flight of
marble steps at the other, led up to a wooden
terrace, which ran round the whole edifice, and
was stuck round with a miscellaneous collection
of broken-nosed statues, purchased at auction,
and at a bargain. Joshua had studied the fine
arts in Italy, and resolved that he would make
his house a model of a villa: he accordingly
occupied himself for six months previous to the
erection, by a careful perusal of Scamozzi and
Palladio, drew two or three dozen plans, and
just as the architect called upon him to execute
his designs, he became possessed with an absurd
mania for the useful, turned his back upon the
architect, left his villa at sixes and sevens, and
commenced erecting a miniature cotton factory
on a brook that ran through his estate.
This happened to be at the exact epoch when
the first and imperfect attempts in this species
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of manufacture were beginning to excite attention
in the old country; and my uncle was always
peculiarly interested in any new display of human
ingenuity. So great, too, were his emulation
and his industry, that his own efforts outstripped
the progress actually made at that period; so
that even at a later day, he would have been
considered no contemptible cotton-spinner.
The architect accordingly had the whole business
of building to himself, and in due time completed
what he supposed to be a copy of the Temple
of Theseus at Athens; and was proceeding to
make it as uninhabitable on the inside as it was
preposterous on the out, when he was confronted
on the threshold by Fortitude, who insisted that
the house was intended as a dwelling-place, and
who accordingly took care that it should be
arranged in conformity to such intentions. In
consequence, the house was comfortable enough,
and Joshua contented himself with declaiming
about the villas of Vicenza and the palaces of
Michael Angelo.
As the Grecian taste had been entirely consulted
in the erection of the mansion, it was thought
proper to construct the stables upon a Gothic
model. Unfortunately, however, as my uncle's
enthusiasm had cooled before the completion of
the establishment, the stables were left to the
architect's discretion; and as Fortitude, who was
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[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
a financier, refused to make any further allowance
upon the contracts, there was consequently only
as much Gothic put upon the stables as the
builder could afford for the original price.
Thus both the Grecian temple and the Saxon
cathedral presented on the whole a much more
pretentious than complete appearance.
The house stood at the base of a conical hill,
the centre of a considerable range, which occupied
most of the Morton estate. Immediately behind,
and around it, rose a primeval forest, which
Joshua protected with a paternal care, and which
stretched as far as eye could reach. I was
accustomed to run wild in these woods for the
first and happiest years of my life;—I shall never
forget their magnificence:—and since I have
been a sojourner in the Old World, I have
learned to prize and admire the forests of the
New.
It was a stately congregation of maples, chestnuts,
and evergreens. Above your head a canopy of
the densest and most variegated foliage almost
shut out the sun, and allowed only its chequered
beams to slant in upon a twilight as solemn
and mysterious as a Druid's wood. Below, the
decayed leaves and branches formed a supernaturally
rich mould, rife with vegetation, from which
sprang flowers and berries, and creeping vines, in
endless succession.
-- 025 --
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As you wandered through it, you saw no
sights, and heard no sounds save those of Nature.
The dried branches crackled under your feet,
the music of a thousand birds resounded through
the boughs; the lizards shot to and fro in the
patches of sun-light, and the robins went hopping
and whistling about in the shade almost at your
feet; the squirrel chattered complacently to himself
as he sat on the top of a tree and dropped his
nut-shells on your head; the misanthropic cat-bird
poured out a moody note or two as you intruded
on his privacy;—and towards evening, under
the shadow of an ancient stump, you might
even catch the retiring form of some anchorite
raccoon, as he made his frugal supper of roots
and herbs, at the door of his cell. At twilight,
a golden shower of fire-flies illuminated the air,
the whip-poor-wills sang a few staves of their
lackadaisical ditty, and the slender notes of half
a dozen tree-toads piped out in faint accordance
with the sonorous croak of a whole swimming
school of frogs in a neighbouring marsh. On the
skirts of the forest, the Anisippi, a full and rapid
brook, describing many evolutions, and passing
in front of the house, threw itself in a series
of natural cascades through a deep dingle brim
full of rocks, moss, tall weeds, and flaunting
wild flowers; thence it went sputtering and singing
to itself towards the meadows below, gradually
-- 026 --
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swelled to a river, and whirled the wheels of
Joshua's cotton factory, before it lost itself in the
ocean.
I could ramble through this forest for ever — but
as my readers are not so familiar with its charms,
and have not so many associations connected with
it, I will stop before I have quite exhausted their
patience; hoping that the present chapter has
fulfilled the purpose of making them a little
acquainted with my uncle and aunt, and the domain
of Morton's Hope.
-- 027 --
CHAPTER IV. THE PAGODA.
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
Close by the cascade of the Anisippi, and on
the brink of the little dell which I have described,
stood the Pagoda. This was a summer-house
in the Chinese taste. It contained a large tea-room,
with one or two chambers, and was christened
in honour of the Emperor of China. — The
room was furnished coolly and comfortably with
straw sofas and couches, while a huge figure of
a mandarin, with pipe, moustachios, and tea-caddy
complete, sat rolling his head about on a sort of
throne, at one end of the room, and looked like
the presiding deity of the place. So far all was
in keeping, but Joshua had got tired of China
before he completed the apartment, and had in
the most incongruous manner completed the furniture,
by thrusting into it a collection of casts
from celebrated statues, and copies from celebrated
paintings, which he had procured in Italy, for
the purpose of making a private gallery. There
were the Aurora, the Transfiguration, and the
Beatrice Cenci, half-a-dozen Cleopatras and Sibyls,
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
and Virgins innumerable; in short, a good collection
of copies, for Joshua had a taste in pictures,
and could descant to you upon them an hour
by Shrewsbury clock; but as for his gallery, it
was likely to remain for ever an appendage to
the tea-room. The statues were orthodox also:
the Borghese Gladiator “fought his battles o'er
again” in one corner, and the Laocoon struggled
in the coils of what Fortitude, with more historical
accuracy than she knew of, called the seaserpents,
in the other; the mandarin, with a face
of decent gravity, sat lolling his head complacently
to and fro, from the Venus de Medici on
one side, to the Niobe who was protecting her
child from the hurtling arrow on the other;
while the elegant cause of her dismay, the naked
dandy of the Vatican, stood very much in everybody's
way, with his threatening hand stretched
toward the tea-table.
One day — I was then some dozen years old—
my uncle had taken me out with him, to give
me what he called my first theoretical lesson in
the art of riding. I had been allowed to run
wild all my days, and had ridden at pleasure
every horse, cow, and pig on the estate, so that
I considered myself an adept, and felt insulted
at the proposal. Joshua had prepared himself
for six months beforehand, by a diligent perusal
of the Duke of Newcastle and Geoffrey Gambado
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and one fine morning we set forth. After a short
ride, we came to a low rail-fence, and Joshua,
first ordering a halt, took his note book from his
pocket, and commenced reading the duke's instructions
on the topic of leaping, accompanied
by a running commentary. He signified his intention
of clearing the fence in the most approved
style, and told me to lead the way, mentally resolving,
I suppose, if there seemed to be any difficulty,
to keep himself out of the scrape. As for
me, I was mounted on a double-jointed pony,
called Pocahontas, in honour of my paternal
family, and we scrambled over the fence without
any difficulty. My uncle, attired in a bob-tailed
seersucker coat, and pepper-and-salt small-clothes,
was perched on the top of a tall camelopard of
an animal, which had about as much agility as
a clothes-horse. He was determined not to be
outdone; pricked towards the fence; the horse
stumbled clumsily against the rails — floundered,
and my uncle, describing a parabola through the
air, alighted in a thicket of barberry bushes, with
his arms and legs bruised to a jelly, and the bob-tailed
seersucker torn to rags. I picked him up,
as well as I could, and with the assistance of some
labourers, carried him home.
The next afternoon he was sitting in the Pagoda,
when Fortitude began briefly advising him
to despatch me to school.
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“I'm sick at the sight of him — he's doing no
sort of good — learning nothing, and for ever in
mischief; why don't you send him to school?”
“A school is an improper place for him,” said
my uncle; “I tell you he knows more than all
the schoolmasters in New England already.
Where can he gain more instruction than here,
under my own peculiar superintendence?”
“Well,” said Fortitude, “it's particular that
you should consider yourself a proper schoolmaster
for him. Do you teach him every thing as systematically
as you do riding?”
“Psha!” said Joshua, wrathfully, “I will not
talk with you on that subject. It was always a
theory of mine, that women were incapable of
an opinion on any matter connected with horsemanship;
but as to the boy's education, why,
where can we do better?—a boy with his imagination,
his brilliancy of intellect — than in this
very room, surrounded by the fairest works of
genius which have illuminated the world. Why,
Fortitude, why,” continued Joshua, getting oratorical—
“why is it that the Greeks were the
most refined, the most cultivated of the ancient
nations?—Because, Fortitude, the images of their
gods, of their deified heroes, of their living fellowcitizens,
embalmed in the deathless beauty of
sculpture, stood ever and around, inciting them to
emulation and to equal heroism. Why—why is
-- 031 --
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it that the Italians still surpass the whole modern
world, and are the tutors of the whole school
of art? Because religion has taken art to her
bosom—because the rudest peasant, as he bends
before the shrine of the Madonna, beholds the
seraphic features of a Raphael's creation looking
down upon him, as if from heaven. Because
beauty is the chosen handmaid of divinity. Yes—
yes — I am determined that my nephew shall,
as far as in my power lies, reap the advantage
of this theory of mine. I am determined that
visions of immortal beauty shall melt and mingle
with the earliest dawnings of the intellect; that
they shall form a brilliant halo around the sunrise
of his soul.”
Joshua was becoming very enthusiastic, and
very eloquent, when he was interrupted by Fortitude,
who observed that she had hitherto seen
very little effects of the fine arts upon Uncas; but
only some of his influence upon the specimens
in the room; “for instance, his intercourse with
the naked creature in the corner has not been
very beneficial to one party,” said she, pointing
to the fighting Gladiator.
This was very true. My uncle, a few years
previous, when I was very young, was possessed
with a curiosity, something like that of king Psammeticus,
to see whether works of art would not
have a manifest effect on the infant that was
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exposed alone to their influence; so one day he
locked me up in the Pagoda, and marched off
with the key in his pocket. When he returned,
after half an hour, he found that I had vented
my rage, at being imprisoned, on the objects
within my reach. I had assaulted the Niobe,
tooth and nail; kicked Apollo; and when he
entered, he found me in personal conflict with
the Borghese Gladiator, the consequence of which
to Chabrias (as Lessing proclaims him to be) had
been the loss of three fingers of his sword-hand,
and a fraction of his nose, which I had reached
by means of the mandarin's pipe-stem.
“Psha!” said Joshua again — “you take a
delight in annoying me. Was it my fault that
the statues were not of stone, which would have
been good, or bronze, which would have been
better, and would have then resisted the boy's
attempt at assault and battery. Besides, recollect
how young he was; other children would have
been frightened to death; you see he was excited
to deeds of arms.”
“Then, again,” said Fortitude, not caring to
pursue her triumph on this point; “then again,
there's this profane stage-playing which you encourage
him in. Pious children ought not to
be taught such wicked doings,” said Fortitude,
who was as Puritanic as a pilgrim.
“Ridiculous woman!” said Joshua, “are you
-- 033 --
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not aware that the drama in ancient times,—nay,
in the early period of the English—”
Fortitude cut short a long historical oration
on the subject of the drama, by exclaiming,
“Well, pious or not; 'tis sinful to waste so much
money on your green-house, and then turn all
the exotics out of doors into the snow bank, to
make the green-house a theatre for Uncas.”
“Why, the fact is, Fortitude, that I found the
green-house business too expensive, and so I
thought it a good opportunity to get out of the
scrape, and the room being vacant, why, you
know Uncas's theatre might do as well there as
any thing.”
“You might have done what I begged you,
and made a family portrait gallery. I'm sure
there would have been room enough.”
“Family fiddlesticks! Where the devil are
the portraits to come from? Except the profiles
of Plentiful's children, done by Josiah Brewster,
and the portrait of my brother Jeroboam, with
the sextant under his arm, and the spy-glass in
his pocket, done at Rotterdam, when he commanded
the `Amiable Jezabel;' I don't know
where you would find materials for your gallery.”
Here Joshua obtained the mastery. It was
one of Fortitude's weak points, and he knew it,
and he went on chuckling and laughing, and
-- 034 --
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making game of her ridiculous affectation, till
he was tired. Nobody, however, that knew my
uncle, will be surprised when I tell them, that
the very first thing he did the next day, was
to purchase a quantity of fancy portraits at auction,
which he made room for by thrusting a
parcel of stuffed monkeys and pickled alligators,
which he called his cabinet of natural history,
into the garret, and depositing the pictures in
their place.
Just at this crisis I entered the room with a
petition to my uncle, to attend the performance
of a play which I had on hand. Ever since my
puppet-show days I had been flattered into the
belief that I was wonderfully gifted with the
dramatic talent, and now at the mature age of
twelve, I considered myself second to no one in
the world as author, actor, and stage-manager.
Notwithstanding the warm eulogium which my
uncle had just been making upon every thing
connected with the drama, it will not be considered
singular that, instead of granting my request,
he instantly began a harangue upon the
pernicious effect of stage plays. After reading me
a long lecture, he concluded by declaring with
the most rigid expression of countenance, that he
entirely disapproved of all such proceedings, and
before he had time to finish, I had bounced out
of the room in a huff.
-- 035 --
CHAPTER V. VASSAL DEANE.
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
In spite of my uncle's oration, I went on with
the preparation. The day came, the actors were
assembled, and we determined to perform. I
went to my aunt Fortitude with an invitation,
but she repulsed me with horror. I then hunted
high and low for my uncle. I was near giving
him up, when I heard him sneeze in his dressing-room.
I pushed open the door, and there he
was, surrounded by all the maid-servants and
sempstresses of the house, engaged in making
what I immediately recognized to be a royal
costume for Polonius. He looked marvellously
ashamed of himself as I came in, and tried to
shuffle into his pocket a roll of written paper
which was lying near. I caught it, however, and
found it was neither more nor less than a prologue
for our play, written by himself; and all
this after his oration to me on the pernicious
effects of stage playing! I was used to such inconsistencies,
and ran down stairs in high glee, and
my uncle soon sneaked down after me, rallied
-- 036 --
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himself, and then proceeded in great state to the
theatre, where he took his place in a dignity
chair which I had provided for him, in the first
row of the audience seats. He had given up all
idea of acting, and I promised to spout the prologue.
I have no intention of detailing the events of
the performance, and in fact I recollect almost
nothing about it. The play I remember was
Hamlet, and in a fit of unusual modesty, I believe
I contended myself,—besides the principal
character which was mine of course,—with only
the characters of Ophelia and the grave-digger
in addition. Hamlet was dressed in boots and a
red military coat, and Ophelia in an old morning
gown of my aunt's, with a garland of dried apples
on her head. The only good acting was that of
Polonius, which was represented by a fat, foolish
boy, who made grimaces and squinted naturally,
and thus embodied in his own person all the comic
talent of the company.
I should not even have mentioned the whole
affair, except for the purpose of introducing Vassal
Deane, and early friend of mine. This was a
boy whom I always respected, and of whom for
many years I was almost in awe: yet he was
not a boy of brilliant talents, at least according
to the general acceptation of the phrase. Nobody
ever called him a genius; he never wrote plays,
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
nor poetry, and yet he contrived always, without
any apparent effort, to obtain a complete ascendancy
over the mind of every body about him.
Of mine, he very soon obtained the mastery. He
was a boy some four years older than myself,
rather short, but compactly built, with no pretensions
to beauty, inexpressive features, light
coloured eyes, and flakes of cotton-coloured hair.
He was remarkable at this early age for great
bodily strength, and a phlegmatic and composed
demeanour. At moments when others were excited,
his countenance and manner were composed
and inscrutable.
He had taken no part in the play, but was
there by my particular request, as auditor and
critic.
While the rest of the boys were squabbling
and boxing each other's ears, as they hunted
through the confused green-room for their every
day's clothes, I approached Deane, full of elation
at my success. He was standing quietly whistling,
with his hands in his pockets.
“Well, Deane,” said I, rubbing my hands conceitedly,
“don't you think it went off pretty well?”
“Not I,” said he gravely, without taking his
hands from his pockets.
“Why,” said I, a little mortified, “don't you
think we all acted pretty well?”
“No, I don't,” he replied.
-- 038 --
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“But,” said I, pushing the point, “don't you
think it was a remarkably brilliant way of amusing
ourselves?”
“If you ask my advice, I think it was all
damn'd nonsense.”
“You are envious,” said I; “if you acted as
well as my uncle Joshua thinks I do, you would
think differently.”
“You know no more of acting than I do, and
your uncle Joshua is an ass.”
“You lie!”
Hereupon Deane took one of his hands out of
his pocket, and calmly knocked me down.
He was a great deal bigger and stronger than
I, but I picked myself up, and tried to show
fight;—so he knocked me down again.
“I suppose you will listen to reason now,” he
continued, composedly, after I had got on my legs
again, and given up the point. “So I will tell
you that all I do and say is for your good. I
like you very well (he was pleased to add;) but
the fact is, you are getting to be an ignorant
and conceited little jackanapes; and instead of
having been brilliant, as you call it, you have
been making an ass of yourself this afternoon.”
The plain-spoken truths of my friend (for he
was my friend) began to carry conviction to my
mind. With the quick revulsion of a childish
temper, I felt convinced that I had not only not
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
acted well, but that I had acted ill. I believed
that I had been making a fool of myself—that
they had been laughing at me instead of applauding—
that I was a laughing-stock—a butt—a
dolt—an ass—an idiot. My checks grew hot—
I clenched my fists—I glared about me like a
maniac—I stamped in a frenzy. Seeking something
to vent my rage upon, my eyes lighted
on the squinting buffo; I sprang upon him most
gratuitously, and floored him in a twinkling. He
scrambled out of my way, and I then sprang
like a tiger upon the inanimate monuments of
my folly. I kicked over the scenes, smashed
the lamps, demolished the palace, trampled on
the dried apples, and tore the ghost's windingsheet
to pieces. After nearly exhausting myself
in this manner, I threw myself on the floor,
roaring and kicking like a madman.
After a moment or two, the busy fiend again
urged me to my feet. I danced about for an
instant, and then swept down stairs like a simoon,
at the imminent peril of my neck, and to the
total discomfiture and overthrow of a house-maid,
who was trudging up with a pail of water.
Thence I rushed out of the house, and never
stopped till I had thrown myself upon the ground,
sobbing and panting with mortification and rage
in the very thickest thicket of the forest.
The young philosopher remained talking composedly
to himself in the dark.
-- 040 --
CHAPTER VI. MORTIFICATION FISK.
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
After this adventure, I requested my uncle to
send me to school. I had got to be a lubberly
boy by this time, and even Joshua was tired
of me; so that I found no difficulty in obtaining
permission.
After remaining a requisite number of years
at school, I was removed to College. Here I
should likewise have continued the usual term,
but for an unlucky adventure.
Some members of my class amused themselves
one night with setting fire to the college chapel.
This was a little gingerbread cathedral of pine
boards, in the Gothic taste, and painted in fancy
colours. Its architecture was considered so admirable,
and its destruction so heinous, that the
strictest measures were taken to punish the perpetrators.
As, moreover, the incendiaries had
aggravated their offence by tarring and feathering
six tutors who had endeavoured to extinguish
the conflagration, the crime was considered the
most desperate one in the annals of the college.
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
Fancy, then, the rage of the Reverend Mortification
Fisk, (at that time the most influential
and hard-hearted of the professors) when he found
himself unable to discover the criminals.
Not having it in his power to punish the culprits,
he resolved to wreak his vengeance on the
spectators; and as I had unfortunately been taken
with a bucket of water in my hand, in the
very act, as they said, of aiding and abetting
at the fire, the faculty resolved upon my expulsion.
I accordingly returned to the Hope, whither
a detailed account of the affair, together with a
bill of damages for the whole expense of the
cathedral, had preceded me.
The bill and the letter, however, much to the
disgust of the Reverend Mortification Fisk, remained
unpaid and unanswered. Joshua, who
was as arbitrary as the ace of trumps, resolutely
refused to pay the slighest attention to the animadversions
of the faculty.
I found that the whole affair occasioned but
very slight annoyance; for it afforded him an
opportunity for a little oratorical display, of which
he was very fond.
Accordingly, after having made me an oration
the first morning of my return, in which
he condemned our whole system of education,
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
and made a flourish about the university of
Padua and the gardens of Plato, he became
good-natured by his own eloquence, and dismissed
the subject forever.
-- 043 --
CHAPTER VII. CHATEAUX EN ESPAGNE.
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
For the next two years I remained at the Hope.
Joshua had become more full of projects than
ever. The resolutions passed in Boston a year
or two previous, recommending, in consequence
of the imposition of extravagant duties on imported
articles, the attention of the colonists to
domestic manufacture had had their effect upon
him. He devoted himself assiduously to his
cotton-mill, and he had besides already instituted
a soap-boiling establishment and a starch manufactory.
As for me, I heard or heeded nothing
of the events that were going on around me.
The air was already murky with the gathering
clouds of the revolution; but retired within my
own childish egotism, I was unconscious of the
coming storm.
I was always a huge reader; my mind was
essentially craving and insatiable. Its appetite
was enormous, and it devoured too greedily for
its health. I rejected all guidance in my studies.
I already fancied myself a misanthrope. I had
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
taken a step very common for boys of my age,
and strove with all my might to become a cynic.
I read furiously. To poetry, like most infants,
I devoted most of my time. I had already revelled
in the copious flood of modern poetry, and
I now thirsted for the fountains whence the torrent
had gone forth. I was imbued with the
common passion for studying, as I called it, systematically,
and my next step was antiquarianism.
From Spencer and the dramatists, I got
back to Chaucer and Gower. If I had stopped
here, it would have been well enough; but these,
though rude, I found already artists. From
Chaucer and Gower I ascended through a mass
of ballads, becoming ruder and more unintelligible
at every step, to the first beginning of English
vernacular poetry, and still determined to thread
the river to its source. I mounted to the Anglo-Norman,
and was proceeding still farther, when I
found myself already lost in a dismal swamp of
barbarous romances and lying Latin chronicles.
This Slough of Despond I mistook for the parent
lake, and here I determined to fix. I read the
wild fables of Jeffrey of Monmouth with real
delight, and the worthy friar introduced me to a
whole fraternity of monks. I forced or fancied
myself into admiring such grotesque barbarians
as Robert of Gloucester, Benevil, and Robert
Mannyng, and quoted some hideous couplets from
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
the “Prickke of Conscience” by the Hermit of
Hampole, as the very prosopopeia of a graceful
lyric. I got hold of the Bibliotheca Monastica,
containing a copious account of Anglo-Norman
authors, with notices of their works, and set seriously
to reading every one of them. I fell into
the common error of boyish antiquaries, and admired
as venerable that which was only old, and
persuaded myself into considering that as quaint
and beautiful, which was merely grotesque and
rude. I had not learned that art, in its earlier
stages, is interesting as matter of history, but its
monuments useless in themselves; and that to
consume time and labour in mastering the monastic
and fossil remains of the barbarous age of
poetry, was as absurd as for an amateur of the
fine arts to fill his museum with wooden statues
in the manner of Dedalus, or of paintings in the
style of the early Pisans.
One profit of my antiquarianism was, however,
an attention to foreign languages. Having mounted,
in my literary inquiries, to the confluence of
the English and French languages,—to the fork
where the two rivers flow into each other, I found
myself obliged to master the French before I
could get any farther. As I was on the subject,
I applied myself to several others; but my literary
studies in other languages were as falsely directed
as in my own. In French I occupied myself
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
only with the works of the earlier Trouveurs; in
Spanish, with the oldest ballad-mongers; in Germany,
neglecting the wonderful and stupendous
fabric of a single century which comprised most
that is brilliant in that literature, I confined myself
to the Heldenbuch and the Niebelungen Lied,
and to the farcical productions of the ancient
tinkers and tailors. As for the Italian literature,
it was too classic and too finished for my taste,
and I returned from them all to the barbarians
I loved.
After floundering for a time in this stagnant
pool of literature, I had at last the good sense to
extricate myself, and with my wings all clogged
as they were, I set off upon a higher and more
daring flight. From the modern poets I ascended
to the ancients, and from Latin I got to Greek.
It was a blessed transition! When I read the
odes of Pindar, and the immortal dramas of æschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles, I felt as if I had
ascended to the iced mountain-tops of poetry,
and felt in a purer and sublimer atmosphere.
I found that the perfection of poetry was in the
perfection of art. It seemed strange to me that
these were ancients. I could hardly realise that
the men, from whose clutches I had just rescued
myself, had lived centuries after the Greeks, and
Greece itself had died. I could not understand
that a nation had so nearly reached perfection
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
in literature and art, and then expired. I saw
the magnificent mausoleum which art and poetry
had reared upon the grave of Greece; but
I was bewildered with the reflection that it covered
a mouldering corpse. I read the name and
the glorious epitaph, and could not realise that
all below were only bones and dust. The mortifying
truth, that a bound was set to human intellect,
now forced itself for the first time upon my
mind. I saw that Greece had been born, and
had illumined the world, and then had died and
been buried; and that, centuries after, other nations
had arisen only to do the same. I felt, as
I occupied myself with the study of Greece and
her literature, as if I had been transplanted to a
deserted planet, filled with cities and temples,
and palaces indeed, but whose inhabitants had
all died — which still revolved and shone in the
universal system, but in which there was no
life.
I could have revelled in Grecian poetry for
ever, but I had become possessed with the ridiculous
desire of arriving at the beginning or the
source of poetry. I forgot that its source was
the human heart, just as the source of heat, in
all climates and all ages, is the sun. I sought
for the beginning of poetry. I might as well have
sought for the beginning of the circle. From
Greece I got to Asia. I studied the history of
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
the Oriental languages, and became convinced
of the necessity of examining them for myself.
I already fancied myself learned, and in the
course of a breakfast conversation, in which I
already manifested considerable contempt for my
aunt Fortitude's intellect, I announced to Joshua
my intention of studying Hebrew and Chinese,
and requested a tutor. My uncle, being a little
startled at this index to the copiousness of my
studies, saw fit to catechise me a little, and
finding me as deplorably ignorant on all necessary
subjects as I was intensely learned on matters,
in his estimation, not worth a half-penny,
begged me seriously to turn my attention to history.
The ground-work of my early character was
plasticity and fickleness. I was mortified by this
exposure of my ignorance, and disgusted with
my former course of reading. I now set myself
violently to the study of history. With my turn
of mind, and with the preposterous habits which
I had been daily acquiring, I could not fail to
make as gross mistakes in the pursuit of this
as of other branches of knowledge. I imagined,
on setting out, a system of strict and impartial
investigation of the sources of history. I was
inspired with the absurd ambition, not uncommon
to youthful students, of knowing as much
as their masters. I imagined it necessary for
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
me, stripling as I was, to study the authorities;
and, imbued with the strict necessity of judging
for myself, I turned from the limpid pages of
the modern historians, to the notes and authorities
at the bottom of the page. These, of course,
sent me back to my monastic acquaintances,
and I again found myself in such congenial company
to a youthful and ardent mind, as Florence
of Worcester, and Simeon of Durham, the venerable
Bede, and Matthew Paris; and so on to
Gregory and Fredegarius, down to the more modern
and elegant pages of Froissart, Hollinshed,
Hooker, and Stowe. Infant as I was, I presumed
to grapple with masses of learning almost
beyond the strength of the giants of history. A
spendthrift of my time and labour, I went out
of my way to collect materials, and to build for
myself, when I should have known that older
and abler architects had already appropriated all
that was worth preserving; that the edifice was
built, the quarry exhausted, and that I was, consequently,
only delving amidst rubbish.
This course of study was not absolutely without
its advantages. The mind gained a certain
proportion of vigour by even this exercise of its
faculties, just as my bodily health would have
been improved by transporting the refuse ore of
a mine from one pit to another, instead of coining
the ingots which lay heaped before my eyes.
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
Still, however, my time was squandered. There
was a constant want of fitness and concentration
of my energies. My dreams of education
were boundless, brilliant, indefinite; but, alas!
they were only dreams. There was nothing accurate
and defined in my future course of life.
I was ambitious and conceited, but my aspirations
were vague and shapeless. I had crowded
together the most gorgeous, and even some of
the most useful and durable materials for my
woof, but I had no pattern, and, consequently,
never began to weave.
I had not made the discovery that an individual
cannot learn, nor be, every thing; that
the world is a factory in which each individual
must perform his portion of work:—happy enough
if he can choose it according to his taste and
talent, but must renounce the desire of observing
or superintending the whole operation.
My passion for self-instruction was carried to
an enormous and unwholesome excess.—From
scorning all assistance and inquisition from the
friends about me, I even dared to deride the
learning and the labour of the master minds of
literature. From studying and investigating the
sources of history with my own eyes, I went a
step further; I refused the guidance of modern
writers; and proceeding from one point of presumption
to another, I came to the magnanimous
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
conviction that I could not know history as I
ought to know it, unless I wrote it for myself.
I knew now where the stores lay, and I could
select and arrange according to my own judgment.
I abjured allegiance, accordingly, to the
graceful moderns, to immerse myself in the barbarous
learning of the darker ages. I voluntarily
dashed down the lantern, for no other purpose
but that I might grope by myself in the
dark. It would be tedious and useless to enlarge
upon my various attempts and various failures.
I forbear to comment upon mistakes which I
was in time wise enough to retrieve. Pushing
out, as I did, without compass and without experience,
on the boundless ocean of learning, what
could I expect but an utter and a hopeless shipwreck?
Thus I went on, becoming more learned, and
therefore more ignorant, more confused in my
brain, and more awkward in my habits, from
day to day. I was ever at my studies, and
could hardly be prevailed upon to allot a moment
to exercise or recreation. I breakfasted with a
pen behind my ear, and dined in company with
a folio bigger than the table. I became solitary
and morose, the necessary consequence of reckless
study; talked impatiently of the value of
my time, and the immensity of my labours;
spoke contemptuously of the learning and
-- 052 --
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acquirements of the whole world, and threw out
mysterious hints of the magnitude and importance
of my own projects. In a word, the
youth, who at fifteen, confessed himself a sated
libertine, was, at seventeen, transformed into a
most intolerable pedant.
In the midst of all this study, and this infant
authorship, the perusal of such masses of poetry
could not fail to produce their effect. Of a youth
whose mind, like mine at that period, possessed
some general capability, without perhaps a single
prominent and marked talent, a proneness to
imitation is sure to be the besetting sin. I consequently,
for a large portion of my earlier life,
never read a work which struck my fancy, without
planning a better one upon its model; for
my ambition, like my vanity, knew no bounds.
it was a matter of course that I should be attacked
by the poetic mania. I took the infection
at the usual time, went through its various
stages, and recovered as soon as could be expected.
I discovered soon enough that emulation is
not capability, and he is fortunate to whom is
soonest revealed the relative extent of his ambition
and his powers.
My ambition was boundless; my dreams of
glory were not confined to authorship and literature
alone; but every sphere in which the
intellect of man exerts itself, revolved in a blaze
-- 053 --
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of light before me. And there I sat in my
solitude, and dreamed such woundrous dreams!
Events were thickening around me which were
soon to shake the world, — but they were unmarked
by me. The country was changing to
a mighty theatre, on whose stage, those who
were as great as I fancied myself to be, were to
enact a stupendous drama in which I had no
part. I saw it not; I knew it not; and yet
how infinitely beautiful were the imaginations
of my solitude! Fancy shook her kaleidoscope
each moment as chance directed, and lo! what
new, fantastic, brilliant, but what unmeaning
visions! My ambitious anticipations were as
boundless as they were various and conflicting.
There was not a path which leads to glory, in
which I was not destined to gather laurels. As
a warrior, I would conquer and over-run the
world. As a statesman, I would re-organize
and govern it. As a historian, I would consign
it all to immortality; and in my leisure
moments, I would be a great poet and a man
of the world.
In short, I was already enrolled in that large
category of what are called young men of genius, —
men who are the pride of their sisters,
and the glory of their grand-mothers, — men of
whom unheard-of things are expected, till after
long preparation, comes a portentous failure, and
-- 054 --
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then they are forgotten; subsiding into indifferent
apprentices and attorneys' clerks.
Alas! for the golden imaginations of our youth.
They are all disappointments. They are bright
and beautiful; but they fade. They glitter
brightly enough to deceive the wisest and most
cautious, and we garner them up in the most secret
caskets of our hearts; but are they not like the
coins which the Dervise gave the merchant in
the story? When we look for them the next
morning, do we not find them withered leaves?
-- 055 --
CHAPTER VIII. CERTAIN COLONIAL MATTERS.
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One evening in June, 1768, there was a riot
on Hancock's Wharf. Every one knows that
this was the period in which the exorbitant taxes
on various foreign articles had begun to excite in
the colonists much enmity towards the mother
country.
Unfortunately, the instruments, by which the
dictates of a mistaken policy were enforced, only
increased the difficulty, the comptrollers and custom-house
officers were impertinent, and took pains
to make themselves noxious to the merchants.
From the commencement to the conclusion,
there was something respectable in the American
revolution. It was not a local tumour, swelling
into a convulsion of the whole system; it was
not a sudden row by the rabble, nor an ebullition
of Jacobinism. The government began by
thrusting its fingers into the pockets of the
wealthy merchants, and as such as attack is sure
to irritate even the most peaceably disposed, it
was not singular that these gentlemen, after
-- 056 --
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making a series of temperate remonstrances, resorted
to the last measure left them, and took the
law into their own hands. In short, the whole
matter was not sans-cullotism, but, on the contrary,
a sober resistance to arbitrary measures
made by decent substantial burghers in velvet
small-clothes. It was, however, very natural that
the other and lower classes of society—the gentlemen
out at the elbows, namely, who have every
thing to gain and nothing to lose by a revolution,
and who are, consequently, always ready
for a squabble,—should choose to side with those
who, possessing a stake in society, were yet
ready to risk every thing upon the cast.
As I said, one wet evening in June, 1768, there
was a row on Hancock's Wharf. The custom-house
officers had seen fit to seize a sloop belonging
to John Hancock, which was lying there.
So far all was well enough; it was their duty—or
they considered it so—to make the seizure, and
the owner had no intention of opposing the
measure. A ship of war, however, happened to
be lying in the stream, and one of the officers
of the customs thought proper to make signals to
her captain, who accordingly sent his boats to
the sloop. The fast was cut very unnecessarily,
and sloop carried under the guns of the frigate.
This impertinent exercise of power irritated a
parcel of loungers on the wharf, and a few
-- 057 --
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pebbles were thrown at the men in the boats.
Some of the sailors, at this tried to mount on
the wharf and attack the townsmen. Two of
them got their hands to the uppermost plank,
and were endeavouring to scramble upon the
wharf, when a gentleman-like-looking young
man, in a rough great-coat, who happened to be
standing near, coolly put out his foot and kicked
their hands till the men lost their hold and dropped
back into the boat. At the word of the
commanding officer the business was finished, and
the boats rowed back to the frigate. Upon this
the little tumult subsided, and the custom-house
gentlemen, after having been hustled a little,
made the best of their way home.
Now the son of the collector, who happened to
be present, was a saucy young man: he observed
that the mob was dispersing, and the evening
growing dark, and thought it a safe opportunity
to exert a little authority, so he bustled up to the
gentleman in the great-coat, whose person was
unknown to him, but who happened to be the
reader's acquaintance, Vassal Deane. He was
sitting composedly upon a cask, glancing now at
the frigate and now at the mob on the shore.
“A chilly evening for the season?” said the
collector's son.
The other looked carelessly at him a moment,
nodded assent, and began to whistle.
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“I dare say you find your wrapper comfortable
even in summer?” resumed the collector.
This interesting observation seemed to exite
little emotion in the mind of the person addressed,
who continued to whistle without making a
reply. The collector's son was nettled, and he
resumed in a little squeaking tone of authority,
“Let me advise you to follow the example of
the rest of the mob, and go about your business,”
said he.
“I never take advice,” said the other, without
even looking at him.
“Then I must command you,” said the stripling,
looking ferocious, and putting his hand on
the breast of the other's coat. “Go home, instantly?”
“You should never lay your hands on a gentleman's
dress,” said his antagonist, slightly rapping
the intrusive knuckles, with a little stick
he held in his hand.
The youth lost command of himself, and again
attempted to lay hold of the other. “Do you
know who I am?” said he in a rage. “I am
the son of Mr. Tomkins, the collector!”
“And you seem to be as great a puppy as
your father. But you are getting troublesome,
and as you will not go home, you must take
the consequences;” so saying, he lifted up the
young man as if he had been a kitten, carried
-- 059 --
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him, in spite of his struggles, a few steps up
the wharf, and then quietly dropped him overboard.
It was nearly low tide, the water had
retreated, and the pugnacious Tomkins, was left
sticking breast-high in the mud. His roars for
assistance attracted the attention of several of
the crowd, who had watched with great satisfaction
this scene from its commencement to its
conclusion. They answered his supplication with
jeers and coarse witticisms.
By this time the mob had again increased.
The gentleman in the mud was generally recognized,
and a proposition to follow up the joke
by an attack on the comptroller-general's house,
which happened to be hard by, met with universal
applause.
The multitude swept on to the house, and
sticks and stones began to fly in profusion, half
a dozen windows were smashed in, the inmates
were alarmed, and presently the comptroller appeared
at the door, and demanded a parley.
Half a dozen blackguards, having no relish for
discussion, rushed forward to seize him. In a
moment the unfortunate comptroller would have
been torn into twenty pieces, when suddenly
Deane sprang to his assistance. Acting with
promptitude and irresistible energy, he beat down
the assailants before they were aware of his
attack, thrust the master of the house inside the
-- 060 --
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door, pulled it to hastily, and then turned round
to face the multitude.
The foremost assailants, disappointed of their
prey, turned furiously upon him. Deane, nothing
daunted, faced them, with his back against the
door, and with a perfectly composed manner,
exclaimed in a voice, whose clear and commandingnotes
notes rang through the whole assembly:
“For God's sake, no violence! The youth
in the dock came there by his own impertinence,
and is sufficiently punished. The comptroller is
innocent — he has done his duty — and the first
man who assaults this house, deserves the penalty
of the law.” Then, moderating his voice
to a placid, temperate, but resolute and impressive
tone, he continued, “In the name of reason,
what has this comptroller done? Why are
you here assembled, magnanimously pelting his
doors with pebbles, and breaking his window
frames with sticks? Are you men? Have you
heard of certain arbitrary measures of the government? —
are you aggrieved? — do you feel
yourselves insulted by stupid and unreasonable
rulers? Very well, very well. Is this the way for
men to right themselves? What is this comptroller?
Why is he selected as the mark of your
noble indignation? Is he your ruler? Is he a
tyrant or a tool? Shame on ye, shame! that ye
come here like squabbling children to vent your
-- 061 --
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rage on the senseless rod that whips you, instead
of husbanding your wrath till with it you
can annihilate the master. Are you dull, noisy
clowns, or are you reasonable and determined
citizens? I tell you to be quiet. Waste not
your energies on tools! If ye are men, there
will be work enough for men. The thunderclouds
are now hanging over us; the very air
is sulphurous and unwholesome; but the light
is breaking forth, and I tell you to mark my
words. There shall be work enough. Be quiet
now. Go home and wait. Waste not your
wrath on windows and doors; I tell you there
is a throne we know of, that ye shall crush —
a sceptre stretched over our heads that ye shall
break as easily as I now break this staff.”
And so saying, he snapped his walking-stick
in two, and with this practical metaphor he
concluded his oration, and descended from the
steps.
The crowd had been composed, convinced,
and a little ashamed, and they greeted the orator
with murmurs of applause. Some of the
nearest grasped his hand warmly, and after he
had repeated his advice to disperse, they gradually
separated.
As soon as the last straggler had disappeared,
the comptroller came down-stairs, opened the
door a little, peered stealthily out, and seeing
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
no one remaining but Deane, who was quietly
looking at the moon with his hands in his
pockets, — cried, “Sir, sir, a word with you, if
you please.”
“Sir, a whole history,” said the other, quoting
Hamlet, and walking up the steps.
The comptroller had not heard Deane's oration,
or perhaps his gratitude would not have
been so unbounded; he knew only that Deane
had constituted himself his champion at a critical
moment, and he wished to be civil.
“Have the kindness to walk into the house,
my excellent young friend,” said he. “Let me
beg you to join me in a bottle of particularly
fine Carolina Madeira, that I may have the
opportunity to express my obligations to your
bravery more at length.”
“Thank you,” said Deane, “I never drink
Madeira, especially with custom-house officers —
spare your compliments I beseech you; and if
you are anxious for a companion, let me recommend
to your notice, a young gentleman
whom you will find in the mud underneath the
lower end of Hancock's wharf;” so saying he
turned on his heel, wished the comptroller politely
good evening, and strode off.
“It begins to work,” he muttered to himself;
“there will be rare doings in a year or two.
-- 063 --
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Thank God! there will be a chance for us all
to show the metal we are made of.”
As he went home, he took a bundle of printed
bills from the pocket of his over-coat, and
busied himself for half-an-hour in affixing them
on conspicuous places, in the principal streets.—
They were notifications for the “Sons of Liberty”
to meet the next day at Liberty Hall, at
ten in the morning.
When this was done, he went quietly home
to bed, and repaired to the appointed place the
following morning. The concourse was, however,
so great, and the weather so stormy, that
the multitude adjourned to Faneuil Hall. Here
a legal meeting was moved and appointed by the
select-men, to take place at three o'clock in the
afternoon.
At the appointed time the crowd again assembled,
but in such overflowing numbers, that they
were obliged to adjourn to the old South Church.
Here many of the most respectable citizens
calmly addressed the assembly. The whole meeting
was conducted with decency and propriety;
and on motion of Deane, a petition to the Governor
was unanimously adopted, and a committee
of twenty-one appointed to present it. Of
this committee, Deane, young as he was, was
nominated chairman.
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The petition, after a declaration of rights and
injuries, concluded with the following words:—
“The town is, at this crisis, in a situation as
if war was formally declared against it. To
contend with our parent state, is an idea of
most shocking and dreadful extremity: — but
tamely to relinquish the only security we and
our posterity retain for the enjoyment of our
lives and properties, without one struggle, is so
humiliating and base, that we cannot support the
reflection.
“We apprehend, sir, that it is at your option,
in your power, and we would hope in your inclination,
to prevent this distressed and justly
incensed people from effecting too much, and
from the shame and reproach of effecting too
little.”
This petition, like most petitions, had little
effect: it was graciously received, and graciously
forgotten. The members of the House of Representatives
for the time proposed a series of spirited
resolutions, and just as they were going to act
upon them in a spirited manner, the Governor
thought proper to dissolve the House in consequence
of a regal command.
A few months after this, viz. September 30th,
1768, “six ships of war sailed into the harbour,
and anchored round the town; their cannon
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loaded, and springs on their cables, as for a
regular siege.
“At noon, on Saturday, October 1st, the 14th
and 29th regiments, a detachment from the
59th, and a train of artillery, with two pieces
of cannon, loaded, on Long Wharf, then formed
and marched with insolent parade, drums beating,
fifes playing, and colours flying, up King's
Street; each soldier having received sixteen round
of shot.”
-- 066 --
CHAPTER IX. DIDACTIC.
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
It was about a year after these events, that I
one day paid a visit to Deane. We had seen
each other very little since college days, although
a warm friendship which had immediately succeeded
the unfortunate termination of my dramatic
career, had never subsided on either side;
our courses had, however, of late years, been distinct,
and, in fact, I had been so much of a
hermit, that I had seen no one.
I entered his room late in the afternoon, and
found it vacant: as I had been assured that he
would probably soon return home, I sat down
to await his coming. While I was waiting, I
had leisure to examine the apartment. Deane
had been an orphan for some years, and had
inherited a small independence from his parents
His apartments consisted of simply a study and
a chamber, into the former of which I had entered.
It was a tolerably large room, and furnished
plainly and comfortably. Its condition
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
was a sort of index of the inhabitant's character.
One side was entirely occupied from the
floor to the ceiling, with a set of dusty bookshelves,
on which were heaped a mass of rusty
looking volumes, almost entirely on subjects connected
with the law. On the table were a
pile of boxing gloves, half a dozen fencing
foils, and a mass of heterogeneous books of all
shapes and sizes.
I took up some of them, which seemed to
have lately occupied his attention. A small
and much-thumbed copy of Juvenal, was stuck
as a mark in a large folio treatise on Artillery.
The Memoirs of Monk, Duke of Albemarle, a
copy of Cæsar, and a volume of Peere Williams's
Reports, lay together in a heap, surmounted by
the Memoirs of Faublas. A delicate-looking billet
doux, directed in a lady's hand to Deane, projected
from a copy of Ferguson's Surveying,
which, with half a dozen other mathematical
works, completed the collection on the table.
A drawer was left carelessly open, which
seemed to be stuffed full of papers in Deane's
hand-writing, and a miniature of a young and
exquisitely beautiful female dangled by its chain,
as if caught by accident to the handle of the
drawer. Over the fire-place was a picture of
the armorial bearings of Deane, wrought in a
sort of embroidery, and on the mantel-piece
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
were carelessly lying a case of mathematical
instruments, a pair of spurs, and a diamond
ring, apparently of some value.
I had hardly finished my survey, when Deane
made his appearance. He seemed glad to see
me; shook my hand heartily, and without further
preface, began in his sententious way.
“You are going abroad, I hear?”
“Yes; I have nearly made up my mind,”
said I.
“When?”
“Early in the spring.”
“Why?”
“Because,” said I, “I am weary. I hardly
think I shall ever return. To say the truth, I
wish I was any sort of thing but a provincial,—
a colonist. If I had been born any where else,
if I had been placed in a fit sphere of action, I
might have been something. But I am convinced,”
continued I, pathetically, “that I am
not made for this age, or this country.”
“What the devil are you made for?” said
Deane. But checking himself, he muttered
“The usual silly cant of the indolent and the
dreaming. There will be plenty for you to do,”
he continued, aloud, “and plenty to interest
you, in the affairs of the country.”
“Ah! I take no interest in these provincial
squabbles. A few months, and they will be
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
settled. A dozen regiments will set matters to
rights.”
He seemed not to heed my answer — mused
a moment, and then resumed, “Yes — you may
as well go. You will perhaps return — there
will be a country to return to. The sin is,
that we are not national. Our thoughts from
childhood cross the ocean every instant. How
many centuries will pass before the infant America
is weaned from its mother Europe? But
yet why should we regret it? We are Europeans—
transplanted Europeans Politically, we
shall soon become a distinct nation — socially
and morally, we shall continue to be Europeans.
And why not? Were not the Syracusans
and the Agrigentines, Greeks? Did not
Pindar flourish at the court of Hiero?”
“Well,” said I, with great magnanimity,
“perhaps I may some day return. One cannot
resist a sneaking regard for the place of
one's nativity. But, after all, Europe is the only
place for a gentleman to live in.”
“For God's sake,” he replied, “endeavour to
rid yourself of such plebeian notions as fast as
you can. Do not confound yourself with the
grovelling and the vulgar-minded, who think
themselves in the dark unless their farthing
candles are lighted at a court-chandelier. Let
us endeavour to emit the light ourselves, not
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
to revolve on the edge of obscurity — the thousandth
satellites of an orb above us. Let us
understand our mission. Leave to the imitators—
the ordinary herd, to ape the manners, and
hanker after the refinements which, even if they
were born to them, they would lack the intellect
to appreciate.”
He laid his finger on my shoulder, and assumed
a grave demeanour as he continued,
“Morton, remember this. If you have any ambition,
any desire for distinction, its field and its
satisfaction must be sought for in your own
neighbourhood. The material out of which one
must carve the statue of his reputation must be
sought for in the earth beneath his feet — the
only quarry of enduring marble you will find
in the soil of your country. Study your age —
study your country — and investigate and work
upon the materials you find. It is only the
imbecile who complain of their unfitness for
their age or country; — the master spirits seize
the times, and mould them to their will.”
“Well, well,” said I, beginning to be bored
with this homily. “Time enough;—time enough.
We are both young—there is no hurry.”
“There again,” said he, quietly. “There is
another vulgar error. I tell you, Morton, that
the only difference between intellects, between
characters, between men, is simply the difference
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
between thinking and acting. Any one can
think — any one knows what one ought to do
to become great. But few act — few do. A
catalogue of actions is the only history and the
only biography worth heeding. If you tell me
that a man is clever — is a genius — I shall ask
you simply, what has he done? To do is the
only proof that I will accept of genius. No hurry—
no hurry, you say — very well. But recollect,
that while you are shivering and hesitating
on the brink, another will have breasted the
waves, and crossed the torrent; — while you are
bundling and sharpening your arrows, another
will have struck the deer.”
As I got up to go, I was surprised that
Deane looked pale. I asked him if he was ill.
He said no; but believed that he had been
bleeding a little. I asked for an explanation,
and he showed me his arm, which was bound
with his pocket-handkerchief. There was a
sword-wound directly through the fleshy part of
his shoulder, and the handkerchief was saturated
with blood.
“What, in the name of wonder, have you
been about?” I asked.
“Nothing of note,” said he. “A scuffle in
the British Coffee-house in State-street. You
have probably heard of the offensive introduction
of my name in a paper lately published
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
by the Commissioners of the Customs. In consequence
of this, the other day, I denounced
the whole set of them as liars. This evening
I came into the coffee-room; I found one of the
commissioners sitting there with a parcel of his
friends. An altercation ensued. I knocked him
down. His friends took his part, and a few of
the by-standers sided with me; there were, however,
a dozen to one against us. Young Tomkins,
a youth who owes me a grudge for having
stuck him in the mud one day, joined with
half a dozen officers in an attack. Some of
them drew their swords. There was a scuffle.
We were, of course, overpowered. I received
this cut. We were finally thrust from the
house. No matter, a day of reckoning will
come.”
“Do you know from whom you received the
wound?”
“Yes, perfectly well — from a certain Captain
Carew of the 29th. His hour will come; —
there is no hurry. I pride myself upon my
good memory.”
The conversation lasted a little longer; but the
topics remained the same. The Old South clock
struck twelve as I passed through the deserted
streets to my home.
-- 073 --
CHAPTER X. THE GOVERNOR'S BALL.
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
It was about this time that a number of balls
were given by the Governor and the leading
members of the Council, as well as by the
officers of the regiments quartered in the town.
My uncle, after a great deal of talk about the
rights of man, and sacred privilege of representation
had ended as he began, by warmly espousing
the Royal cause.
As has been seen, I meddled little with politics.
Whatever bias I had, was on the Tory
side of the question. As for the gaieties of the
town, however, I mingled but little with them.
My character was still pulp-like and undetermined.
The infant's cartilage had not yet hardened
into the bone of manhood. I was of the
age, when a youth imagines it magnanimity to
despise society; — when a sullenness of demeanour
is mistaken for superiority of character. I
thought that my spirit walked not with those of
other men; but I had not yet learned that it
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
was because it was jostled from the path by
stronger spirits. I had not learned that an unsocial
deportment was a proof of imbecility, and
not of romantic superiority, and that the talent
for society is nearly allied to the most dignified
and most robust qualities of character. I was
yet a boy. I had studied a little and thought a
little; but I had not yet felt or done.
There is a flood of passion, which sooner or
later sweeps over each human soul, sometimes to
refresh and fertilize, sometimes to overwhelm and
destroy. It is not till the tide has flowed and
ebbed, till the character has felt the full force of
love, of passion, and has again been deserted
and left bare, that we can learn what parts of
it were firm; that which has resisted the shock
and remained on the beach unshattered, may
bid defiance to a future storm. The tideless Mediterranean
of the mind which succeeds, swells
not beyond its natural limits; and even if the
retiring waves have left nothing but sand and
sea-weed, still it is better. That which could
not resist the flood had better have been swept
away, and then you may build, regardless of a
future storm. Man loves — passionately loves but
once.
I was destined soon to feel. In compliance
with a request from my uncle Joshua, that I
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
would leave my books occasionally, I went to a
ball at the Governor's.
I wandered through the rooms, listened to the
fiddles, looked apathetically at the various lovely
forms which flitted by me, conversed with an
acquaintance or two, and was already excessively
bored, when, turning accidentally to an inner
room, my attention was arrested suddenly. It
was a woman, a girl more lovely than any I
had ever dreamed of. I was startled. She was
standing near a column, and gazing vacantly
round the room. As I entered we were
close to each other — our eyes met — the vacant
look disappeared; the casual glance became
on both sides by a sort of fascination, a full,
earnest, almost an impassioned gaze. It was
but a moment, — the lady coloured slightly, and
dropped her eyes. A vague, delicious sensation
stole around my heart — I stood in a spell.
I awoke in a moment from my trance, and
found myself standing on the Governor's toes.
“If you are ready,” said he, smiling.
“Certainly,” said I, politely, and I shuffled
off.
The people still danced and supped, and
danced again. I heeded it not. I wandered
up and down in a dream. My imagination was
as violent as is usual at my age; something
had been given it to work upon, and it wrought.
-- 076 --
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Those deep blue eyes had sunk deep into my
heart, and I almost feared to look at them
again. I revelled in the feeling that she was
near me, and it was enough; I yielded without
a struggle to the spell of my first love. The
music resounded through the brilliant halls, and
sparkling eyes and lovely forms floated by me
in the dance. I thought of her, and there
was intoxication in the very air. I thought of
her, and the music breathed bewilderingly in
my ear, stole into every fibre of my system,
and caused my heart-strings to vibrate responsively
back.
I was startled from my reverie by the conversation
of an indifferent acquaintance; when it
was ended, I looked around. Not seeing her,
as I thought I must the instant I lifted my eyes,
I gazed wildly and rapidly round. In the twinkling
of an eye, I had scanned the features of
every woman there — I found her not. My
heart, that was so buoyant, changed to lead.
I felt it sink in my bosom. The scales fell
from my eyes; the enchantment of the scene
was broken; the fiddles were no longer archangels'
lyres. The spermaceti candles no longer
illumined a hall as dazzling as Aladdin's palace.
There was no medium in my youthful
nature between rapture and despair, otherwise I
should not have been so miserable, because, as
-- 077 --
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I found five minutes afterwards, the lady had
only gone into the next room. I marched into
it, and there she was, — let me describe her.
Her profuse hair was as black as night, and
dividing simply on her forehead, was drawn
backward and knotted behind with a wreath
of snow-white flowers. A single ringlet depended
from behind the tiny and transparent ear,
towards the exquisitely moulded throat.
The mould of her features was faultless. I
held my breath lest all should be dissolved, and
the phantom float away. The low forehead,
the delicate, decided brow, the perfect nose, the
short lip, the sculptured chin, the matchless
shoulders, the snowy bosom, the softly swelling
proportions of the whole form in earliest womanhood,
the fairy foot, the dazzling arms, the
liquid, noiseless motions, all passed in quick
review before me, and I lingered over each individual
charm, lost in a delicious intoxication.
But all vanished — all was forgotten as she
once more raised her eyes, and I felt my heart
leap and tremble as I once more gazed upon
them. I glided up close to her, without feeling
or knowing that I moved, and it seemed,
as I looked, that my thoughts could penetrate
through those cloudless depths into the very bottom
of her soul.
In the course of these proceedings, our eyes
-- 078 --
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again met, presently I saw her touch the arm
of a gentleman who stood near, and say something
in a quick low voice, while at the same
time she looked earnestly, almost inquiringly towards
me. I fancied that the sudden fascination
had been mutual, and took it for granted
she was saying something sweet about the youth
that had enslaved her. I was mistaken — she
was only asking the name of the booby who
had been gaping at her for the last ten minutes.
I felt conscious of the impropriety of my
behaviour, and so I inquired of Captain Carew,
who was near me, the name of the lady.
“Miss Mayflower Vane — a confounded little
rebel,” was the answer.
“Please to introduce me.”
After my introductory bow, I remained standing
in the third position. Having nothing to
say, I began gracefully to twirl my thumbs.
“I will thank you to leave staring at me, as
if you were an Indian, and try to amuse me,”
said Mayflower.
“I am an Indian,” said I; and, pleased to
find myself on such an interesting topic as
myself, I began to talk; and I explained to
her the dignified descent on which I prided
myself.
After this we got on. She told me she detested
the government, and only came to these
-- 079 --
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entertainments to torment the officers, all of whom
were in love with her.
From talking of other people, we came to
talking of ourselves; and from talking of her,
we got to talking of me. She thought proper
to flatter me, and there was the mischief. It
was all over with me. I dare say she was
only making a fool of me, but I took it all for
sincerity.
Ah! — flattery is a sweet and intoxicating
potion, whether we drink it from an earthen
ewer, or a golden chalice; but when we inhale
it fresh and sparkling from the red lips of
beauty, it changes in the bosom to the subtlest
poison. Woman — beautiful woman — a woman
like Mayflower Vane, is used to flattery, and it
is harmless to her. She forgot that though she
could feed harmlessly on poison, it might not
be so with me. Flattery from man to woman
is expected; it is a part of the courtesy of
society; but when the divinity descends from
the altar to burn incense to the priest, what
wonder if the idolater should feel himself transformed
into a god!
Mayflower was an anomaly. She had a
heart, but she was a coquette — a natural coquette.
The mischief was, she did not know
she was one. Her admiration and her interest
were easily excited, and she had a natural
-- 080 --
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desire for winning as many hearts as she could,
not for the sake of wearing them, and displaying
them, but for their own sake. Her heart
was overflowing, and she loved the whole world.
Her swift affections swarmed from her heart like
bees, but only to return at night to their fragrant
home, more sweetly laden than ever.
After I returned from the Governor's I found
I could not sleep, so I sat up, scribbling sonnets
till day-break. I threw myself then on my bed
and slept. The syren, memory, seized her lyre,
and sang the honied words of flattery, which
had already charmed my ear. I slept — and
that most musical of mortal voices still sounded
in my ear, and attended my dreams to the divinest
harmony.
-- 081 --
CHAPTER XI. LOVE AND CALICO.
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
I awoke in love. In tropical hearts a passion
shoots up to perfection in a single night, like a
flower. The elements of my whole nature were
inflammable, and love was the torch which was
now to light them into a beacon fire to guide
and guard my whole existence, or to a devouring
flame which was to consume and destory, —
I heeded not which; but the flame
was lighted, and the fire glowed. My whole
nature, to its lowest depths, was illumined.
Feelings and hopes, which had long lain dormant
in my bosom, now crept out like torpid
insects, to warm themselves in the genial influence
of my love. My whole character seemed
to alter suddenly — to acquire impulses and qualities,
natural, indeed, but which had never shewn
themselves before.
I have no wish to linger on the details of
this period of my life. Suffice — I saw Mafy
very often, and became desperately in love.
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She was pleased with the passion of a boy,
and thought herself partly in love with me.
Besides, her imagination was excited, for I told
her I was a genius, and wrote her a great
quantity of verses.
By a singular combination of circumstances,
Mafy came to make a visit at Morton's Hope.
It is not necessary to explain any more, than
that her father, who was an old friend of my
uncle's was obliged to make a visit of business
to the southern provinces, and as he was anxious
that his daughter should not be exposed to
the fatigues of rapid journeying at this inclement
season, he appointed my uncle her temporary
guardian.
When I heard this from Mafy's own lips, I
trembled for joy. I could hardly believe that
the Hope was to be turned into such a paradise.
It was true, and she came.
She came — and my doom was sealed. Could
it be otherwise? Was it not necessary that I
should give myself up, blindly, recklessly, to my
passion, — being daily, hourly, by the side of
that enchanting woman? Was it unnatural,
too, that in spite of her reason — in spite of
my extreme youth, and the childishness of my
character, she began to return a passion which
was enforced with such unchanging vehemence.
She did return it, and I was happy. She
-- 083 --
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acknowledged to me that she loved me, and at
that moment I felt myself an immortal. Swiftly
flew those hours; they flew — but their
wings were woven from the plumage of paradise.
Unheard and unheeded falls the foot of
time in the summer of our love, for his steps
are muffled with flowers. Alas! alas! — how
soon these flowers fade!! — and how soon comes
the season when his every footstep is painfully
distinct, as he strides over the crumbling leaves,
and the decayed and crackling branches! and
alas! the last season of all, when his progress
is again unheard, but because his path is covered
thick with snow.
Mafy loved me, and I was satisfied. There
was an occasional fit of abstraction, and once
or twice I found her in tears; but, in general,
she was gay and happy. I had put my whole
destiny in her hands. I had poured forth to
her the whole suppressed tides of my inmost
nature. Every hope, wish, aspiration — all the
hoarded ingots of my heart — I gave — recklessly
gave — to her keeping.
We were ever together in that blessed retirement.
She made me speak gravely, and look
definitely at the things which had been going
on around us. I have said she was a rebel,
and she made me one in a moment. She could
mould me as she wished. There was my bane.
-- 084 --
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She found she influenced me too much. A
woman cannot pardon in her lover a strength
of character inferior to her own.
“Did you make Uncas go without his dinner
to-day, uncle Joshua, that he is so ill-natured?”
cried Mafy, one evening. The old gentleman
heard or heeded not the question. He was standing
in the corner of the room. Before him was
an immense box, in which he had arranged all
sorts of wheels and cylinders, and shuttles —
had supplied it with water from a cistern —
causing an artificial river and dam, and waterfall:
in short, it was a whim to which the
recent events in the colonies had made him rather
more constant than he otherwise would
have been. And as the gout and the bad
weather had kept him from his great establishment
in the Anissippi, he had been employing
himself a month in constructing a calico factory,
with which he could amuse himself within
doors.
“A plus B divided by C, raised to the N
power, are equal to an unknown quantity represented
by X. Now, if the unknown quantity
be the Piston No. 1, and 2 minus Z, be,—,”
cried Joshua, reading from a book of
problems, and referring to his machinery.
“Lord, Joshua,” cried Forty, “I wish you
could be cured of that provoking habit of
-- 085 --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
reading aloud anything that you may be busy with.
If there are forty people in the room that know
nothing of the subject, you insist on lugging
them all in by the ears to your assistance.
Now, what do you suppose, I, or Uncas, or that
little provoking Mafy—”
“You shan't abuse Mafy,” said the old gentleman,
drawing himself up with great dignity,
“and moreover, you are not to suppose that
every one has as little taste or talent for abstract
science as yourself. The fact is, you do
not at all appreciate the immense advantage
you might have derived from a continual intercourse
with a man like myself — a man, who
has devoted himself, I may say, to the cause of
science, and—”
“There's Hiram the carpenter coming in;
so you'd better talk science with him,” answered
Forty, leaving the room on business of the
family.
The old gentleman and his confederate went
off to the calico, and were soon buried deeply
in mathematical calculations.
“Now, come with me to the piano,” said Mayflower,
“and I will sing the pretty song you
wrote for me.”
And we went, and she sang the pretty song
I wrote for her, and twenty others that I had
written for her, and twenty more that I did
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
not write for her; and we had been a long time
together, and had become very sentimental, and
I had got hold of her hand under the piano,
and was kissing it diligently. “Dearest Mayflower,”
said I—
“Come here both of you,” said Joshua, suddenly
marching up, and seizing Mafy by the
arm. “Come directly — there is one cogged
wheel, and one wheel without cogs, the theoretic
adaptation of which I did not explain to
you yesterday. I will do it now; and I have
had the cistern filled with water; and Hiram
the carpenter is come; and I shall set the
whole system in motion. You shall see it, both
of you. What can be more delightful?”
“Damn the carpenter and the cogged wheels,”
muttered I, in a pet, at being interrupted at
such an interesting moment by such an annoying
proposal. It is on such trifling occasions
that a man seldom entirely commands himself,
and a woman always. Woman is trained so
early to concealment of feeling, that she slips
on a decent outward demeanour as easily as a
glove.
“Hush, Uncas,” said Mafy, “you must go.
Perhaps you are not aware that uncle Joshua
is as much in love with me as you. I am
not sure which I shall decide for. How should
you like me for a step-mother?” So she smiled
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
upon Joshua, took his arm, and they were
soon over head and ears in the mill-pond,
while I solaced myself with a fit of sulks in a
corner.
After this business was over, and we were
left alone, I pressed my suit. The vehemence
of my boyish eloquence, my prayers, and my
passionate tears, softened her soul. She took a
slight ring from her finger, and we broke it
between us. She tied my fragment to a tress
of her hair, and hung it round my neck. She
kissed me fondly, and promised to be mine for
ever.
That raven braid — that broken ring, lie now
before my eyes. They are all that remind me
of thy plighted love, Mayflower.
-- 088 --
CHAPTER XII. A LETTER AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
I was just preparing to return home, after a
few weeks' absence, — my heart full of hope
and happiness, — when the following letter was
put into my hands: —
“Dear Uncas;
“You are going to hate me. I am prepared
for it. Alas! you have too much cause.
What shall I write? My thoughts are wild
and fluctuating as the sea, and my reason is
tossed about at their mercy. My brain is whirled
round by conflicting passions, till it is sick
and giddy. You have often complained of my
coldness, my abstraction; but could you have
dreamed of the extent of my crime? Never.
I have only made you the victim of a foiled
attempt at self-sacrifice. Dearest Uncas, I do
not ask you not to hate me. I implore your
curses; but, at least, hear me to the end. I
have but a word to say.
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
“When we first met, I looked upon you as
a boy — a serious thought of you never crossed
my brain. My imagination was touched
with the fantastic passion of a child, — nothing
more. By and by, I began to realize the intenseness
and reality of your passion. The
depths of your nature were revealed to me. I
saw all that was good, and all that was fearful
in your character. It terrified me to reflect that
I, a weak woman, held your whole existence in
my hands. I am not vain; and it was always
difficult for me to believe that I could
work that mischief, which I know is but too
often wrought by woman. But I began to feel
that I had been unwittingly trifling with a passion
and a character, both beyond their own
control and mine. I felt that I had wronged
you, and I felt too, that I could indeed be the
cause of unhappiness to one so young and so
gifted.
“It was then that I thought of reparation, —
it was then, that to cure one error, I committed
one ten thousand times greater. It was then,
that by a fatal mistake, I determined to atone
for my coquetry, by a still greater crime, and,
in a moment of hesitation, weakness, self-reproach,
despair, I plighted myself to you; I
vowed to love you when I knew I loved you
not. I then began to struggle with myself. I
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
strove to persuade myself that I loved you. I
ascribed to my heart, impressions traced only
upon my fancy. I endeavoured to distort my
admiration for you into love. Fool, that I was,
not to know, that the moment a woman begins
to reason, she has either never loved, or
has ceased to love.
“Ah! if I could believe you would hate me,
I should, I think, be happier. For God's sake,
do not, do not forgive me. It is my only
prayer. If you do, I shall be miserable indeed.
“But I hesitate, — I linger, — the worst is yet
behind. Why do I now feel that I can never
love you as I hoped, as you deserve, as you
will be loved and worshipped, I know and prophecy,
by some being superior to me in body,
heart, and mind. I will tell you, — for I know
you have the nerve to bear it. Listen, and
shrink not. I love another. Yes; I love, — I
am pledged to another. I have broken all my
vows, and with your parting kiss hardly cold
upon my lip, I have given myself to another.
Will you know that other's name? You know
him well. It is your friend, Vassal Deane!
There, I have driven the arrow to your heart.
One single word more. Do not allow yourself
a ray of hope. There is no hope for you. I
have never loved you, — not an instant. I
wished to make reparation. I strove to sacrifice
-- 091 --
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
us both. Miserable mistake! I did not know
myself. I have, at last, met the man who has
disclosed me to myself, — who has revealed to
me the deep and awful feeling of which I always
deemed myself capable, but never realized
till now. Passion has slumbered within me always;
but it dreamed, — it dreamed, — but it
has at last awaked. I tell you, Uncas Morton,
that I adore him. If you should descend to
the lowest depths of my soul, you would find it
filled to overflowing with the blessed light of
his love.
“I dare say all this to you. It is at least,
a consolation to me to know that you have
already begun to hate me. At least, I have
never sought to palliate my own conduct. Farewell,
Uncas, dearest Uncas; I shall never cease
to pray for your happiness; but I do not ask
you to forgive me, either in this world or the
next. Hate me, — hate me, — I implore you.
“Mayflower Vane.”
I read it through without flinching. The
paper dropped from my hands. I began to
whistle, as if nothing had happened. For an
instant, not an emotion was excited in my
mind. I walked mechanically to the door, and
locked it. I sat down, and remained a moment
in a stupid bewilderment. Suddenly the whole
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
horrible truth burst with a glare of light upon
my mind. I read my fate by the conflagration
of my ruined hopes, — and then I cried aloud
in my agony, — I tore my hair, — I threw myself
upon the ground, — I blasphemed Mayflower,—
I poured out execrations—I raved myself
into a frenzy, — I fell alternately from delirium
to exhaustion, and from exhaustion to delirium.
At last, I was worn out. I lay on the ground,
motionless, hopeless, helpless; panting like a
struck deer, writhing like a crushed worm, under
the weight of one horrible, sickening remembrance.
Hour after hour, I lay in that
room in a trance, and felt each moment as it
passed, enter my heart like a barbed arrow
dipped in memory's poison. With the break
of the morning, a light shot through my brain;
the demon stirred within me. Pride roused itself
like a lion in my breast, and love shrank
away like a scourged slave. I thought of revenge,
and I became calm and happy. I determined
to return, to discover my rival, and
to pluck out his heart, and then to annihilate
Mayflower by my scorn.
I went down stairs, and breakfasted like a
famished vulture. I then set out immediately
for home.
It was evening when I arrived in Boston.
I went immediately to her house. It was at
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
the then court-end of the town, and on the
same square with the Governor's, where I had
met her first. The house is standing now. A
large three-story wooden building, with an open
enclosure, and two or three trees before it. I
rang the bell, — Miss Vane was out, — engaged,—
in short, I could not see her. I gnashed
my teeth, and turned from the door. I perceived
that there was a light in Mafy's own
parlour, and that the shutters were not closed.
I climbed into one of the trees, and looked in.
There was a light cambric shade on the window,
so that I could not distinguish clearly;
but I sat in the tree, hoping to see my beloved.
By-and-by there came a shadow on the
window, — my heart palpitated, — I knew that
shadow, dearer to me than the reality of all
the world besides. Presently there came another
shadow, and the second was not that of a female
figure; and the two shadows approached
nearer and nearer, — they came close, — they
joined, — they intermingled — they remained long
entwined, — then the quick, indistinct hum of
eager and passionate words, sounded faintly on
my ear; and then, as the shadows separated,
I heard a light laugh; I mistook it not, —
'twas Mafy's; but that most musical laugh
rang in my ears like a demon's cry. I felt
transfixed, — I sat motionless, — straining my
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
eyes to see all, — holding my breath to hear
all. Again the shadows approached, again the
murmured accents of love jarred upon my ears,—
the male figure came close to the window,—
I thought I recognised it, — it stretched out
its arms. I saw a head resting on a shoulder.
I sprang from the tree and saw no more.
And I stood there, had seen it all and
breathed. It was indeed Mayflower, and I had
seen her in another's arms. The thought was
maddening, my brain seethed, my blood boiled,
every nerve quivered, the air felt thick and
choking, — I was growing mad.
I turned from the place, — it was snowing
violently — I heeded it not, — I determined to
walk the ten miles to Morton's Hope. The
storm drove furiously in my face, as I proceeded, —
I welcomed it, — I was fleeing from
my own horrible thoughts. Those kisses were
ever hissing in my ears like adders' tongues, —
I staggered blindly on through the savage tempest.
At last I became wearied, my feet were
clogged, my knees trembled; I sank in the
snow; I wrapped my cloak placidly round me,
and placed my head upon a drifted heap; I
hoped that my hour was come. Alas! I courted
Death, and he spurned me. The fever of
my heart was proof against the elements. Instead
of growing torpid, I felt my brain again
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
consuming. The whole pack of my insane and
devouring thoughts came on again in full cry,
and I sprang to my feet, and fled like an
Acteon before them. On, on I drove, faster
and faster; I reached the Hope, burst open the
door, ascended to my own room. As I passed
in, with a lighted candle in my hand, I suddenly
confronted myself in the glass, — It was
my ghost! — I was horror-struck: — pale with
watching, haggard with fatigue, with jaws fallen,
lips livid, teeth chattering, the unexpected
apparition to myself of myself, (a thing startling
to every one,) was frightful. I thought I
saw my wraith, and, half frightened, half exhausted
and bewildered, I sank heavily on my
bed, and slept a long and dreamless sleep.
-- 096 --
CHAPTER XIII. MY UNCLE'S FETE.
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
When I awoke, it seemed as if I had only
slept three minutes. It was day-light, however,
and I felt no inclination to sleep.
I rang the bell, and learned from the servant
that Joshua had been absent a few days, and
was expected this afternoon; that Fortitude was
confined to her chamber with the rheumatism;
and that to-day being my uncle's birth-day,
there was to be a ball, in commemoration of that,
and of the approaching marriage between Mayflower
and Vassal Deane.
Being sufficiently refreshed, I walked out into
the air. The snow-storm which I have commemorated,
had left but few traces: there was,
however, an enormous quantity of snow and
ice still left upon the ground. It was one of
those warm, dissolving days, not uncommon in
the early part of March. A southerly wind,
and a thawing sun, had caused the surface of
the country to glisten; and I heard the
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
twittering of a thousand cheated birds, and the tinkling
of a thousand streams under the prodigious
masses of snow and ice which the winter had
accumulated, and which were now sinking beneath
the sun. The atmosphere was bright
and glorious, the air was flooded with light, as
if there were some magnificent festival in Heaven,
and its supernatural brilliancy blazed
through the sky.
I had not walked far, when I perceived a
small cavalcade making its way to the Hope.
Joshua, attired in a brown wrapper, and furred
boots, an India handkerchief round his neck,
and a bear skin cap on his head, led the procession,
mounted on the reader's acquaintance,
Sleepy Solomon. Mayflower and Deane riding
side by side, completed the party. Joshua, as
the servant told me, had taken it into his wise
head to give a fête, in honour of his own birth-day.
The festivities were to conclude with a
ball and illumination, and he had brought from
town a quantity of squibs and Congreve rockets
for the occasion.
He was a singular figure, as he jolted up and
down upon the gigantic horse. His wrapper,
with one yawning pocket filled to the brim with
the fire-works that were to explode that evening,
and the other stuffed with a brown paper
parcel of passion-flowers, which he had
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
purchased to make Mafy a wreath with, flapped
heavily against his horse's flanks. Under his
arm he clutched a bundle of flannel petticoats,
purchased in town for Aunt Fortitude, and
with one hand he jerked testily his horse's head
at every tormenting jolt, while in the other
fluttered the newspaper, which, with his spectacles
bobbing down to the tip of his nose at
every step, he was most preposterously endeavouring
to read aloud for the edification of the
lovers.
“It is a favourite theory of mine,” said he,
turning back towards his auditors with a sublime
countenance, “that one should accustom
oneself to do as many things at a time as possible.
Cæsar, you know, could read, write, and
dictate to a dozen all at once; — and you see
that I, without pretending to be as great a man
as Cæsar, can rein a restive horse, carry as
many bundles as a baggage-wagon, and read
these proceedings of the General Court, all at
once, while each of you have enough to do to
keep your seats on your horses.”
Just as he concluded this vain-glorious speech,
his horse stumbled heavily in a rut. Joshua
pulling awkwardly at the bridle with one hand,
flapped the paper in his eyes with the other.
The horse, resenting this insult, kicked up his
heels, and Joshua, alarmed, dropped newspaper,
-- 099 --
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
bundles, and all, and clung to Solomon's neck
with both hands.
Upon this I advanced from a thicket, picked
up the bundles, and greeted Joshua, who had
already tumbled from his horse, with surprise at
my unexpected apparition. I nodded hastily to
Deane, — avoided Mafy's eye, who was anxiously
seeking to catch mine, and saying I
would meet them all at the house, turned from
the road.
They were not more than four or five miles
from the Hope. The Anisippi, swollen beyond
its limits to a quarter of a mile's breadth, was
still frozen hard, and Joshua had been hitherto
in the habit of riding across the ice, which
shortened the distance a mile. The present
thaw, had, however, lasted so long, that he was
averse to crossing it at present; and, observing
that the ice had already began to look blue and
thin, he advised them all to ride round by the
bridge.
Mayflower, however, at the moment I had
left the party, had ridden rapidly forward alone,
probably wishing to collect herself for the approaching
interview with me.
She did not hear Joshua's advice, and thinking
the ice strong enough to support an army,
she touched her pony with the whip, and dashed
on to it. She was already half-way across,
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before she heard their expostulations. Suddenly,
all perceived that the ice in the centre looked
very thin, and we stood, waiting breathlessly
for the issue. It began to tremble. It was too
late to recede; to rush rapidly forward, was
her only chance. She hesitated, — she checked
her horse, — the ice began to heave and sink
in a wide undulating circle; it was already too
late, — the horse became frightened and restive,—
refused to obey the whip, — backed, reared,
and then stood shivering from head to foot.
Again the ice bent fearfully, — and the stream
was heard curdling distinctly below, — the whole
frozen sheet of the river swayed back again to
its level, — again the horse started forward, —
the ice sunk again, deeper than ever, — deeper
and deeper still, — then a crashing sound throughout
the whole surface, and then it broke into
a hundred pieces, and rider and horse were
seen struggling in the liberated waves. A cry
of horror burst from every mouth. Mayflower
clung almost senseless to the horse's neck. He
swam blindly and desperately forward. The
broken cakes of ice clogged across his path. In
an instant he reached a point, where the river,
making a rapid bend, was suddenly compressed
into a narrower and deeper current. Here the
violence of the torrent had long before swept
away the ice, which bound it only in the
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depths of winter. Mafy lost all command of
herself, and fell from the horse. All this was
the work of an instant.
At the first bursting of the ice, I had sprung
to her assistance, and thrown myself, half frantic,
into the waves. She was borne up awhile
by her dress. The current whirled her round
and round, and hurried her rapidly down. I
swam madly after her, — I gained upon her, —
the bend in the river and a thicket of elder
bushes hid her from my sight. On the other
side of the thicket, the stream became very
narrow. Deane, whose coolness and self-possession,
had never for a moment deserted him,
had galloped round to this point, dismounted,
seized a rail from a Virginia fence, and standing
on the bank, waited a few seconds. The
current bore her straight towards him; another
instant, and she would have been swept away;
he thrust the rail dexterously before her, —
she grasped it with the convulsive clutch of
a dying person,—she touched the brink. Deane,
leaning forward, seized her in his arms, and
drew her upon the bank of the river without
wetting the soles of his feet. They gathered
round her, seeking by various means to revive
her. In the meantime I was drowning.
In the confusion of the moment, I had been
forgotten. Joshua had seen me spring into the
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river. “Uncas! my boy!” shouted he, in
agony. There was no answer. A death-like
silence succeeded. I had sunk for a moment,
cramped with the cold, and exhausted with my
frantic exertions. I rose close to the ice; I
grasped it feebly with both hands; they were
slipping; — in an instant, I should have sunk,
and been borne under, when Deane, perceiving
my situation, rushed to my assistance, and
caught me by the arm. I exerted myself with
my remaining strength, and he succeeded in
dragging me out. I tottered to the bank, and
sank down exhausted. I recovered, however,
almost instantly. I had been chilled and half
frozen; but my frame was vigorous, and in a
few minutes I was able to stand. They were
all bent upon resuscitating Mafy.
A long time she lay, pale and rigid as a
beautiful statue. They chafed her temples, and
did every thing customary on such occasions,
with but little success. At last, Joshua, who
had heard of burnt feathers, and was a subscriber
to the Humane Society, determined on
lighting the plumes of her bonnet, and burning
them under her nose. He extracted his tinder-box,
and began composedly to strike a light.
Crack! crack! crack! — A tremendous explosion
succeeded. A Catherine's wheel whizzed out of
his pocket, and the camlet wrapper was a sheet
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of flame. A spark had fallen among his fire-works,
and they exploded a few hours too soon.
Deane, who was to be the hero of every scene
that day, caught up the flannel petticoats, which
lay providentially near, and wrapping them
round Joshua, hugged him closely in his arms.
The old gentleman lost his equilibrium, and
they fell, and rolled together on the ground.
The fire was extinguished, and no harm was
done; but their faces were blackened by the
smoke, and they presented a most absurd appearance
as they sprawled together on the earth,
locked together in a close embrace, and enveloped
in the graceful drapery of the red petticoats.
In the meantime, I had hung over Mafy,
despairing; forgetting all that was past, and
seeing only that she, who was dearer to me
than life, lay dying before my eyes. I chafed
her temples, — I pressed her to my heart, — I
kissed her pale mouth, her forehead, her eyes.
When suddenly, — perhaps benefited by the various
applications which had been tried, or perhaps
aroused from her torpor by the discharge
of Joshua's artillery, — she half unclosed her
eyes, and stretching her arms faintly towards
me, she murmured, “God bless you, dearest
Vassal,” and closed them again.
The words stabbed me to the heart. I had
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forgotten every thing but her danger, — every
thing but my despair, — every thing, but my
still unchecked and undiminished love. The
words recalled my awful, hopeless state; they
recalled my vow of revenge. I commanded myself
instantly, — called the attention of the rest
to Mafy's improved situation, — said that I would
hurry to the house for assistance, and then
mounted one of the horses, that I might get
home and change my dress.
In the meantime a litter of rails was formed,
and Mayflower, nearly resuscitated, was borne,
with the assistance of some labourers, slowly towards
the Hope.
Mafy did not recover from the effects of this
adventure till the next day. During all this
time, with the exception of a long interview
with Joshua, in which we decided I should
immediately leave America to complete my education,
I kept myself locked up in my room.
The ball was put off till the next evening, and
Joshua, who had never suspected the love passages
betwixt Mafy and myself, had insisted
upon my opening the dance with her. Not a
soul had ever known of our engagement, or of
its termination; and as for me, I would have
died a thousand deaths rather than have divulged
it to a human being. This night I determined
to act; I determined to be joyous and
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happy. It is only the effort in such cases that
is painful. Chain down your heart for a moment,
and it will lie still in its fetters. Swallow
the first throb of your agony, and you
may dance on the grave of your mother. But
mistake not your feigned and frantic merriment
for joy. The serpent shrinks and coils itself
away, but only to meditate a new and more
venomous attack. Think not that you have
wrestled with your anguish till you have destroyed
it. It is a cowardly foe, and slinks
away when it is attacked; but wait only till
you are quiet or exhausted, or asleep, and see
if it does not return with a legion of fiends at
its back.
I entered the drawing-room — the company
were assembled — the fiddles were playing — all
was ready. I approached Mayflower — she was
pale and trembling. I looked her steadily in
the face, and my eye did not quail, nor my
lip tremble, nor my cheek blanch, nor my voice
falter, as I said, — “Believe me, dearest Mafy,
no one more sincerely sympathises with your
happiness than I. No one more entirely admires
the man of your choice than I. No one
knows or loves him better. Do not distress
yourself for the abrupt termination of our little
flirtation. Believe me that I was but too glad
to be released from my vows, even with a little
wound to my vanity. It was but a boyish
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affair. I was young and foolish, and had already
repented my rashness. Thank God! you
have saved me from its consequences.”
Mayflower looked anxiously in my eyes;
she seemed puzzled, and half vexed. She
ventured, however, to allude to the events of
yesterday, and began to express her gratitude
for my efforts in her behalf. I begged her,
rather peremptorily, I believe, not to mortify
me by recurring to so ridiculous a topic, and
then I began to caper. I was the whole evening
in extravagant spirits, and said innumerable
good things, which I have, unfortunately, forgotten.
I announced to every one that I was going
to leave the country in two or three days. I
was delighted with my success, and determined
to leave the room now that the ball was near
its conclusion, and I was at the height of my
gaiety and indifference. As I turned toward
the door, I felt some one touch my arm; it
was Mayflower. She addressed me with a quivering
lip.
“And will you leave your home, perhaps for
ever, without saying one kind word of forgiveness
to one who will weary Heaven with prayers
for your welfare?”
I turned — I gave her one look of hate —
quenchless, unforgiving hate, and then I turned
on my heel, and left the place.
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I occupied myself two or three hours after I
left the room, in assorting and burning my
papers. I wrote two or three letters. It was at
last three o'clock in the morning. The ball
had long been over. The house was still as
death. I descended and walked a long time
upon the terrace. The night was calm and
bright. I looked upon the stars, and communed
long and deeply with myself. I felt
like one entranced. A strange and inexplicable
tranquillity filled my soul. I endeavoured to
analyse my feelings, but became bewildered in
the attempt. Suddenly an awful resolution
seemed to force itself against my own will upon
me. It was the thought of self-destruction. I
fought against it, but in vain. The resolution
had fixed itself upon my heart, and I felt that
my struggles were impotent against it. Still,
however, I was perfectly calm. It seemed that I
was impelled onward by an irresistible fate.
As I gazed upon the stars, it seemed that I
could read my terrible destiny in their bright
and mysterious rays. I abandoned myself to
an idea which I felt powerless to contend
with. I felt that I had but a few days to
live, and that strength would be given me to
bear up through the remaining scenes of my
short existence. I retired to my chamber at
last, and slept calmly as a child.
-- 108 --
CHAPTER XIV. A MARRIAGE AND A MASSACRE.
[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]
It was the morning of the 5th of March, the
day appointed for the marriage of Mayflower,
at which I had promised to be present. I
hurried through the town — I reached the
church — the bells were ringing merrily — I entered
with a stealthy step, and passed up the
most retired aisle — I placed myself in the broad
shadow of a column, and saw without being seen—
I was very near the altar. The bridal group
were assembled around it, and two forms were
kneeling at the altar.
A moment only, I tottered and leaned against
the pillar for support. It was but a moment —
the pang passed away, and I felt suddenly
composed. I had taken my resolution, and felt
fearfully calm. Motionless as a statue, I leaned
against the column, my eyes fixed calmly on
the bridal pair — I heard every question and
response — I saw the ring given, the hands
joined, the blessing pronounced. They rose —
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the bride cast a sudden glance around. She
was a little agitated. Suddenly her eyes lighted
upon me. It must have seemed a phantom—
none other saw me. She almost shrieked,
and turned as pale as death. I advanced
with a smile. She trembled. I took her hand—
it was icy cold. I kissed her lips — they
were as pale and rigid as marble. I then turned
from her, and with a manner almost too
boisterous for the solemnity of the occasion, I
shook hands heartily with Deane, wished him
and his bride all manner of joy, and bade them
all good morning as they left the scene.
I watched till the party had left the church,
walked quietly after, and stationed myself under
the portico. Two carriages- stood before
the door. The steps were let down, the bride
and bridegroom ascended one, the rest of the
party the other. The doors closed, the carriages
drove off. I stood till the last sound of
the retiring wheels died upon my ear. I
awoke from my trance, and found that I was
alone.
The resolution which had confirmed itself
while I was in church, I now hastened to execute.
I mounted my horse, and rode hastily
to Morton's Hope. I went to my room, took
my pistols, and walked quietly into the wood.
I sat down on a fragment of rock, took off
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my neckcloth, unbuttoned my waistcoat, laid bare
my bosom, and placed against it the muzzle
of the pistol. So far all was simple enough.
I, however, now made the discovery, that killing
oneself is the easiest matter in the world,
till you come to the final particulars. I found
these very troublesome. With a desperate effort,
however, I drowned reflection, and pulled
the trigger. The pistol flashed in the pan. I
sank upon the ground in a state of wonder at
my miraculous escape.
A moment after, I began to reflect: I began
to think myself a lucky fellow, at being
so well out of the scrape. I believe, that in
that minute portion of a second, which intervened
between the pulling of the trigger and
the trifling explosion of the pan, I had run
over all the thousand arguments against the
propriety of the measure; in that infinitesimal
fraction of time, I had seen unrolled before me
all the thousand charms, and delights, and realities
of life, just as it was too late, and my
unhappiness and its causes shrank up into nonentity.
Conceive of my delight on finding myself
alive after all.
“But a few months ago,” said I to myself,
“I wandered through these woods; I dreamed
of a future of glory and of joy; the sun-light
lay warm and beautiful on the path of my
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life; my way was strewn with roses; the heavens
were bright, the earth was green; the
flowers were gay, the birds sang merrily on
every tree. My heart was full of happiness
and hope; I had not then seen Mayflower, I
dreamed not of her existence; yet was my present
happy, my future glorious. Can the sun
shine no more? Will not the woods renew
their green? Will the flowers no longer bloom?
Have the birds forgot to sing? Have I no
longer a green world to rove through? Must
the gates of the future be barred upon me, because
I may not dwell in her arms?
“Fool! — if she sighs for your death, you will
not hear; if she weeps, you will not kiss away
her tears; if she dies, you will not be near her
in the grave.
“Buffoon! can you not feel that her grief,
if grief she feel, will pass from her heart, like
a breath from a mirror, and leave no trace.
Look beyond, — one year, — half-year, — three
months, and lo! she is laughing, and dancing,
and singing — and you have hardly rotted in
your grave.
“Try time, — try time: in one little year,
the arrow will drop from the wound, and your
heart will be whole. In one little year, you
would stand over the grave of such a love-sick
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child as your former self, and laugh his memory
to scorn.
“Try time, — try time! Why this haste? —
why this unseemly haste? If, when you have
essayed Time's healing balsam, you find that
the worm decays not, if your purpose is still
unchanged, will there be then no more gunpowder,
no more poison, no more halters, in
the world? — away, then, with this unseemly
haste.”
I went through a long series of such pleasing
reflections: but, I dare say, I have given the
substance of them.
My love of life, and my fear of death, were
both great; it was this that saved me, as it has
hundreds, from voluntary death. My deliberation
weakened and destroyed my resolve, so I
put my pistols into my pocket, and walked
quietly into the house.
It will be seen, but, I hope, pardoned for the
present, that my nature, at this period, was
utterly void of any thing like morality, or even
regulation.
Unfortunately, the person whose influence
over me was greatest, was as deficient as myself.
His superiority was in his unconquerable
will; in his concentrated and admirable energy
of volition. If it be supposed that I recommend
him as worthy of applause for other
-- 113 --
[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]
qualities, than for the particular ones for which
he was conspicuous, I shall indeed fail in
one of the principal objects of this history.
Under such a construction, the principles by
which I have been guided in the description
of characters and scenes, will have been set at
nought.
Power, without principle, is in all cases an
engine of evil rather than of good; and this
undeniable and universal law it is far from my
intention to combat or infringe.
As I came into my room, I saw a note, which
I had not opened before, — it was as follows:
“Dear Morton,
“Come to me without fail at twelve to-day:—
I shall be in — Street. It is a matter
of life and death.
“Your Friend, V. D.”
It wanted half-an-hour:— I rode furiously to
town, and reached — Street five minutes
before the time. Deane was already there.
“I have no time to lose,” said he, abruptly
seizing me by the arm, and hurrying me along
the street. “Look through this note; I received
it this morning.”
The note was as follows:
-- 114 --
“Vassal Deane, Esq.
[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]
“Sir, — There are three things to be settled,
and they may be done at one time as well as
another — amicably, if you like — but certainly,
suddenly. Bring a friend — Major Dalrymple
will be with me. I know it is your marriageday,
but I cannot wait. I know you too well
not to be sure that it will prove no excuse.
The hour is half-past twelve. The place, the
Providence House.
Your obedient Servant,
“L. E. O. Carew, 29th Regt.”
I looked up in perfect and profound ignorance.
“Ah! I see you are surprised!” said Deane;
“there is a long story — I have no time to tell
it yet. A love passage, (for you know that
Captain Carew was an unsuccessful suitor of
Mafy,) a political intrigue, and some other matters,
all mixed up together in the most incongruous
manner. You see I must have a friend,
and I know no one so tried, so firm as you.
I hardly know how the matter will end. You
will think it strange that I have left my bride
so soon; in fact, I left her at the house without
getting out of the carriage. The matter
brooks no delay; I deceived Mayflower with a
plausible lie, which will serve three hours. After
that — but first I will tell you briefly the whole
story. You must know that three weeks ago,
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I went — but stay — what tumult is this? Listen
to those bells — see what a concourse of
citizens. I hear drums — cannons!”
We had reached State-street, it was thronged
with citizens; shouts and execrations rang
through the air. The dense mass fluctuated
hither and thither, but the direction seemed to
be toward the head of the street. We hastened
our pace. We came near the corner of Exchange-lane,
and nearly in front of the Custom-house.
It was the place where the main
guard was always stationed. There were a
large number of soldiers; they were hemmed
closely in by a vast and excited crowd of
townsmen. The plumes of several officers were
waving in the midst of the mob. There seemed
to be a tremendous excitement. Execrations,
threats, and taunts were showered upon the soldiers
by the citizens. An officer was struck
down in the crowd. A thousand hoarse voices
rent the air; a thousand confused and contradictory
orders were given by those in command.
The townsmen pressed upon, and insulted the
soldiers. The soldiers presented their muskets.
A crisis was approaching.
“Premature, stupid, heedless rabble, ever acting
like beasts from impulse, from instinct!”
muttered Deane between his teeth. “Can ye
not wait? Will ye, — must ye cast and crush
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yourselves beneath the scythed chariot of despotism,
when ye might collect your might to
overturn and shatter it? Stay, I will try; perhaps
it is not yet too late.” He pressed forword.
“Fire, fire if you dare!” shouted a townsman
to the military.
The soldiers insulted — chafed — terrified —
maddened — bewildered — mistook the orders of
the officers. They raised their muskets — hesitated
a moment — fired — and the streets of Boston
were wetted with the first blood of the
revolution.
Deane was hurrying forward. As the soldiers
raised their muskets, he grasped my arm. As
they fired, his clutch became suddenly like an
iron vice. It slackened in an instant — I turned
to him — he had sunk upon the ground — a
ball had pierced his heart.
I dragged him to the British Coffee-house,
on the opposite side of the street. My best
friend lay dead, but I shed not a tear. Impelled
by a mysterious, but, as it now seems
to me, an inevitable impulse, I rushed straight
to the house of his bride. I felt greedy for
more horrors — I longed to glut myself with her
despair.
I opened the street-door, a light step bounded
down the staircase.
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“Vassal dearest, dearest Vassal!” cried Mayflower,
with outstretched arms, and then seeing
me, she turned as pale as a ghost — “Morton—
Uncas Morton!” she faltered, with a bewildered
look.
“Vassal Deane is dead!” cried I.
“Where is my husband? — speak — quick —
Why does he not come? I have waited long,
too long. Why has he deserted his bride? My
brain has been filled with horrible forebodings,
and now my husband comes not; but my offended
lover.”
“Your forebodings were all just; I tell you
Deane is dead!”
She stared vacantly at me for an instant.
Suddenly she comprehended me, she sprang toward
me, caught my arm, and glared wildly
upon me.
“I tell you it is a lie, a foul, wicked lie!”
she shrieked. “Tell me, tell me it is a falsehood,”
she continued in the same tone, and
shaking me with both her hands with her utmost
strength.
I shook my head — I laughed outright — in
obedience to the promptings of the devil within
me. The whole horrible scene which, when I
think over it now, chills my very heart, struck
me then as ludicrous and trivial. It seemed to
me all a fiction.
-- 118 --
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My laugh appalled her, there must have been
something awful in my merriment, for she began
to tremble from head to foot. She lowered her
tone from anger to supplication.
“Say, say, dearest Morton, that it is false, that
it is a jest, to punish me for my heartless conduct
towards you! By the love which you vowed
to me — by the vows and the plight I have
broken — I implore, I conjure you, to relieve me
from this horrible fear. Say it is false — say so—
speak!”
She writhed upon the ground — she kissed my
feet — she raised her eyes streaming with tears
to my face — she heard me say once more in a
decided tone, “Vassal Deane is dead, — there is
no hope” — and then she sank upon the floor.
Her swoon was like death.
I summoned assistance for her in the house,
and vanished like an evil spirit.
The next night I was tossing upon the Atlantic.
-- --
BOOK II.
“Langen wir doch nach den längsten verzögerlichen Einreden
und Vexirzügen endlich zu Hause und am Ende an, wo die
Kehrausleser hausen; so haben wir unterweges alles, jede Zollund
Warn-Tafel und jedes Gasthofschild gelesen und jene
Nichts, und wir lachen herzlich über sie.”
Jean Paul—Dr. Katzenberger's Bade-Reise.
“Jaques.—
And how oft did you say his beard was not well
cut?
“Touchstone.—
I durst go no further than the lie circumstantial,
nor he durst not give me the lie direct; and so we measured
swords, and parted.
“Jaques.—
Can you nominate in order, now, the degrees of
the lie?
“Touchstone.—
O, Sir, we quarrel in print by the book; as
you have books for good manners, I will name you the degrees.”
As you like it.
[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]
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-- 121 --
CHAPTER I. AUERBACH'S CELLAR.
[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]
“Hip—hip—hurrah! Three glasses all round!”
They were drunk rapidly.
“Trump, my boy, I drink you three glasses.”
“Drink, old fellow—I take them, and three
more”
“Drink.”
“Lackland,—I drink you a third of this bocale
of Liebfrauen-milch,” said Trump
“All d—d humbug,” said the Englishman.
“However, it is your custom. Drink, in God's
name.”
“Dummberg, I drink you this whole bocale,”
shouted Rabenmark.
“Fox—fox!” growled Dummberg, a student of
at least forty-five. “You forget yourself. A fox
must never presume to challenge an old bursch like
me. The crass fox may aspire to the `burnt fox,'
but there his ambition must stop. Wait till I drink
to you, Rabenmark, and be wiser in future,” concluded
the veteran, with a pull at a very seedy pair
of moustachios.
“I deny it,” said Rabenmark, “I deny it; I
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[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]
assert my right,” and he prepared to drink off the
bocale.
“Listen, young man,” said Dummberg, drawing
a little greasy book, printed on very brown paper,
from his pocket; “Listen to the text of the `Universal
Beer Drinker's Code.' The code for drinking
beer applies equally to wine; and as I had myself
a hand in preparing this volume for the press,
you may have no doubt of the accuracy of every
one of its precepts. Let me see—let me see. Ah,
here it is—Section IV.—division 8. `Foxes among
foxes enjoy the same rights as burschen among
themselves; they may drink to each other any
number of glasses. No fox, however, is allowed to
challenge to drink either a young bursch or an old
one.' So, you, who are yet in your first semester,
at the University, and, consequently, a raw `crasser'
fox, will hardly now maintain your right to
challenge me, who was a `bursch' before you were
born.”
Rabenmark accordingly sat down abashed; and
before he gets up again, I may as well describe, in
a word or two, the scene in which I found myself
engaged.
Auerbach's cellar was celebrated as the scene of
one of the most singular events in the notorious Dr.
Faust's biography. At the time when I first visited
Leipzig—and I dare say it remains much the same
at the present day—Auerbach's “Haus and Hof”
was a house of tolerable dimensions,
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[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]
communicating by a small open court with one of the larger
cross-streets of the great bookseller's paradise.
Göthe had not yet written Faust; but the wild
fable which was the foundation of that wonderful
drama, was as well known as now. The cellar
proper, in which my companions and myself were
seated, was a small wine-vault, rather more commodiously
furnished than cellars usually are. It
had white-washed walls, a little the worse for wear,
a boarded and sanded floor, and sundry antique and
particularly uncomfortable chairs and settles. On
opposite sides of the wall were two pictures, in marvellously
shabby fresco; the one represented the interview
of Dr. Faust and Mephistopheles with Messieurs
Frosch, Siebel, and other worthy plebeians of
Leipzig: the other, the conclusion of the debauch
instituted by Mephistopheles, with the bewilderment
of the same confederacy, and the abrupt elopement of
Mephistopheles and his learned pupil, who, commodiously
seated astride the same wine cask, are represented
as flying out of the cellar-window, to the
great edification of their late boon companions.
We had got through the story of both pictures,
which the garrulous waiter and cicerone would tell
every stranger, as his ancestors before him had
done, (all offices are hereditary in Germany, from
an emperor to an executioner,) and were now diligently
investigating the comparative merits of the
Rhenish of the previous century, and of our own.
With one exception, my companions were inti-o
mate friends of a day's growth. The exceptin
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was, the Englishman, whose acquaintance I had
made at the country-seat of a Pomeranian gentleman,
where we had both been spending some
weeks.
As this person became very intimately connected
with me, and took a prominent part in the events
which I have preserved of this portion of my biography,
it will be as well to describe him in a few
words.
Sansterre Lackland was about ten years older
than myself, and, consequently, a little nearer thirty
than twenty; he was of high descent, and small
property—the youngest son of the youngest brother
of the Earl of Agincourt. The features of Antinous
were not more accurately moulded, nor more beautiful
than his; and his tall figure and distinguished
address were worthy of his nation and his race.
With him I was sitting a little apart from the
rest of the company, with most of whom he was
tolerably well acquainted. There were six students
from Göttingen, and half-a-dozen others of Leipzig
who had been making what is technically called
a “beer journey,” during the Pentecost holidays,
and as the ostensible and only object of such a
pilgrimage (which usually conducts the party from
one university to another) is to drink as great a
quantity of beer and Rhenish at each stopping place,
as human beings are capable of, they had not unwisely
made Leipzig the last stage of their journey,
where they had been revelling in the most
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glorious intoxication, till it was time for them to return.
These journeys are always made on foot. A
knapsack contains a change of linen; and as at
each university town they are accustomed, according
to universal usage, to quarter themselves upon
their respective friends among the students there,
the only use to which their scanty supply of Fredericks-d'or
is applied, is to pay for the wine and
beer which form the objects of the journey.
As their Fredericks had nearly all flown, they
were to take their departure next day; and as both
Lackland and myself were idle men, without aim
or object, we had agreed to study a phenomenon of
human nature that was new to us, and had determined
to return with this party to Göttingen.
Among these students, there were two who are
connected with certain adventures, which I propose
to relate. These were Otto Von Rabenmark, and
Hermann Leopold Caspar Bernard Adolph Ulrich
Count Trump Von Toggenburg-Hohenstaufer.
Rabenmark was the “fox” (the slang term for a
student in his first year) who had just been challenging
the veteran student to drink. He was very
young, even for a fox; for at the time I write of,
he was not yet quite seventeen; but in precocity of
character, in every respect, he went immeasurably
beyond any person I have ever known. As to his
figure, I certainly have seldom seen a more unprepossessing
person at first sight, though on better acquaintance,
after I had become warmly attached to
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him, I began to think him rather well-looking. He
had coarse scrubby hair, of a mixed colour, something
between a red and a whity-brown. His face
was peppered all over with freckles, and his eyes
were colourless in the centre, and looked as if edged
with red tape. An enormous scar, the relic of a
recent duel, in which like a thorough fox, he was
constantly engaged, extended from the tip of his
nose to the edge of his right ear, and had been sewed
up with fourteen stitches, every one of which (as
the “Pauk Doctor” had been a botcher at his trade)
was distinctly and grotesquely visible. As every
one of the students present was tatooed and scarified
in the same way, like so many New Zealand chiefs,
his decoration of itself hardly excited attention; but
as, to heighten the charms of his physiognomy, he
had recently shaved off one of his eyebrows, his face
certainly might lay claim to a bizarre and very
unique character. His figure was slender, and not
yet mature, but already of a tolerable height. His
dress was in the extreme of the then Göttingen
fashion. He wore a chaotic coat, without collar or
buttons, and as destitute of colour as of shape; enormously
wide trowsers, and boots with iron heels and
portentous spurs. His shirt-collar, unconscious of cravat,
was doubled over his shoulders, and his hair
hung down about his ears and neck. A faint attempt
at moustachios, of an indefinite colour, completed
the equipment of his face, and a huge sabre,
strapped round his waist, that of his habiliments.
As he wrote Von before his name, and was
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descended of a Bohemian family, who had been
baronized before Charlemagne's time, he wore an
enormous seal ring on his fore-finger, with his armorial
bearing. Such was Otto Von Rabenmark, a
youth, who, in a more fortunate sphere, would have
won himself name and fame. He was gifted with
talents and acquirements immeasurably beyond his
years. He spoke half a dozen languages — Heaven
knows when he had picked them up — was an
excellent classical scholar, and well read in history;
played well on the violin and piano; and if not
a dexterous was at least a desperate and daring
swordsman. He was of undoubted courage, and a
little of a renomist, (or swaggerer,) a defect which
his extreme youth excused, and from which he very
soon recovered.
As for Count Trump Von Toggenburg, there was
hardly a crowned head in Europe with whom he
was not allied, excepting perhaps some two or three
parvenu sovereigns, whom he thought unworthy of
his relationship. He traced his family, with great
accuracy, up to the Deluge; but that catastrophe
seemed, among other injuries to the human race, to
have obliterated most of the land-marks of the Toggenburg
genealogy. He contented himself accordingly
with declaring, that the direct line of his
family was lost among the antediluvians, and he
kept himself conversant with all the geological researches
that were made, in the hope, I am convinced,
of discovering some fossil remain of a mammoth
Toggenburg among the newly-discovered
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relics of the ancient world. His family was the
main object of his thoughts. He noted down as carefully
as a parish clerk every new addition to any of
its numerous branches. As there were no less than
twelve distinct branches of the Toggenburg family
in North Germany, and as each branch was very
poor, and consequently very prolific, this single occupation
employed most of his time. He carried
with him always a little book, which was written
by a Count Toggenburg in the 10th century, and
which purported to be an essay on the rise and
progress of the Toggenburg family. This he asserted
was a very rare work, and to prove it, he
affirmed that he had inquired of almost every bookseller
in Germany for a copy, and could never find
one who had ever heard either of the book, the
author, or the author's family. His father, who had
only his salary of privy councillor to support him,—
for although he wrote himself on all occasions Ritterguts-Besitzer,
(proprietor of a knight's estate,)
no one could ever discover the exact location of his
manor, — was only able to allow him five hundred
rix dollars for his wechsel, or annual allowance.
This was not brilliant; but he, nevertheless, contrived
to play a very tolerable fiddle with it; for five
hundred rix dollars go farther in a German university
than any where else; and allowed him to keep,
if not a pair of horses, at least a pair of spurs, of
very respectable dimensions, which he sported on
all occasions, and which, whether he rode or not,
he considered to be an indispensable article of dress
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to one of his chivalrous descent. For the rest, Count
Trump was a good-natured, amiable, young man,
a good deal of a bore, when on his favourite topic,
that is, for four-fifths of the time; but in other respects
an agreeable companion. He was pale, and
thin, with fair hair, and an aquiline nose; wore a
magnificent bag-cap of red velvet, with a broad
band of purple, green, and gold round the brim,
and a dress of a less republican and more worldly
cut than the rest of his companions. He was smoking
a porcelain pipe, on which were printed sixteen
quarterings of the Toggenburg arms, and from
whose long cherry stick there dangled a pair of
tassels of the same colours as the band around his
cap. These colours were the badge of his club—
the most aristocratic one, he assured me, in Gottingen,
in which there was not a single member
who had not a Von to his name.
Dummberg was the student of five and forty, a-fat,
and shabby-looking individual, with a shock
head of hair, and beer-colour mustachios. He
was short, with an enormous paunch, and was
often known to drink thirty-five bottles of beer, or a
dozen of hock, at a single sitting. He was one of
that nondescript class which are always hanging
round a German university — a superannuated
student, living from Semester to Semester, making
his appearance regularly at the Kneipe and the
Fechtboden, (the drinking-room and the duelling
hall,) without occupation, and without visible means
of support. He was a constant gambler in a small
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way; and as he always joined in every party of
Zwicken or Landsknecht with an empty pocket, he
was sure to lose nothing, and usually contrived to
win a few guldens. This was the only natural
way of accounting for his subsistence, and it was
winked at by many, out of regard to his age and
venerable appearance.
Affenstein, the last of the Göttingen gentry, was
a junior Bursch, (junger Bursch,) or student in his
third Semester. He was a dark-complexioned
youth, with very black hair, and a beard of formal
cut. His mouth was enormous; but as it was
nearly concealed by his moustachios, he would have
been very well looking, if he had not, unfortunately,
wanted a nose;—this had been shorn off in a duel,
so closely, as to leave his face as smooth as his palm,
and the deficiency, combined with his other attractions,
reduced his personal pretensions, it must be
confessed, to a very low mark.
Besides these, were a number of the aboriginal
students of Leipzig, all with moustachios, club caps,
polonaise coats, pipes, tassels, and poodles.
It was getting very late; a great many bottles
had been uncorked, and the old cellar-vault rang
with their uproar and their songs.
“Und kommt der Wechsel heute
So sind wir reiche Leute
Und haben Geld wie Heu
Doch morgen ist's vorbei—”
sang Affenstein.
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“He—ri—Hei—ro—Hei—ri—Hei—ro—
Bei uns gehts immer so—oo—”
roared the chorus.
“Psha!” said the veteran Dummberg; “why
waste your time in singing such unnecessary songs?
If you will sing, sing at least a song that has a
drinking part to it. Listen; we will sing the round
songs to our sweethearts. I will begin.” And so
he sang, in a grumbling base, the first stave of the
well known song—
“Es geht ein Sauf Comment
An unserm Tisch herum—um—um
Drei mal drei ist neune—weisst du wie ich meine
Es geht ein Sauf Comment
An unserm Tisch herum—um—um.”
“Rabenmark! dein Liebchen heisst?”
“Gretchen!” shouted the fox, in reply.
“Gretchen soll leben—soll leben.”
And so went the song round the table. The
uproar and drunkenness increasing at every step,
till all the Gretchens, and Mariechens, and Justinas,
and Minnas, all the sweethearts of the company,
had been duly toasted in bumpers of Liebfraunmilch.
“You students are most potent at potting,” said
I, to Trump Von Toggenburg, who sat next me,—
for Lackland and I had accepted an invitation to
join the table.
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“Pretty well!” said he; “but perhaps the greatest
wine drinker that ever was in Germany, was
my great-grandfather, Count Ullrich Trump Von
Toggenburg, who was a colonel in the Austrian
service, in the year of our Lord 16—. You are
probably acquainted with his name.”
“Oh! most intimately,” said I, wishing to avoid
a memoir by his descendant.
“Well,” said my neighbour, “my great-grandfather
was so noted for his drinking capacity, that
hardly any of his brother officers ventured to compete
with him. If they did, they were sure to be
comfortably laid under the table before he had fairly
begun to drink. One evening,—it was shortly
after the seige of —, in which the colonel
particularly distinguished himself, as you doubtless
recollect—”
“Perfectly,” said I.
“One evening,—it must have been, I think, late
in February, or it might have been in the beginning
of March.—the siege I know began in January,
and was not raised till the 20th of February, by
the appearance of Donnerberg with 20,000 troops,
from beyond the Elbe. One evening, a party of
officers,—my great-grandfather, then about thirty
years of age, among the number,—were making a
night of it at the `Golden Stag' in Munich. They
had drunk a good deal of champagne in compliment
to the French officers who were present, and
were now busily engaged in discussing Bochsbeutel
and other potent wines of the Palatinate. They
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sat long, and drank deeply, but towards one o'clock
in the morning, they began, one by one to drop off,
and before two, they were all snoring in their chairs,
or on the floor, excepting my respectable ancestor,
and an officer in a foreign-looking uniform, whom
he had never before seen.
“`I hear you are as celebrated at the banquet of
Bacchus, as in the camp of Mars,' said the stranger,
very classically, at the same time bowing politely
to my ancestor. The latter always described
him as a pale, gentleman-like looking man, of
middle age, with a Roman nose, a satirical expression
about the mouth, and a just discernible
limp in his gait.
“`If that be the case,' continued he, `I suppose
you are willing to prolong our symposium a little
longer than these milksops have been disposed
to; and if you have no objection, we will order
another bottle.'
“The colonel assented; a fresh bottle was
brought, together with a plate of caviare. The
officer, who appeared to be a man of various information,
and agreeable manners, entered into an
interesting conversation, during which, bottle after
bottle was drained, till my ancestor began to find
his head growing a little dizzy.
“Perceiving, however, no corresponding indication
on the part of his companion, he bore up manfully
against his weakness, and again, bottle after
bottle disappeared. Towards four o'clock, however,
he became convinced that he must give in very
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soon. His head whirled like a windmill; the bottles
and glasses staggered about the table; the
chairs and sofas danced round the room. He could
not distinguish his mouth from his glass; himself
from his companion. Every thing was mixed up
in his mind in a preposterous and confused manner;
and all the time, the stranger, who had drunk twice
the quantity of wine that he had, was giving, with
a composed demeanour, and with a face whose pale
colour had not been a shade heightened by his tremendous
debauch, a detailed and minute account
of the siege of Eckendorff, by Tilly, in the thirty
years' war. Of what it was apropos, it would
have puzzled my relation to say, for his brain was
so muddled that he had long lost the thread of the
conversation; but there he sat, with his lines of circumvallation
made with little bits of biscuit, and a
puddle of Rhenish floating neatly round a citadel
of anchovy toasts; marching and counter-marching,
making breaches and repairing them—attacking
here, defending there, and talking of parapets,
palisadoes, breast works and half moons, as gravely
as if assisting at a council of general officers; and
ever and anon, swallowing whole goblets of Rhenish,
while my poor progenitor was at the last gasp,
and just sinking upon the floor.
“`Let us drink the Emperor,' said the stranger,
putting an end to his demonstration, and filling up
for his companion and himself.
“My ancestor made a last convulsive effort; seized
his beaker, drained it, and sank heavily upon the
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floor. As he was falling, however, he saw his companion
stroke his hair placidly back from his temples,
and at the same time,—now mark the singularity
of the adventure!—he beheld a column of
pale blue smoke ascend into the air, from a hole in
the stranger's head.
“`The devil's in the fellow!' muttered my ancestor,
with his last breath, as he rolled fairly on the
ground.
“`You've hit it! you've hit it! roared the other,
springing from his chair, and applying a vial to the
colonel's nose, who, feeling suddenly refreshed, picked
himself up, and sat down again as fresh and
thirsty as if he had never seen the bottom of a
bottle.
“`You are a gentleman of penetration,' continued
the stranger, filling up the glasses, `and I
made, long ago, a determination to reward the first
man who should retain his senses long enough to
see the wine fumes escaping from my head in the
singular way you have beheld. It is not till I am
hard pushed, that I make use of my peculiar secret.
For your recompense, take this,' said he, tapping
him on the temple with his forefinger. `Now,
whenever you have finished a bottle, and you wish
to be free of its disagreeable effects, you have but to
thrust your finger through your hair, turn the
little screw you will find concealed above your
temples, and you will soon find the fumes evaporated.
'
“My ancestor, wishing to thank him for his kind
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ness, turned to him with outstretched arms, when,
behold, he had vanished! not a vestige of him
remained (though both the doors and the windows
were bolted,) excepting a slight smell of brimstone,
which was discernible in the apartment.[1]
“The events of this remarkable evening were
never disclosed by my great-grandfather during his
life-time: but were embodied into the `Essay on the
Rise and Progress of the Toggenburg family,' from
posthumous memoir on the subject, left by the celebrated
colonel himself.
“Perhaps you have read the book?” interrupted
he, thrusting his hand in his pocket.
“A thousand times,” said I; “what an instructive
work!”
“Ah! well,” said he with a sigh, “otherwise I
would have lent it to you. But to resume.—
“My ancestor, after this event, became celebrated
throughout Europe for his capacity for drinking.
I believe he made a bet once, that he would drink
the whole of the Heidelberg tun at a sitting, and
won it, and he was observed besides, to be very
fortunate in every thing he undertook; he was always
rolling in money, and married the daughter
of the Archduke Maximilian of Austria.
“He disappeared, however, one night in an awful
thunder-storm, and was never heard of. Twenty
years afterwards, however, a skull was found in the
cellar of Toggenburg Castle, in which a hole
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exactly a quarter of an inch diameter was drilled, and
neatly stopped with a silver screw. This was all we
ever could gather on the subject.”
During this long-winded recital the company had
been growing very uproarious. Rabenmark had
jumped upon the table, where he danced about
among the bottles and glasses, mouthing and chattering
like a monkey.
“Cease buffooning, you ape!” growled the morose
Dummberg, to the fox.
“Ass! ass! yelled Rabenmark, springing to the
floor again. “I will not permit such language. I
am not an ape; and the insult can only be
washed out in wine. I challenge you to a wineduel.
To do this, I presume you will not deny my
right?”
“Certainly not,” growled the other; “choose
your second.”
“I choose Toggenburg,” said Rabenmark.
“And I Schnappsberger,” said Dummberg.
Here the two combatants in this singular duel
(in which the object of each party is to drain his
goblet in a shorter time than his antagonist,
without drawing breath, and without spilling a
drop,) received each a tumbler of equal size, holding
about a pint, and filled to the brim with Rhenish.
“Are the weapons equal?” demanded one second.
“Equal they are,” responded the other.
“Sieze your weapons,” cried Toggenburg.
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Each grasped his glass.
“One—two—”
Each glass was at the lip, and a long breath
drawn.
“Three, and away!”
The eyes were set,—the breath held,—and the
convulsive swallowing began. The event of the
conquest, however, was not a moment doubtful.
Dummberg, an old stager, drank with slow, deep,
and measured swallows; while Rabenmark,—his
eyes rolling almost out of his head,—clutched the
goblet in both hands, swallowed spasmodically, sputtered
in his glass, bit off the rim, and fell into a
coughing fit that nearly choked him, at the same
moment that Dummberg turned his glass quietly
upon his nail.
“Beaten!” cried all the company, “The fox
must pay six bottles.” So Rabenmark ordered the
half-dozen.
“No matter, little Rabenmark,” said Toggenburg,
“you have done very well for a fox. Come,
we will drink Schmollis together.”
“Very well,” said Rabenmark, and so each filled
his glass, drained it at once, and hugging each other
lovingly round the neck, kissed each other with such
a hearty smack, that the cellar resounded.
“Be my friend,” said Toggenburg.
“Be my brother,” said Rabenmark; and they
were “thou-brothers” from that moment.
The main article in this mystic bond of union is
that the parties shall always address each other as
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“thou” in the second singular, instead of the formal
third person plural.
The fox, being negligent, and very drunk, forgot
all this very soon; and in speaking to Toggenburg
a quarter of an hour after, he addressed him
in the third person plural.
“Fox, thou hast broken our schmollis,” said that
worthy. “Thou must pay the forfeit. I call a
wine convention. It shall consist of Affenstein,
Dummberg, and Schnappsberger.”
The three sat down together in committee. Affenstein,
to add dignity to the convention, drew from
his waistcoat pocket an artificial nose of silver, and
of brilliant hue. This, he assured me, he wore
only on state occasions, contenting himself ordinarily
with one of pasteboard.
“What have you to state to the convention?”
said he, as President, to Trump Von Toggenburg.
“Simply,” said the party addressed, “that the
fox, Von Rabenmark, has drunk schmollis with the
junior bursch, Count Trump Von Toggenburg, and
has broken it within half-an-hour.”
“What have you to say in your defence?” said
Affenstein.
“Nothing at all,” said Rabenmark, “except that
I am very drunk.”
“Crimen non minuit ebrietas,” said the President.
“In what were the schmollis drunk?” he
continued.
“In Marcobrunner,” said Trump.
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“Fox Rabenmark, you must order six bottles of
Marcobrunner for the company. The convention
is dissolved.”
So here were six bottles more forfeited by the fox.
Experience is the only school-mistress.
Having such a plentiful supply of wine, in addition
to that which they had already contrived to
make away with, the uproar increased. The conversation
became animated, but they seemed always
to discuss the same eternal subjects. Duels, dogs,
drinking-matches; beer, wine and women, together
with freedom, the rights of man, and the German
republic, were jumbled promiscuously together.
Then a dozen songs were sung at once; a dozen
stories were told and nobody listened. The uproar
was furious. Glasses were broken, bottles thrown
at the waiter's head, tables kicked over, and windows
demolished, when suddenly a postillion's bugle
sounded in the street.
Rabenmark jumped up with a yell, and rushed
out of the cellar, followed by the whole pack, while
Lackland and I accompanied them to see what
they were about. It was about ten o'clock, and
bright starlight.
A diligence stood in the street, just ready to start.
It was only waiting for the conductor and the postillions,
one of whom was already there, and just
about to mount. Rabenmark rushed into the street,
jumped upon the postillion, floored him, seized his
bugle, and then scrambled, like a monkey, into the
saddle. Another student mounted one of the three
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horses, the rest tumbled themselves helter skelter
into the vehicle, and the self-elected postillions spurred
the horses into a gallop. Away rumbled the
diligence through the silent streets of Leipzig, Rabenmark
playing on the postillion's purloined bugle
like mad, till the night-caps of the quiet burghers
of Leipzig popped out of every window in the town.
eaf284v1.n1[1] The hint to this adventure will be found, I think, in one of
Hauff's novels.
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CHAPTER II. THE CONDUCTOR.
[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]
Presently the conductor came out of the posthouse,
with his chronometer round his neck, and
his hands full of butterbrod, (bread and butter,)
while, directly afterwards, the whole set of passengers,
in dressing-gowns and cotton night-caps, (the
universal travelling costume of a German diligence,)
made their appearance.
“Oh the scoundrels!—Oh the Spitzbuben!”
cried the conductor.
“Spitzbuben—Spitzbuben?” echoed the miserable
travellers.
“Have you any idea who or what the scoundrels
were?” said the conductor, turning to us.
“None in the world,” said Lackland, coolly;
“probably some drunken Philistines.”[2]
“Philistines!—students most likely!” said the
indignant conductor, and then turning to the other
postillion, who having just arrived, was standing
with an untasted glass of schnapps in his hand, and
his mouth wide open in stupid astonishment.
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[figure description] Page 143.[end figure description]
“See, booby!—see the effects of your eternal
swilling. If you had been in your saddle, all this
would not have happened.”
“Potz—sacrament!” swore the postillion.
“Sacrament indeed!” said the conductor, kicking
him lustily.
“Donnerwetter!” swore the postillion again,
kicking the hostler.
“Thousand devils!” said the hostler, returning
the compliment.
So there was a squabble—the conductor knocked
down the postillion, and the postillion the hostler;
and several of the passengers interfering to keep the
peace, knocked down the conductor, and received
broken heads for their pains.
The battle raged—blows fell thick as rain, and
execrations rent the air. In the meantime Lackland,
seizing a moment when no one observed him,
smashed the solitary lamp that illumined the scene.
Total darkness ensued, during which the Englishman,
who had possessed himself of a whip which
hung in the court-yard, amused himself with bestowing
sundry hearty thwacks on the whole party
as they struggled together on the ground. Having
belaboured them till he was exhausted, he tossed
the whip on the ground, and then returned with me
to the cellar.
“I suppose after they have finished their battle
they will get into another diligence, and proceed on
their journey?” said I.
“Probably,” said he; “and as for those drunken
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students, they will drive on very pleasantly till they
overturn the diligence; and then, if they don't break
their necks, they will sleep quietly in the ditch,
till the next day, and then proceed to Göttingen.”
“But if they are discovered?” said I.
“No matter,” said he, “the students are the
strongest party, and it is the interest of the conductor,
who belongs to Göttingen, not to offend them.
If any damage is done, the students will pay for it,
and a good drinkgeld to the conductor settles the
whole matter. Take a glass of wine.”
“This `milk of our blessed Lady,' (Liebfrauenmilch)”
said I, “is rather a thin potation; there
must be better hock in this famous cellar.”
“Oh yes,” said he; “and as we have neither of
us drunk so many tuns as the rest of the party, let
us try the virtues of the favourites before we go back
to the hotel.”
The waiter accordingly brought a bottle of Steinberger
and pledged himself that such another was
not to be found in Germany.
The cork was drawn, and an odour as from a bank
of violets, stole into the air.
“Aha!” said Lackland, smacking his lips, “this
tastes of the sunny side of the castle — taste it.”
As we were discussing our Steinberger, I asked
Lackland about the various characters who had
been in company with us. His remarks were pithy
and a sort of good-natured sarcasm seemed to pervade
his conversation.
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I repeated, in a few words, the singular story that
Trump had told me.
“Ah,” said he, “I plucked you by the elbow once
or twice to get you out of the scrape. When you
know him better, you will know better than to listen
to his stories, if you can avoid it. The first
time I ever saw him was at a dinner party given at
Berlin by a certain Vicomte de Millefleurs, an attach
é of the French embassy
“After dinner, the Frenchman who was of
course an `homme aux bonnes fortunes,' told us a
story about a garter, of which he himself was the
hero. Several similar anecdotes were related by
various members of the company; and at last poor
Trump, not wishing to be outdone, and having no
personal adventures to relate, began a story about
an amour of his great-grandmother with an ancient
emperor of Austria, which lasted to such an
intolerable length, that the company one by one
dropped away, and last of all, the host himself,
leaving the count and his great-grandmother, to say
nothing of the emperor of Austria, all alone in the
dining-room.”
“What was the consequence?”
“Oh, the next day Trump sent Millefleurs a
challenge; protesting, at the same time, that he did
not feel personally hurt, as he had finished his dinner,
and was on the point of going away himself,
but that the insult to his great-grandmother could
only be washed out in blood. The affair was, however,
so ridiculous, that it was made up, and
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Millefleurs cemented a perfect reconciliation, by listening
to the whole story again the next day, from beginning
to end. This has now become his favourite
story, although I believe there is not one of his ancestors,
direct or collateral, of whom he has not at
least a dozen as delightful anecdotes to relate.”
We conversed together till we had finished our bottle,
and then went quietly back to our hotel. Before
we parted for the night, we agreed to take a postchaise
the next day towards Göttingen.
eaf284v1.n2[2] “Philistines” is the contemptuous expression for one who
is not a student, as “Pagan” with the Romans meant one who
was not a soldier.
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CHAPTER III. GÖTTINGEN.
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On a bright afternoon in June, Lackland and
myself stopped at Einbeck to change horses. This is
the next post town to Göttingen.
A straggling student that happened to be lounging
about the hotel, informed us that Rabenmark
and Co., had passed through a few days before on
their way to the university.
From Einbeck to Göttingen, the road lies through
a valley enclosed by hills, which are picturesque
enough, and which from the advanced guard of the
grand chain of the Hartz, which rise on the right
hand to a considerable height, with the ghost-beloved
Brocken, towering above the whole. As we
drew near our journey's end, we passed on the left
the desolate and weather-beaten remains of Hardenberg
castle, and a little farther on the ruined and
romantic towers of Castle Plesse, which, overgrown
with weeds and briars, and embedded and entangled
in luxuriant foliage, looked down upon us from
a neighbouring hill. Half an hour afterwards, we
found ourselves at the Weender gate of Göttingen.
The corporal of the guard marched out, twirled his
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moustachios, demanded our passports, (which were
in English,) put on a pair of iron spectacles, and
commenced reading them very gravely. As I observed
however that he held them upside-down in
the most unsuspecting manner, I supposed he would
find interpretation necessary. After a few moments,
however, he returned them to us, observing with a
polite bow, that they were perfectly in order. We
begged his acceptance of a gulden, which he received
with another pull at his moustachios, and another
polite bow; and then the postillion blew a shrill blast
on his bugle, and rattled us into the town as fast as
his rats of horses could carry us.
Göttingen is rather a well built and handsome
looking town, with a decided look of the Middle
Ages about it. Although the college is new, the
town is ancient, and like the rest of the German
university towns, has nothing external, with the
exception of a plain-looking building in brick for
the library, and one or two others for natural collections,
to remind you that you are at the seat of an
institution for education. The professors lecture,
each on his own account, at his own house, of
which the basement floor is generally made use of
as an auditorium. The town is walled in, like
most of the continental cities of that date, although
the ramparts, planted with linden-trees, have since
been converted into a pleasant promenade, which
reaches quite round the town, and is furnished with
a gate and guard at the end of each principal avenue.
It is this careful fortification, combined with
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the nine-story houses, and the narrow streets,
which imparts the compact, secure look peculiar to
all the German towns. The effect is forcibly to remind
you of the days when the inhabitants were
huddled snugly together, like sheep in a sheep-cote,
and locked up safe from the wolfish attacks of the
gentlemen highwaymen, the ruins of whose castles
frown down from the neighbouring hills.
The houses are generally tall and gaunt, consisting
of a skeleton of frame-work, filled in with brick,
with the original rafters, embrowned by time, projecting
like ribs through the yellowish stucco, which covers
the surface. They are full of little windows,
which are filled with little panes, and as they are
built to save room, one upon another, and consequently
rise generally to eight or nine stories, the
inhabitants invariably live as it were in layers.
Hence it is not uncommon, to find a professor occupying
the two lower stories or strata, a tailor above
the professor, a student upon the tailor, a beer seller
conveniently upon the student, a washerwoman
upon the beer-merchant, and perhaps a poet upon
the top; a pyramid with a poet for its apex, and a
professor for the base.
The solid and permanent look of all these edifices,
in which, from the composite and varying style
of architecture, you might read the history of half a
dozen centuries in a single house, and which looked
as if built before the memory of man, and like to
last for ever, reminded me, by the association of
contrast, of the straggling towns and villages of
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America, where the houses are wooden boxes, worn
out and renewed every fifty years; where the cities
seem only temporary encampments, and where,
till people learn to build for the future as well as the
present, there will be no history, except in pen and
ink, of the changing centuries in the country.
As I passed up the street, I saw on the lower
story of a sombre-looking house, the whole legend
of Samson and Delilah rudely carved in the brown
free-stone, which formed the abutments of the house
opposite; a fantastic sign over a portentous shop
with an awning ostentatiously extended over the
side walk, announced the café and ice-shop: overhead,
from the gutters of each of the red-tiled roofs,
were thrust into mid-air the grim heads of dragons
with long twisted necks, portentous teeth, and goggle
eyes, serving, as I learned the first rainy day,
the peaceful purpose of a water spout; while on the
side-walks, and at every turn, I saw enough to convince
me I was in an university town, although
there were none of the usual architectural indications.
As we passed the old gothic church of St.
Nicholas, I observed through the open windows of
the next house, a party of students smoking, and
playing billiards, and I recognized some of the faces
of my Leipzig acquaintance. In the street were
plenty of others of all varieties. Some, with plain
caps and clothes, and a meek demeanour, sneaked
quietly through the streets, with portfolios under
their arms. I observed the care with which they
turned out to the left, and avoided collision with
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every one they met. These were camels “or studious
students” returning from lecture — others
swaggered along the side-walk, turning out for no
one, with clubs in their hands, and bull-dogs at
their heels — these were dressed in marvellously fine
caps, and polonaise coats, covered with cords and
tassels, and invariably had pipes in their mouths,
and were fitted out with the proper allowance of
spurs and moustachios. These were “Renomists,”
who were always ready for a row.
At almost every corner of the street was to be
seen a solitary individual of this latter class, in a
ferocious fencing attitude, brandishing his club in
the air, and cutting quart and tierce in the most
alarming manner, till you were reminded of the
truculent Gregory's advice to his companion; “Remember
thy swashing blow.”
All along the street, I saw, on looking up, the
heads and shoulders of students projecting from
every window. They were arrayed in tawdry
smoking caps, and heterogeneous-looking dressing
gowns with the long pipes and flash tassels depending
from their mouths. At his master's side, and
looking out of the same window, I observed, in
many instances, a grave and philosophical-looking
poodle, with equally grim moustachios, his head
reposing contemplatively on his fore-paws, and engaged
apparently, like his master, in ogling the
ponderous housemaids who were drawing water
from the street pumps.
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We passed through the market square, with its
antique fountain in the midst, and filled with an
admirable collection of old women, some washing
clothes, and some selling cherries, and turned at last
into the Nagler Strasse. This was a narrow street,
with tall, rickety houses of various shapes and sizes,
arranged on each side, in irregular rows; while the
gaunt gable-ended edifices, sideling up to each other
in one place till the opposite side nearly touched,
and at another retreating awkwarly back as if
ashamed to show their faces, gave to the whole
much the appearance of a country dance by unskilful
performers. Suddenly the postillion drove into a
dark, yawning doorway, which gaped into the street
like a dragon's mouth, and drew up at the doorstep
of the “King of Prussia.” The house bell
jingled—the dogs barked—two waiters let down
the steps, a third seized us by the legs, and nearly
pulled us out of the carriage in the excess of their
officiousness; while the landlord made his appearance
cap in hand on the threshold, and after saluting
us in Latin, Polish, French, and English, at
last informed us in plain German, which was the
only language he really knew, that he was very
glad to have the honour of “recommending himself
to us.”
We paid our “brother-in-law,” as you must always
call the postillion in Germany, a magnificent
drinkgeld, and then ordered dinner.
-- 153 --
CHAPTER IV. FOX RABENMARK.
[figure description] Page 153.[end figure description]
The next morning I lounged up the Weender
Strasse. The day was fine, and the streets were
thronged with more than the usual number of Students
and Philistines. As I got near the end of the
street, I saw one or two small boys, and half-a-dozen
house-maids, looking with wonder at a
strange figure, preceded by a strange dog, that was
passing along the side walk.
On looking at him at first, at a short distance, I
took him for a maniac, escaped from the lunatic
asylum. He wore a cap embroidered in crimson
and gold, shaped like a shaving-bason, and of the
sort usually denominated beer-caps,[3] a dressing-gown
of many colours, strapped tightly about his loins
with a leathern girdle, in which were thrust two
horse-pistols, and a long basket-hilted “schläger,” or
duelling-sword, and on his feet a pair of red Turkish
slippers. His neck was open, and his legs bare
from the ankle to the knees. In one hand he
brandished an oaken cudgel, and in the other he
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[figure description] Page 154.[end figure description]
held a small memorandum-book. He was preceded
by a small dog of the comical breed called
“Deckel,” a kind of terrier, which considerably resembles
the English turnspit. The individual one
which now presented itself, was, like all its class, as
ugly as a dog can well be. His body was very
long, and his legs very short; his colour was a mixture
of black and a dirty red; his tail curled itself as
gracefully as a pig's, his knees were bowed parenthetically
outwards, and he turned out his toes like
a country dancing-master. In order to heighten
the effects of these personal charms, his master had
tied a wreath of artificial flowers round his neck,
and decorated his tail with fancy-coloured ribbons.
Attired in this guise, the dog and his master proceeded
gravely down the street, apparently without
heeding the laughter of the admiring spectators.
There seemed to be no students in the immediate
vicinity, and the Philistines were beneath his notice.
As I approached him, I observed something
familiar in his countenance, and, immediately afterwards,
the singular individual caught me by the
hand, and kissed me affectionately on both cheeks.
It was Rabenmark, my Leipzig acquaintance. He
invited me to accompany him to his rooms, and
smoke a pipe. I complied, and turned about with
him; and we continued our walk down the street.
I was not sufficiently intimate with him to expostulate
with, or to interrogate him with regard to the
peculiar costume in which he had thought proper to
array himself, and I accordingly took his arm as
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[figure description] Page 155.[end figure description]
gravely as if he had been the burgomaster of the
town, in his holiday suit. We had not gone far,
before I perceived a group of students approaching.
I was curious to observe if he would treat their animadversions
with the same indifference as he had
done those of the town's-men. The terrier was
about a rod in advance of us, and on his passing
the students, there was an universal laugh. Rabenmark
hastened toward them. They were four
stout fellows, in blue-and-silver caps, and on observing
the absurd appearance of my companion, they
all began to laugh the louder.
“What the Devil are you laughing at?” said
Rabenmark, ferociously, with his arms a-kimbo;
“I see nothing to laugh at!”
“I was laughing at your dog,” said the first
student.
“I was laughing at his master,” said the second.
“And I—” “And I—” said the third and
fourth.
“Have the kindness to tell me your names?”
said Rabenmark to the second, third, and fourth.
“Pott,”—“Kopp,”—“Fizzleberg,” answered the
three, consecutively.
“Your addresses?” continued Rabenmark.
The addresses were given, and Rabenmark wrote
them all carefully down in his note-book.
“Now,” said he, “allow me to observe, Messieurs
Pott, Kopp, and Fizzleberg, that you are all
three stupid boodies (dumme Jungen)!”
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This epithet, “dumme Jungen,” like the “drole,”
in French, is an insult, or a “touche,” and requires
a duel of twelve rounds (Gänge) to revenge it.
There is, however, another insult, which is a grade
beyond it, and which is about equivalent to the
pleasing epithet, in English, of “infamous scoundrel.”
This may be retorted, and the consequence
is a challenge of twenty-four “gangs,” from the
opposite party.
“Your name?” demanded the second student.
“Von Rabenmark,” answered my companion.
“You are an infamous Hundsfott!” said Pott.
“You are an infamous Hundsfott!” said Kopp.
“You are an infamous Hundsfott!” said Fizzleberg.
“Very well, gentlemen,” said Rabenmark: “very
well, indeed: all perfectly in order.—You shall hear
from me this afternoon, or to-morrow morning,”
and he politely touched his cap, as if it was the most
agreeable thing in the world to be called an infamous
Hundsfott.
“As for you, sir,” continued Rabenmark, turning
to the first student; “our quarrel is not so
easily settled. I care not much for insult to myself,
because I can defend myself: but an insult to
my dog, to little Fritz, is cowardly; for Fritz, according
to the `Comment,' cannot resent the injury.
Fritz, sir, as you perceive, bears the name of the
immortal hero of Prussia, `Frederick the only'—a
monarch for whom I have the most profound
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[figure description] Page 157.[end figure description]
respect, and I request you instantly to apologise to
Fritz.”
The student laughed in his face.
“Your name?” said Rabenmark.
“Weissbier,” said the student.
“Well, Mr. Weissbier, I request you instantly to
repair with me to my apartment. Choose either of
your three friends for your second; here is mine,”
said he, pointing to me; “and we will settle Fritz's
quarrel with these instruments, at three paces, and
no barrier,” he concluded, touching his pistols.
Weissbier began to look serious.
“What a devil of a renommist,” said Pott, shaking
his head.
“Shocking!” said Kopp and Fizzleberg, shaking
theirs.
“I shall accept no such challenge,” said Weissbier;
“I do not feel myself bound thereto by any
code of honour. I will fight you with sabres, without
caps or duelling-breeches, if you choose. I will
accept no other challenge.”
“Ah, you are not fond of gunpowder. I am
sorry you met Fritz this morning. He is, perhaps,
foolishly strict on this point. I am not near so exacting
myself; but Fritz is inexorable. I am sorry,
sir, but I shall be obliged to post you publicly: you
will be expelled from your club;” and Rabenmark
was moving away.
“Stay—” said Weissbier, looking very pale and
very foolish, “if there is no alternative — but how
am I to apologise to your cursed dog?”
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[figure description] Page 158.[end figure description]
“Ah,—now you are beginning to be reasonable;
and I shall be very happy to assist you in your endeavour
to appease Fritz's wounded honour. You
will readily understand that it would be of little consequence
to apologise to him in words, because he
would not understand you. There is, however, a
very simple method. Fritz is fond of jumping—he
is fond of a companion in his sports; and if you will
have the kindness to afford him your company, his
anger will be extinguished at once.—Here, Fritz—
Fritz!” cried he, calling to the terrier.
The dog came to his whistle, and Rabenmark
held his stick, a foot's distance from the ground.
“Hopp, Hopp!” said Rabenmark, and the dog
jumped over the stick.
“Now sir,” he continued, “if you will have the
kindness to place yourself on all fours, and jump
over the stick in like manner, I pledge my honour
to you that Fritz will be perfectly satisfied.”
“Thousand Donner Wetter!” roared Mr. Weissbier,
in a rage, “what upon earth do you take me
for, Mr. Von Rabenmark?”
“A coward, sir — only a coward! If you are
willing, however, to prove I am mistaken, I shall
be very happy to show you the way to my rooms;
but really I must request you to hasten your decision,
for time presses, and I have many things to attend
to.”
I believe that Weissbier thought he had really got
hold of the devil. He had become very pale, and
his teeth began to chatter.
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[figure description] Page 159.[end figure description]
“In the name of God, is there no way of getting
out of this infernal scrape?” said he, looking round
in despair.
His companions turned their backs upon him.
“Well — well, I cannot have my brains blown
out for this miserable dog. Hold out your stick, Mr.
Von Rabenmark, if it be Heaven's will.”
So Mr. Von Rabenmark, as it was Heaven's
will, held out his stick — down plumped the miserable
Weissbier on his hands and knees.
“Hopp — hopp!” said Rabenmark, — over jumped
the detected bully—and, jumping up again, fled
rapidly up a narrow lane.
“Good morning, Mr. Weissbier,” said Rabenmark: —
“good morning, Messieurs Kopp, Pott,
and Fizzleberg. You shall hear from me this afternoon;”
and so saying, he gravely continued his
promenade.
eaf284v1.n3[3] Cerevis-mütze.
-- 160 --
CHAPTER V. THE FOX'S DEN.
[figure description] Page 160.[end figure description]
A few minutes' walk brought us to his lodgings.
We ascended two flights of stairs, and entered his
apartment. The sitting-room was tolerably large,
and, in its furniture and arrangements, a perfect
specimen of a regular “kneipe.” The floor was
without carpet, and sanded; and the household
furniture consisted of a table, a sofa, and half-a-dozen
chairs of the most unpretending kind. The
great expense had been, however evidently made
in providing the pipes, pictures, and other studentluxuries.
A large and well-executed engraving of
a celebrated duel, which, from the notoriety of the
combatants, and its tragical issue, had become historical,
hung on the right side as you entered. On
the left, the wall was covered with a large collection
of “silhouettes.” These are a peculiar and invariable
characteristic of a German student's room; —
they are well executed profiles, in black paper on a
white ground, of the occupant's intimate friends,
and are usually four or five inches square, and surrounded
with a narrow frame of black wood.
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[figure description] Page 161.[end figure description]
Rabenmark's friends seemed to be numerous, for
there were at least a hundred silhouettes, ranged in
regular rows, gradually decreasing by one from the
bottom, till the pyramid was terminated by a single
one, which was the profile of the “senior” of the
Pommeranian club. Most of the worthies represented
possessed (as it is not uncommon with profile portraits)
a singular similarity with each other. All
had variegated club-caps, moustachios, and bows of
ribbons in their button holes, and looked as if they
might have been furnished by an upholsterer in “lots
to suit purchasers.” A scarf of scarlet and gold was
suspended in graceful festoons from two nails, so as
to form a sort of triumphal wreath for the whole.
The third side of the room was decorated with a
couple of “schlägers,” or duelling swords, which
were fastened crosswise against the wall. The
schläger is a sword, I believe, of perfectly unique
formation; the blade is between three and four feet
in length, and of finely tempered steel; its breadth
is about three quarters of an inch, and the point, or
rather end, is square and blunt; its edge on both
sides, for about nine inches, from the extremity, is
as sharp as the most carefully polished razor. The
rest of the blade is comparatively dull, and the heel
is screwed securely into a basket-hilt, of large dimensions,
covered on the outside with cloth of the
owner's club. The hilts of Rabenmark's were of
blue, scarlet and gold.
On the fourth side of the room were ranged a collection
of pipes, which were the pride of his hearth.
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They were about twenty, ranged in a systematic
row. The bowls were of porcelain, exquisitely
painted; some with portraits of pretty women, some
with copies from Ostade and Gerhard Dow, and
some with the arms of his intimate friends. The
stems were about three feet in length, and of a fragrant
polished cherry. The tassels were large, and
rich, and of every combination of Landsmannschaft
colour. Besides these were halfa dozen meerschaums,
of all the different kinds: there was the “milkmeerschaum”
from Vienna, exquisitely carved, and
delicate as sugar work; the “oil meerschaum” from
Hanover, carefully polished, and scientifically embrowned
towards the bottom by its own smoke; besides
the “wax meerschaum,” the “raw meerschaum,”
and various others.
Besides these articles, there were some half-dozen
engravings in frames, a fowling-piece, a sabre, and
two or three different species of caps hanging in different
parts of the room.
“There,” said Rabenmark, entering the room,
unbuckling his belt, and throwing the pistols and
schläger on the floor. “I can leave my buffoonery
for a while and be reasonable; it's rather tiresome
work, this renommiring.”
“Have the kindness to tell me,” said I, “what
particular reason you have for arraying yourself and
your dog in such particularly elegant costumes; and
for making such an exquisite exhibition of yourself
during your promenade?”
“No particular reason,” he answered; “but it
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[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]
is about the most simple way of arranging matters
on the whole. I am a fox. When I came to the
university three months ago, I had not a single acquaintance.
I wished to introduce myself into the
best Landsmannschaft, but I saw little chance of succeeding.
I have already, however, become an influential
member. What course do you suppose I
adopted to gain my admission?”
“I suppose you made friends of the president or
senior, as you call him, and the other magnates of
the club,” said I.
“No. I insulted them all publicly, and in the
grossest manner. Look here,” he continued, taking
down one of the schlägers from the wall, and
showing me the list of the duels he had already
perpetrated, written, according to an universal custom,
on the white leathern lining of the hilt. The
number of entries was already about fourteen.
“See,” said he, “these first half-dozen are the
senior, con-senior, and some other members of the
Pommerania; they were my first six duels.”
“I suppose you got well peppered by such old
stagers,” said I; “but I hardly see how that was
to expedite your admission.”
“Oh! that was a very simple matter,” replied
Rabenmark; “for in the first place, you are wrong
in your flattering supposition. Instead of being
peppered, I was very successful; and after I had
cut off the senior's nose, sliced off the con-senior's
upper lip, moustachios and all, besides bestowing
less severe marks of affection on the others, the
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[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]
whole club, in admiration of my prowess, and desiring
to secure the services of so valorous a combatant,
voted me in by acclamation.”
“Do you find any particular satisfaction,” said I,
“in your club, and the university life?”
“Oh, it is boy's play,” said he; “but then I am
a boy, in years at least. I have a certain quantity
of time on my hands. I wish to take the university
as a school for action. I intend to lead my
companions here, as I intend to lead them in after
life. You see I am a very rational sort of person
now, and you would hardly take me for the same
crazy mountebank you met in the street half-an-hour
ago. But then, I see that this is the way to
obtain superiority. I determined at once, on arriving
at the university, that, to obtain the mastery over
my competitors, who were all extravagant, savage,
eccentric, was to be ten times as extravagant and
savage as any one else. You do not suppose I derived
any particular satisfaction from tying up Fritz's
tail with ribbons; but then it is as good a way of
bullying as any other, and besides, these studentduels
are capital exercise.”
“Suppose, however, that Mr. Weissbier had happened
to be a less tractable person than he proved
to be?”
“Why, I should have been obliged to shoot
him.”
“You forget the less agreeable alternative. He
might have done you the same favour.”
“Oh no,—impossible. I shall not die till I am
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nineteen years and nine months old. If I pass that
period, I shall live some twelve or thirteen years
longer; I forget the exact number; but I have it
written down in my common-place book somewhere.”
This I found afterwards to be a settled conviction.
Nothing could induce Rabenmark to admit the possibility
of his death, till that age. It was a prediction
in his family, by some gipsy, I suppose, for hewas,
as I have said, a Bohemian. His age was, at
the time of which I am writing, exactly eighteen
and a half.
“Perhaps,” said he, politely, “you would like to
see a duel or two. They are very pretty gladiatorial
exhibitions. There are always plenty going on
every day, and they are quite as amusing as the
combats des animaux at Paris.”
“I should have no objection,” said I, “as it
seems customary to admit spectators.”
Here Rabenmark threw open the window, and
called to a passing acquaintance. “Katt! do you
go `los' to-morrow afternoon?” (To go los, or
loose literally, is the cant expression for fighting.)
“Yes; with Poppendorf,” was the answer.
“Very well. Oh! by the way, have the kindness
to step to a certain Pott of the Bremen club,
and to Kopp and Fizzleberg of the Brunswick, and
challenge them each for me, on twenty-four gangs,
small caps.”
“Very well. I shall see you at the Kneipe to-night?”
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“Yes. Adieu.”
“Adieu.”
“There, Mr. Morton,” continued Rabenmark,
“you see in five minutes a student's whole life. A
young man usually spends three years at the university.
As most of the German universities are in
coalition, whatever time he spends at one, is counted
for him at the next, and he consequently usually
passes a whole year at one, the next term at another,
and so on. The first two years of the three,
a student generally employs in fighting duels and
getting drunk. After he has fought his fifty or a
hundred duels, and drunk as much beer as he is
capable of, he usually, at the end of his second year,
leaves his club, and spends his third and last year
in diligent study. His examination,—and a very
strict one it is,—succeeds: and if he can pass it, he
receives his doctor's degree, whether of theology,
philosophy, law, or medicine, and retires into private
life.”
“But, I suppose, he remains a long time, a troublesome
and ferocious individual?”
“On the contrary. Nobody ever hears of him.
It is a singular anomaly,—the whole German student
existence. The German students are no more
Germans than they are Sandwich Islanders. They
have, in fact, less similarity with Germans, than
with any other nation. You see in them a distinct
and strongly characterized nation, moving in a definite,
though irregular orbit of its own, and totally
independent of the laws which regulate the rest of
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the social system of Germany. It presents the singular
phenomenon of a rude, though regularly organised
republic, existing in the heart of a despotism.
In fact, every one of the main points of the German's
character is directly the opposite of those of
the German student. The German is phlegmatic,—
the student fiery. The German is orderly and
obedient to the authorities—the student ferocious and
intractable. The German is peaceable,—the student
for ever brawling and fighting. The German
is eminently conservative in his politics,—the student
always a revolutionist. The government of all the
German states is despotić,—the student's whole existence
is republican. The German is particularly
deferent to rank and title. In the student's republic,
and there alone, the omnipotent `Von' sinks before
the dexterous schläger, or the capacious `beer
bummel.' Lastly, the German is habitually sober,
and the student invariably drunk.”
“But how, in God's name, is it, that this community
of desperadoes does not at last overwhelm
the whole of Germany? How is it that they do
not set the whole empire in a blaze?”
“Why, the process of evaporation seems after
all, to be very simple. A certain number leave the
university every year; and besides that they have
already been subjected to a preparatory cooling of
about a year, during which they have been preparing
themselves for their examination, it usually
appears that the number is so insignificant in comparison
with the vast population in which they are
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merged, that the mischief which might have been
apprehended, seems impossible. They are at once
extinguished in the ocean of mankind.”
“Then it seems that this last year's study acts
as a sort of safety-valve, and diminishes the danger?”
“Annihilates it entirely. Besides this, a great
effect is produced by the sobriety of the citizen; nay,
of the student himself, after his metempsychosis.
A man, when he is tipsy, looks at all subjects and
particularly political subjects, with much more enthusiasm
than when he is sober. When the fumes
of beer and schnapps have been dispersed, and he is
once settled in private life, he finds it much better to
pocket his wages as Referendarius, Auditer, &c.,
paid out to him by the despot's treasurer, and wait
quietly till he receives his ultimate promotion, than
to be quarrelling with the government, and losing
his money and his head for his pains.”
“Well,” said I, getting up, “I am much obliged
to you for your information, and I feel the sagacity
of all your observations; but it's getting near dinner-time,
and so I shall wish you a good morning.”
“Good morning. By the way, if you are inclined
to drink beer to-night, I shall be happy to take
you with me to the Kneipe. I will call for you at
six this evening if you choose.”
“Very well. Adieu.”
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CHAPTER VI. THE LIBRARIAN POPP.
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At dinner I met Lackland, of course, and told
him of my visit in the morning, and my intentions
in the evening. He agreed to accompany me in
the evening to the Pommeranian Kneipe, and in
the meantime we strolled to the library. As we
had both of us matriculated ourselves at the university,
we possessed the right of using the books, as
well as of attending any course of lectures for which
we chose to pay a Frederick-d'or.
The library is a tolerably large, but wholly unpretending
building, in the heart of the town, and
is open at almost all hours. There are always one
or two sub-librarians in attendance, and many students
of the “camel denomination” are usually
found, immersed chin deep in their lucubrations.
The principle that has been adopted in the construction
and collection of the German libraries,
is a good one. They buy the cheapest editions
that are to be had of every thing; but they buy
every thing. Perhaps one of the main original
reasons was, the shabby style of printing and
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publishing, universal in Germany; a necessary consequence
of the systematic and international piracy
practised by the different states upon each other.
The consequence is, that you find in all the university
towns and in all the capitals, libraries, varying
in number from 150,000 to 400,000 volumes, and it
is very difficult for a man of any science, or any
profession, to find himself in a situation, where he
has not within his reach all the assistance that a
library could afford him for his labours.
The principal-Librarian's-Sub-Librarian's-Deputy-Assistant's-Secretary's
clerk, attended us from alcove
to alcove. He was a fussy little man, very civil,
but very important. He was, moreover, very proud
of the library, and very well acquainted, with, at least,
the outside of the books.
He was an odd sort of individual in appearance,
but not unpleasing. His face was round, ruddy,
and wrinkled, like a roasted apple; and his snow-white
hair was parted on his forehead, and hung
decently down over his shoulders. He wore a very
light blue surtout, reaching nearly to his heels;
and below he was immersed to his hips in an
enormous pair of boots, with still more enormous
tassels. The alertness with which he clambered
up the library ladders in search of any work
we mentioned, in spite of his age and his leather
incumbrances, and the zeal with which he would
blow the dust from the leaves, and fervently kiss
the title page when it happened to be any of his
favourite authors, were truly edifying. Hearing
Lackland mention that I was an American, he
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seemed excessively delighted, and flying down
the steps, upon whose top he was perched, at the
risk of his neck, he begged permission to embrace
me, and then toddled off in his boots to another alcove.
Presently afterwards he returned with a
couple of books.
“You have undoubtedly seen these famous productions
of the famous Professor Poodleberg?” said
he to me.
“Not I.”
He looked aghast for a moment. “However,” he
continued, “you are but recently arrived, I understand,
and have hardly had time to familiarize yourself
with the works of our great philologists. “This,
sir,” said he, opening the first book, “is a grammar
arranged on the principles, of what the professor
calls the comparative anatomy of philology, and is
intended to exhibit, in a single work, the genius,
the peculiarities of structure, with the international
resemblances, and differences of the Choctaw, Cherokee,
and other prominent North American dialects.”
“Potz sacrament!” I exclaimed, having nothing
else to say.
“You are, of course, familiar with all these
languages, being an American,” he continued;
“and it will be therefore interesting to you to criticise
and to admire the labours of our learned philologist.
Allow me to wrap it in brown paper, and to send it
with the other works you have selected, to your
lodgings.”
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I was unwilling to destroy the pleasing illusions
which he was under, respecting my own philological
acquirements, and so assured him that nothing
could afford me more unmixed gratification than to
read that, and any other of Professor Poodleberg's
works.
“Perhaps you would find this treatise by Professor
Poodleberg, on the original inhabitants of America,
showing satisfactorily that they are descended from
the missing tribes of Israel, — to be also worthy of
your attention?”
“Certainly, have the kindness to send that also!”
“You will perhaps think it a little strange,” he
continued, “that I am so enthusiastic on the subject
of America. But you must know that I am on the
eve of a great journey. I have already my trunks
packed at home preparatory for my journey to Paris;
and after remaining a sufficient time there to
perfect myself in the languages, and enjoy my share
of the pleasures of that bewitching metropolis,” (and
here the little octagenarian gave me a nudge of the
elbow, and winked his eye wickedly,) “I shall proceed
to America, whither I shall take with me the
money I have been enabled to lay by in the course
of a librarian's life, buy a farm, and enjoy the rest
of my time in peace and quietness. By the way,
do you advise me to take out my cash in Frederickd'ors,
or Prussian dollars?”
I told him I must take time to reflect on this important
subject, before I presumed to advise him;
commended his plan, and begged him to lose no
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time in making such a valuable addition to the transatlantic
colonists.
He then showed us other interesting works in different
parts of the library, and amused us particularly
by his chirping and vivacious commentaries upon
them.
“May I be allowed the favour of calling upon you
at your lodgings, and will you allow me the honour
of exchanging addresses with you?” said he,
as we were taking leave of him.
We gave him our addresses, and in return he
gave us a pompous looking card, on which was engraved:
“The Principal Librarian's Sub-Librarian's Deputy's
Assistant's Secretary, Popp,
“Weender Strasse.”
“That's a very nice little man,” said Lackland,
as we passed from the door; but he labours under a
singular delusion. He has told you that he is on
the point of departing for Paris, and thence to America,
and so he has told all his acquaintances
every day for more than thirty-five years. The most
singular circumstance is, that his trunk is in reality,
as he tells you, already packed at home, and so it has
been during all those thirty-five years. He formed
the determination of emigrating when he was a comparatively
young man, and ever since he has found
some reason for deferring his journey from day to
day, although he has no intention of giving up his
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plan. It in fact amounts now to a monomania, while
he remains perfectly sane on every other subject.
“But here we are at your rooms, and I see Rabenmark
looking out of the window.”
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CHAPTER VIII. THE KNEIPE.
[figure description] Page 175.[end figure description]
The weather being fine, the tables were ranged
under the linden-trees in the garden of the inn,
where the club held their meetings.
I do not recollect that there was anything peculiar
in the appearance of the company, to distinguish
them from the mass of Burschen, with whom the
reader has, I suppose, by this time become familiar.
There were some thirty or forty individuals present,
varying in age from eighteen to eight-and-thirty,
and all wearing the club cap and club favour in their
button-hole. Each had moustachios, pipes, and
embroidered tobacco-bags, and each had a great
glass of beer before him with a plated cover. They
sat together in little knots, and conversed on the
everlasting subjects — duels — drinking — dogs —
beer — Rhenish — schlägers, and painted pipes.
“By the way, Rabenmark,” said my old acquaintance,
Dummberg, whom I had just recognised
and greeted, “did you hear of the issue of Salzmaum's
Paukerei, yesterday?”
“Yes, at the first gang, he received a cut across
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the cheek, reaching from the end of the eyebrow to
the chin.”
“How many stitches?”
“Nineteen, I believe, but besides that, the tip of
his tongue, which happened unluckily to have been
thrust into his cheek at the moment, was taken off
also — however, that goes for nothing, I believe.
I may as well mention for the benefit of the uninitiated,
that the number of stitches which the doctor
makes in sewing up a wound, is the usual method
of ascertaining its importance.
“Did Spoopsmann go los yesterday, with Hartzberg?”
“Oh yes, and pitch enough he had.” (Pech zu
haben — “to have pitch,” is a student's expression
for all sorts of misfortune.) “At the very second
gang, his nose was taken off in the middle. It fell
on the floor of course, and just as Doctor Jacobus
was about to snatch it up, that infernal poodle of
Finkenstein's, which as ill-luck would have it, had
contrived to remain in the room, pounced upon it
and made for the door. Jacobus followed, and a battle-royal
succeeded. After a good deal of struggling,
the doctor came off victor with half of the fragment
as his “spolia opima.” He hastened to sew it on,
in order to secure to his patient at least three quarters
of his nose, but in the confusion of the moment
and agitated I suppose by his battle with the poodle,
he patched it on upside down. The consequence
is, that poor Spoopsmann, who had a very respectable
aquiline proboscis before, will make his
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appearance after his recovery, with the most ridiculous pug
nose in the world.”
“Pitch, indeed!” growled old Dummberg.
“Kellner, you infernal Hundsfott, bring me another
quart of beer!”
I had not been long at the Kneipe, when my old
acquaintance Count Trump Von Toggenburg made
his appearance. He was dressed with the most elaborate
elegance. His scarlet cap with a particularly
resplendent tassel was placed jauntily on one side,
his long sleek hair was combed carefully down each
side of his face, and his moustachios were waxed and
stiffened into an imposing rigidity. He wore a new
Polonaise coat, the breast of which was covered
with an ingenious and elaborate lattice work of
cords and tassels, and he was smoking a meerschaum,
which, as he informed us, he had just
received a present from his cousin, Prince Toggenburg-Hohenstaufer.
He greeted me warmly on entering, and told the
Kellner to bring his beer and tobacco into my neighbourhood.
“I do not consider it any impeachment to my
exalted rank in the social world,” said he to me, in
a confidential tone, “to occasionally indulge myself
in my Vaterland's luxury of beer. I hold it to be
incumbent on every nobleman to encourage all
real national habits and peculiarities. I hope next
winter to induce you to spend a few weeks with
me at Toggenburg. You will find there a profusion
of Vaterland's luxuries, but few extraneous.
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Wildboar's ham from Westphalia—plovers' eggs from
Hanover — smoked geese from Pommerania — venison
from Prussia — sausages from Brunswick —
wines from the Rhine and Neckar — beer from Bavaria—
nothing else.”
I expressed myself perfectly satisfied with such
a bill of fare, and the general conversation proceeded.
“I hear that Ulrich, the innkeeper, has procured
several casks of Cassel March beer — is it true,
Dummberg?” asked a fox of the veteran.
“Yes — but not so good as the last; and in fact,
the Cassel beer is not worth the trouble. When I
was a fox, it was held a point of honour with the
seniors of the respectable clubs, when they were on
the eve of a grand commerz, to send a deputation
to Munich, or to Wurtzburg at least, with full plenipotentiary
powers to taste and to purchase an indefinite
quantity of the best beer to be found in all
Bavaria. Yes,” he continued, while a glow of virtuous
enthusiasm lighted up his face; “yes, I have
myself, when con-senior of this very club, been
appointed to head a deputation of forty-five clubs
from Göttingen, Heidelberg, and other universities,
to proceed, at the expense of a fund expressly
provided for the purpose, to Cassel, Wurtzburg and
Munich, and to purchase fifty casks at each city for
each society — fifty casks!” he concluded, hammering
with his fist on the table.
A low murmur of generous and sympathetic admiration
ran round the assembly.
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“Alas! — times are sadly altered; the tastes of
our students are degenerating. Never shall I see a
university as I recollect Göttingen twenty years
ago,” concluded Dummberg, with a sigh.
And so the conversation went on, and the beer
went off — quart after quart; and as the fumes
ascended to the head, the conversation became more
boisterous, and the drinking songs and chorusses
went gaily round.
In the course of the evening, a student, who sat
nearly opposite, requested Trump to introduce
him to me.
“You will excuse the liberty,” said he, when the
favour was accorded him, — “but I heard you were
an American, and I wish to ask after some near
acquaintances who have been there for ten years,
and of whom you, doubtless, have heard.”
“Their names?” asked I.
“Zinzindorf.”
“I hardly recollect any one of that name in my
part of the country. In what province do they happen
to reside?”
“I am not sure; but it is either Brazil or Buenos
Ayres,” was the reply.
“Ah, indeed,” said I, “I do not happen to have
met them very lately; but in my next letters, I shall
not fail to make inquiries, and have no doubt I shall
be able, when I receive the answer, to afford you the
most satisfactory information.”
“I shall be exceedingly obliged to you,” gravely
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returned my new acquaintance; “allow me to drink
to you half a quart of beer.”
In the meantime the company had become all
more or less tipsy, and Trump among the rest. He
proposed to drink Schmollis, or Brotherhood with
me, and, of course, I was but too happy to avail myself
of so distinguished an honour.
“Few — very few are the persons,” said he, with
great dignity, “whom I am willing to admit to the
intimacy which `Du and Du' expresses. Out of
my own club, I believe there are not six persons in
the university with whom I am on these terms of
familiarity, and of the whole number, you are the
only one to whom I have proposed this mark of
friendship; all the rest have made their advances to
me. But you are a stranger — you are an American,
and I rejoice that my rank allows me, occasionally,
the privilege of extending my hand without
fear of repulse or ingratitude;” and so saying, Count
Trump Von Toggenburg drank what was left in
his glass, and then, grasping me by the hand, kissed
me fervently on either cheek.
“And now, my friend and brother,” he continued,
“let me advise you not to confine yourself exclusively
to the society of the students. Believe me, the society
of the wits and beauties even of this city, is not
wholly unworthy the attention of a stranger; and I
am very sure if you are inclined to make the experiment,
that you will not be the less favourably received
by being introduced under the auspices of Count
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Trump Von Toggenburg;” and as he concluded,
he placed his hand emphatically upon his breast.
“I shall be excessively obliged to you,” I replied,
“for so great a favour: are there any conversaziones
or balls at present?”
“The gay season has hardly commenced — but in
the meantime, you cannot do better than to attend
the aesthetic tea-parties of the Frau Von Rumplestern,
which take place every Wednesday evening.
By the way, there will be one to-morrow — shall I
have the pleasure of introducing you?”
“Most willingly,” said I, “I shall hold myself in
readiness.”
“You must know, mon cher amie,” continued
Trump, who always tried to talk French when he
was tipsy, “that I am not always occupied `à faire
le tapageur;' on the contrary, I have many moments
of deep feeling — many hours of pure and
strong sentiment. You are, probably, not aware
that I am in love?”
And so Trump, whom beer had rendered tender
and sentimental, began confidentially to discourse
to me about a love-affair of his, which, in its course
and termination, afforded me some amusement, and
which I shall have occasion in the course of these
pages to lay before the reader.
“You must know, mon brave, that the house of
Trump Von Toggenburg is a little reduced in its
resources; and it is a natural consequence of the
scrupulousness with which its members have followed
the rule in noble families, of breeding in-and-in.
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As it is not in our power to increase our fallen fortunes
by trade, I have at length come to the determination
that it will not be derogatory to my rank
to ally myself to some wealthy female, whose family
is not equal to mine, but who will be sufficienly
illustrious by the splendour which will be reflected
upon her by me.”
“Have you any such person in your eye?” I
inquired.
“You shall see. After due deliberation, and
commuing with myself, as well as mature consultation
with the various branches of my family, I at
last decided on a lady, and was already making
preparations for my marriage, when a new and
most unexpected obstacle presented itself.”
“And that was—” said I.
“The lady would not have me!”
“But of course you were not deterred by so
trifling a difficulty. By the way, you have not told
me the name of the lady?”
“It was a certain Miss Potiphar,” he replied,
“the only daughter of the wealthy Jew banker,
Potiphar. The father has the impertinence to oppose
himself to the match, and insists upon his
daughter marrying a damn'd fellow named Maccab
æus, a merchant of his own tribe.—Conceive the
effrontery of the fellow!” continued Trump, indignantly.
“After I had made up my own mind—
after I had resigned myself to the disgrace of contaminating
the pure ichor of the Toggenburgs with
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his damn'd Jewish blood,—to think of the sausagehating
scoundrel's not jumping at the offer! However,
the daughter is in love with me, I believe, and
I shall have her in spite of the father. By the way,
they will be to-morow at Madame de Rumplestern's,
and I shall introduce you to her.”
Soon after this, it had become late, and the company
being nearly dispersed, Lackland and I took
our way homeward. As I approached my door, I
perceived some one seated on the steps. I could not
divine the cause. On ascending the steps, I perceived
Rabenmark, who was slightly drunk.
“What the deuce are you doing here?” said I.
“Why don't you come in?”
“No, I thank you; I have business here,” was
the answer.
“Is it so important that it cannot be delayed?”
I asked.
“Yes; I am catching.”
“Catching!—What is catching?” said I.
“I will show you presently. Wait a little.”
I waited a few minutes, and then we perceived a
tall student advancing leisurely towards us on the
same side of the way. “There's another!—he
will do. You shall see me catch him;” and so
saying, Rabenmark waited till the stranger was
nearly abreast of us, and then suddenly thrusting
out his leg, tripped him over. The student
rolled in the gutter, and then sprang furiously to
his feet.
“Dummer Junge!” he roared.
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“Infamous Hundsfott!” replied Rabenmark.
“You shall hear from me to-morrow,” and off
he rushed.
“Good night,” said Rabenmark, and then turning
to me, he continued: “This is what I call catching.
It is a little invention of my own. I have
caught seven this evening—very simple, you see,
and very little trouble. Good night.”
“Sleep well,” said I, and retired to my chamber.
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CHAPTER VIII. AN AESTHETIC TEA-PARTY.
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I have carefully abstained, in this part of my memoirs,
from being the hero of my own work. It is
my purpose, for the present at least, to carry out
this plan. The events which I have detailed in
the first book of this little autobiography could not
fail to produce their effect. With time, however,
the effects were less visible, not because they had
been effaced from the surface, but because they had
sunk below it; and at the period of which I now
write, and which, as nearly as I can ascertain, was
about a year after the death of Vassal Deane, I had
attained an outward calm, very different from the
dull melancholy with which I had been previously
affected.
During this portion of my life, although personally
engaged at times in certain turbulent and (as
it will in the sequel perhaps appear to the reader)
not very commendable transactions, I was, in all
matters of the heart at least, a spectator rather than
an actor.
Would that I had remained so during the whole
period of my exile; but it is unnecessary to
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anticipate what it will soon enough be my duty to
record.
I wish accordingly, for the present, to interest the
reader rather in others than in myself, and I shall
therefore, while detailing whatever may seem worth
preserving of my adventures, lay an attachment, as
a lawyer would say, on all the sympathy he might
otherwise have placed at my disposal in sentimental
matters, for the benefit of others.
On the afternoon succeeding our visit to the Pommeranian
Kneipe, I had been walking in the neighbourhood
of Göttingen. I was returning about dusk
through one of the most elegant streets to keep my
appointment with Trump, when, as I passed under
the balcony of a large and respectable-looking house,
a bunch of violets dropped upon the pavement at
my feet. I looked up, and just distinguished a female
face at the window immediately over the balcony.
She placed her finger on her mouth, shook
her head playfully, and vanished.
“Donner wetter!” said I to myself.
The street was one of the most elegant in the
town, and the house particularly imposing in its appearance.
I was sadly puzzled.
I rang at the street-door. A servant in livery
presented himself.
“Who lives here?” I asked.
“The Ablic-councillor, Privy-councillor Baron
Von Poodleberg,” was the reply.
“The devil!” I muttered. “What! not Professor
Poodleberg?”
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[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]
“At your service,” said the lackey.
“Does the house belong to him?”
“Certainly.”
“He has probably a large family then,” said I.
“Only one daughter.”
“But he has a wife?”
“Frau Von Poodleberg has been dead for some
years. Old Mrs. Meerschaum, who has lived in
his family some sixty years, is housekeeper and
manager.”
“Is the Professor at home?”
“He has just driven out.”
“Thank you—I will call again,” said I, and
turned away from the door.
“One thing is certain,” said I to myself, as I
thrust the violets into my button-hole, and strutted
homewards, “I have made a conquest of somebody;
but whether it is the Professor's daughter Fräulein
Poodleberg, or old mother Meerschaum, the housekeeper,
time must show. Perhaps, after all, it is
only one of the housemaids.”
I had, however, no time to speculate further on
the subject, for it was necessary to get ready for
Frau Von Rumplestern's conversazione. So, with
a determination to investigate the subject thoroughly
as soon as an opportunity offered, I dismissed all
thoughts of it for the present.
It was late when Trump and I made our appearance
at the party. A small boy took our cloaks in
the passage, and went forward to announce us.
“His Excellency Count Trump Von
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Toggenburg, and his friend and Excellency Baron Von
Morton!” bawled the errand-boy at the bottom of
the stairs, to the man-servant in livery at the top.
“Count Trump Von Toggenburg, and Baron
Von Morton!” echoed the servant in livery, and a
dead silence succeeded the buzzing and humming
which we had heard from the saloon, in the midst
of which we marched into the room.
It was a saloon of tolerable dimensions and neat
appearance. The floor was, of course, without a
carpet, and well polished. The curtains were of
red taffeta. The chairs and sofas were covered
with a sort of striped woolen material, and the rest
of the furniture was of dark polished oak. An Albert
Dürer, and two or three of Lucas Cranach's
portraits garnished the walls, and a plaster cast or
two from the ancient models stood in the different
corners; a knot of men and women of all ages,
with tea-cups in their hands, surrounded a chair
placed on an elevated platform. The chair was at
the moment without an occupant, but seemed to
have been just vacated.
Frau Von Rumplestern moved out from the little
crowd on our announcement to receive our
obeisance. She was a short, pursy little body of
fifty, with a red face, a brocaded gown, and a remarkably
ugly cap.
“Allow me to recommend to you, gracious Madame
de Rumplestern, my particular and distinguished
friend, Baron Von Morton!” said Trump,
with a great flourish.
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“Delighted to make the acquaintance of any one
who has the honour to be a friend of Count Trump
Von Toggenburg!” said Frau Von Rumplestern.
“Have you heard lately from your gracious father,
Count Trump Von Toggenburg?”
“He is at present in Silesia, on a visit to our relation,
Prince Hohenstaufer! Have you had much
literature this evening?”
“Professor Funk has done us the favour to read
us a passage from his new tragedy, but as it was
only ten lines in length, of course there was not
much time consumed.”
“He has been some time engaged upon this tragedy,
has he not?” I inquired.
“Twenty-five years of intense labour have been
employed upon it, and he has as yet completed but
two acts and a half. He, however, hopes to complete
the remaining two and a half in ten years.
And after all,” said the lady, enthusiastically, “thirty-five
years is but little time to spend on so vast,
and so immortal a work!”
“I have heard that it was in the classical taste,
but I must beg to be informed of the subject and the
plan.”
“Ah! you have a great pleasure to come,” said
the Frau, “but yonder is Professor Funk, let us
walk forward, and I will introduce you to him.”
“The great dramatist was standing near the
reciting chair, which he had recently vacated.
He was a thin, pleuretical looking man, upwards
of fifty in appearance, with a pallid, unhealthy
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face, large spectacles, and very grey hair, parted
on the forehead and hanging wildly down over
his shoulders. I observed that his coat was both
rusty and dusty, and his black worsted stockings
were full of holes. It seemed to be doubtful
whether he had any linen; but he wore a very ample
shirt-bosom of black silk which answered the
purpose of a shirt, and saved washing. He was
altogether what is called a very interesting man, and
was surrounded by half a dozen admiring old ladies.
As we approached, I observed that he was descanting
to his respectable audience on the superiority
of his tragedy to any other, modern or ancient.
I could not have selected a more favourable moment,
and accordingly after Frau Von Rumplestern had
carried me through the form of an introduction, I
remained a silent listener.
“I first conceived the plan,” said the Professor,
“of, what my modesty forbids me to call, my immortal
work, when only ten years of age. I, however,
did not put pen to paper till I was twenty, and
since then, I have been diligently employed upon
it. It will be a grand jubilee, when the remaining
portion is finished, and the labours of a life crowned
with success.”
“Great indeed!” said the six old women, enthusiastically.
“You must excuse the ignorance of a stranger,”
said I, “but I have but lately arrived in these regions,
and have not had the advantage of becoming
acquainted with the name and design of your work.
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Great indeed was my mortification on arriving, to
find that I had missed hearing the passage you
have done us the honour to read.”
“In compassion for your loss, which it must be
confessed was excessive,” modestly rejoined Funk,
“I will in a few words state the design of my tragedy,
or rather, to speak more correctly, my dramatic
poem; for although, I have no doubt that the
various theatres in Germany will be most anxious
to represent it, yet it can hardly be called a tragedy
in the modern sense of the term.
“My tragedy of `Vulcan Degraded,' is an attempt
to revive the Grecian drama. Vulcan, you
may probably be aware, if your education has not
been neglected, (but you come from a barbarous
country, and excuses are to be made for you,)” continued
Funk, who considered an habitual impertinence
to be a privilege either of his genius or of his
imbecile physical conformation—“Vulcan, according
to the most received accounts, endeavoured to
liberate his mother, who had been chained to a post
in heaven by Jupiter, her husband, as a punishment
for her obstinacy. The father of gods, seeing
the attempt, kicked Vulcan down from heaven He
fell for nine days, and at last alighted in Lemnos,
where the inhabitants, seeing him in the air, caught
him in their arms. Now, the only liberty I have
taken with the history, is to shorten the duration of
his fall from nine days to one; and you see at once
the sublime simplicity of the whole plan. The action
is the kicking of Jupiter, and the consequent
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falling of Vulcan, both of which, as they are in reality
only parts of the same proposition, may be naturally
compressed into one and the same act. The
unities are, as you may see, admirably preserved.
In the first place, the unity of time—exactly one
day;—the unity of place—you will observe that the
scene is intended to represent only heaven, earth,
and the intermediate space. Above is Olympus,—
personages, Jupiter, Juno, Vulcan, and a chorus of
gods and goddesses. Jupiter, and the chorus are
naturally stationary from choice, so that they give
me no trouble. Juno, who might be inclined to
change her position, is carefully chained to a post.
Vulcan, of course, in falling from heaven all the
way to earth, may be supposed to violate this second
unity; but as he is to represent the third unity, or
the unity of action, he may be excused for the little
impropriety towards the second. The devil is in it,
if in making a man fall all the way from heaven
to earth, (a journey of nine days according to the
usual calculation,) I may not allow him to change
his position?” said he, appealing to his audience.
“Quite right, quite right, Mr. Professor!” said
the old women.
“Thus you see,” he continued, “the whole state
of the scene. Above is Olympus—Juno sitting—
Jupiter kicking—Vulcan falling. In the centre,
Vulcan falling—falling—falling. At the bottom,
the inhabitants of Lemnos looking up with outstretched
arms, all waiting to catch the god, and be instructed
in horse-shoeing. This brings me to the
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third unity, or the unity of action, which you see is
perfect, and might at pleasure be compressed into
an instant. It is simply—Jupiter kicks—Vulcan
falls—the Lemnians catch—and all is over.”
“It seems astonishing that a plot so simple in appearance,
should require such intense labour, and so
many years?” said I.
“Astonishing only to the ignorant,” said the Professor,
politely; “but on the least reflection the ten
thousand difficulties will present themselves. For
instance, I have been ten years writing the soliloquy
of Vulcan which he utters in falling, and which in
itself will occupy one act; as he is the principal personage
in the drama, he ought certainly to speak
more than any; but as the drama opens with his
departure from Olympus, and closes with his arrival
at Lemnos, no one of the other dramatis personæ
could hear a word he said. It would of course, then,
be superfluous, and a violation of the rules to make
him utter any thing worth hearing. How do you
think I get over this difficulty?” said he to me in a
triumphant manner.
“I suppose you make him talk nonsense!” said I.
“Psha—psha!” resumed Funk impatiently, “I
make him talk nothing but Interjections! Five
years was I employed in devising this solution of my
difficulty, and five more in carrying it into effect;
and now, that it is done, it seems simple enough on
looking back upon it. In effect, what could be more
natural than for a person in Vulcan's disagreeable
situation to vent his various emotions of hatred, rage,
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fear, misery, despair, hope, joy, in a series of exclamations.
But I assure you, it was a great difficulty to
find all the interjections necessary to show the various
shades, deepening at first from rage to despair,
and then gradually and faintly heightening as he perceives
assistance awaiting him on earth. I, in the
first place, collected all the interjections of all the
Grecian poets—
The pedantry of the Professor became at last (as
Dogberry says) “most tolerable and not to be endured,”
so I turned away and sought amusement
elsewhere.
The aesthetic party had become more numerous.
From drinking and talking literature, they had
taken to quadrilles and waltzing, and the company
had been reinforced by a number of young and
pretty women.
“Who is that old gentleman with the star on his
breast, and half a dozen orders in his button-hole?”
asked I of Trump.
“He, with his hair so nicely powdered, and so respectable
a paunch?”
“Yes, talking in an authoritative kind of tone to
that pretty girl?”
“That is the celebrated Professor Von Poodleberg!”
said Trump.
“And the pretty girl?” said I eagerly.
“Is his daughter!”
“Ho ho!” said I to myself, “I am on the scent
already:” so I lounged towards them, cast a most
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mysterious glance at Miss Poodleberg, and then requested
Trump to introduce me to her father.
He agreed to do so presently, but left me for a few
minutes, during which I continued to cast sundry
mysterious and passionate glances at Fräulein Von
Poodleberg. The young lady took no notice of
them, however, but looked at me as carelessly, as if
she had never heard of my existence.
I determined I would sift the mystery, in one way
or another, and so determined to gain admission to
the house. Trump soon made his appearance, and
we approached the famous Professor.
“Allow me to recommend to you, Baron Von
Poodleberg, a young American, who has already
commenced studying your famous work, and is so
impatient for an introduction to you?” said Trump
Von Toggenburg.
The great man nodded his head with all the dignity
of Jupiter, and asked me how long I had been
in Germany. We engaged in a most interesting
conversation, and in the mean time Trump disappeared.
I expressed my inclination to attend his
course of lectures, assured him of my intense admiration
for his great works, and talked a whole string
of unmeaning gibberish, which I told him was the
Narragansett language. He professed to understand
it, although imperfectly, as his attention had been
confined to the Choctaw, the Chicasaw and the
other dialects connected with his work. In the
end the Professor was so much pleased with my
apparent admiration, that he concluded the
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conversation by inviting me to supper a few nights
afterwards. This was what I wanted, and that
business concluded, I turned to look around the
room.
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CHAPTER IX. THREE HEROINES.
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I remarked at once three pretty creatures of very
different styles of beauty.
“Who is that tall dark girl, Trump?”
“Who? She that is waltzing with a little sneaking,
bald-headed man?” he replied.
“Yes: a fat vulgar looking man is just whispering
to her!”
“She! why, who you think she is?”
“How should I know?”
“Why, my dear fellow, that is Miss Potiphar, and
in one glance, you have here my whole family party.
The lady is my Judith, my Jewish Juno. The
little blackguard that is dancing with her is Maccab
äus, a money lender, and a friend of her father; and
the large greasy looking plebeian whom you just saw
speaking to her is old Potiphar himself.
“But you seem to be paying your court very
negligently?” said I.
“Oh, I have had a quarrel with her father, and
our courtship is carried on for the present in secret.
It is for this reason that I feel certain of success.
Now that there is a mystery thrown over the whole
course of proceedings, her romance is awakened,
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and I shall soon persuade her to marry me in spite
of the whole synagogue. Go and waltz with her,
and talk to her of me!”
Miss Potiphar was tall. Her features, although
very Jewish, were very handsome. Her eyes were
long and black as death; her nose was of the handsomest
Hebrew cut, slightly aquiline, but thin and
expressive; her mouth was a thought too large, and
the lips might have been a trifle thinner; but as the
teeth were snow, and the lips coral, it was a beautiful
mouth after all. The dark shading on the upper
lip was rather too decided; but you forgave it
when you saw how it harmonized with her long
lashes, and her glossy hair. Her figure was certainly
superb, and the rounded luxuriance of the
outlines, and the majestic fullness of the whole development,
accorded well with her Eastern origin.
Her feet, like her hands, might have been smaller,
but they were well shaped, and she danced like a
Miriam.
I was, on the whole, not astonished, that the
prospect of inheriting fifty thousand rix dollars per
annum, in addition to the personal charms of the
fair Judith, was a sufficient inducement to Trump
to mix his pure Gothic blood with that which formerly
flowed in the veins of the Maccabæan kings.
I was curious to find if the charms of her mind
were equal to those of her person, and accordingly,
in the pauses of the waltz, I entered into conversation
with her. I soon discovered that she was a
fool.
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The little Fräulein Poodleberg was a very different
kind of beauty. She had dark chestnut hair,
which in the sun, was almost golden; hazel eyes,
with a bewitching wickedness of expression, and
very delicate and expressive features. The style of
her face, joined to the fanciful and and antique character
of her dress, gave her the look of an old-fashioned
German picture. She wore a dark velvet
boddice, nicely fitted to her plump and symmetrical
little figure, with a dress of tawny satin. A veil of
black lace was fastened to a high tortoise-shell comb
at the crown of her head, and hung gracefully
down about her neck and shoulders. The sleeves
of her jacket reached to her elbow, and a fold of exquisite
lace embellished the roundest and whitest
arms in the world. I soon discovered that she was
no fool. She was very sprightly, very poetical, and
very coquettish; but, I was informed, was desperately,
though secretly, attached to a young gentleman
named Pappenheim, who was not present, and
whom I had never seen. Why the deuce she should
also make love to me in secret, and how she could
manage to preserve her composure so perfectly in
my presence, I could not imagine—I was more puzzled
than ever.
But by far the loveliest woman in the room, and
one of the handsomest I ever saw in the world, was
the young Countess Bertha Wallenstein.
She was leaning on her father's arm, as I finished
my conversation with the little Poodleberg, and
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I was struck at once with the distinguished and superior
air of father and daughter.
Count Wallenstein was a colonel, who had served
in the wars of the immortal Frederick. He was
a middle-aged man, of a tall, portly, and commanding
figure; and one empty sleeve pinned to the breast
of his military coat, showed that he had not escaped
unharmed from the many campaigns he had been
engaged in. He was military commandant of the
town, and of a stern and unyielding character.
His daughter was, as I have said, eminently beautiful;
perhaps, if there was any one charm which
characterised her at first sight, it was her look of
blood. You could no more mistake her thoroughbred
air, than you could that of an Arabian filly.
Every movement, every feature, every limb proclaimed
it. She was tall and lithe, and though not
at all deficient in en bon point, her motions were as
light and graceful as an antelope's. Her face was
of the highest Saxon beauty, and the features all exquisitely
regular. Her complexion was of the most
Teutonic purity, and the colour came, vanished, and
changed at a thought, beneath the smooth and wonderful
whiteness of her skin. Her hair was of the
palest golden hue, and of the most delicate texture.
She had large grey eyes, whose colour might have
been too light for expression had they not been relieved
by very long and very dark lashes.
Altogether Bertha Von Wallenstein was worthy
of her name, for her father was, I believe, collaterally
descended from the great Duke of Friedland.
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The evening was drawing to a close. The seven
baronesses Puffendorf, had indulged us with songs
and music of all kinds. Professor Funk had been
prevailed upon to recite again the last ten lines of
his tragedy. Trump Von Toggenburg had nearly
finished his stolen flirtation with Judith, and I was
thinking seriously of retiring.
As I approached the door of the saloon, I heard a
soft and gentle voice utter the words, “You will not
forget, dearest Otto?” — and a voice that sounded
familiarly to me, replied, — “In ten days — only
ten days, my own Bertha.” I turned to look at
the lovers, and saw Bertha Wallenstein and Otto
Von Rabenmark!
I never saw such a transformation in a human
being, and for an instant could not believe my eyes.
It was, indeed, fox Rabenmark, but instead of the
savage, uncouth student, I saw an elegantly dressed
young nobleman, of peculiarly graceful manners,
and distinguished address. His hair was curled
and arranged in a becoming manner, and his graceful
and very handsome figure was displayed to the
greatest advantage in a rich and well-fashioned suit.
He wore lace ruffles, and a magnificent solitaire;
a chapeau, in the prevailing mode, was under his
arm, and a small court-sword was at his side.
Suddenly I perceived the father of the lady approaching,
and his face wore an aspect of unusual
severity. The pair clasped each other's hands, and
exchanged a passionate look, and then the daughter
left the room on the arm of her father.
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“Frau Von Funkendorff's lantern stops the way!”
bawled the servant, opening the door.
“Madame Poppenstein's lantern just arrived!”
repeated he, renewing the operation.
The party was evidently breaking up. — Trump
joined me, and together we made our obeisance.
On coming down stairs, I observed a whole string
of men-servants and housemaids, with lanterns in
their hands, and so discovered the meaning of the
servants' announcing in the saloon. I watched party
after party of ladies wrapping themselves in their
cloaks, and then, preceded by their servants with the
lantern, marching homeward through the gloom of
the dimly-lighted streets.
In returning home, I felt myself interested in
these episodes, as it were, of the epic of my own
life.
Here was Trump's amour with the Jewess; Rabenmark's
suddenly discovered and very singular
connection with Bertha Wallenstein; and this extraordinary
passion which Miss Poodleberg secretly
entertained for the unknown Pappenheim and myself.
I determined, if I could, to discover and observe
the progress of all. As for Trump, he had already
made me his confidant, and I expected the same of
Rabenmark, for he had taken occasion to request
me to be at home the next day for an hour preceding
the time appointed for the Paukerei.
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CHAPTER X. A PAUKEREI.
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“What upon earth occasioned your singular transformation
yesterday?” said I to Rabenmark, as he
entered my room the next afternoon.
“There was nothing very surprising in it,” he replied;
“I tell you I am as well aware as any one of
the absurdity of my usual dress, conduct, and habits,
and I have told you my reasons for continuing
them; but there is something I have not told you,
and which I hardly understand why I should tell
you now, except that I feel we are more than common
friends, although acquainted so short a time.
You saw the Countess Bertha Wallenstein last
night?”
“The beautiful blonde you were speaking to just
before I left the saloon?” — Yes.
“She is my betrothed.”
“I thought as much; but what an extraordinary
circumstance — you, a boy of seventeen, a fox.
Who ever heard of a fox betrothed?”
“That is exactly what her father, old
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Wallenstein, is likely to think. He is a stern severe old
martinet, and if he takes it into his head to oppose
our union, he will continue to do so out of pure obstinacy;
and yet what can be more unreasonable.
My family is as ancient and noble as his own. A
descendant of the great Friedland need not feel himself
degraded by an alliance with a house whose
ancestors once entertained Charlemagne with regal
pomp at his own castle. My worldly expectations
are also very good — quite equal to Bertha's, and
in fact, there is no reason why we should not be
united.”
“I should, however, I own, be greatly surprised,”
I replied, “if you did not find the opposition from
the father which you seem to expect. Your very
commendable style of life — the impartial division
of your time between drinking and duelling, your
strict attention, in short, to the two great duties of a
student's life, must render you particularly acceptable
to the father of any marriageable daughter!”
“The fact is, my dear Morton,” he replied, “I
have given way to my natural impulses in these
particulars, — the more willingly, because we wish
for the present to conceal our mutual engagements
from Count Wallenstein. It is impossible, under
any circumstances, that we should be united for
three or four years — a very short probation for us
faithful Germans. Such however, is the resolute
and unyielding character of Bertha's father, that
nothing would induce him to consent to our union
if he once opposed it. It is also highly improbable
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that any thing could induce him to regard the engagement
with a favourable eye; at present we
desire, consequently, to give him no cause to suspect
that such a thing exists.”
“But what is to be the issue of the adventure?”
“In two years and a half I shall have completed my
diplomatic studies, and shall have gone through with
my examination; after which, through the influence
of my uncle, Count Pappenheim, I hope very soon
to be provided with a diplomatic situation at some
of the foreign courts. I shall by that time, also,
have completed my twenty-first year, and have
come into the possession of a landed estate, worth at
least 5000 rix-dollars a-year. I hope, in the mean
time, with the assistance of Bertha, to overcome the
resistance of old Wallenstein, and to convince him
that I am, in reality, something better than the
good-for-nothing desperado which he at present, in
common with the rest of my acquaintance, takes
me for.”
“A very feasible plan; and in the mean time you
enjoy yourself and your studenten-leben (student's
life.) But does Bertha approve of all these doings?”
“Why, perhaps not exactly; but then, you know,
there are certain subjects on which women cannot
be expected to form so correct opinions as men. As
long as she knows that I am faithful to her, and in
all things do nothing unworthy of my honour as a
man and a nobleman, all will be well. Besides, she
is not altogether so squeamish as many other women
on many subjects; and as she knows that I despise
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as much as any one the very habits of life which I
at present see fit to assume, she feels safe; and in
my scrupulous and honourable fidelity to her, in
body and soul, she feels she can confide.”
“Well, she is a very sensible woman, and I see
no obstacle to your eventual success.”
“None in the world,” he replied. “So now for
old Kopp and Fizzleberg.”
As we walked towards the inn, in the hall of
which the duels almost universally take place, we
continued our conversation.
“I think you said something of an uncle Pappenheim,”
said I. “By the way, is there not some one
of that name at present in Göttingen.”
“Certainly—my cousin Leopold—the son of that
Count Pappenheim.”
“Is he a student?”
“No; he made his examination last year, and
is already attached en attendant to the `foreign
affairs' office in Vienna.”
“Then why is he not at his post?”
“Because he is exactly in the same scrape as
myself—he is in love.”
“Well, I thought I heard something of the kind.
Is not the little Poodleberg the object of his affections?”
“Yes; and old Poodleberg opposes, because he
has become so puffed up with his own success, that
he expects to marry his daughter to an arch-duke
at least.”
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“And does the gentle Ida return your cousin's
devotion?”
“Yes; but here we are, at Keiser's; and I must
be thinking of more ferocious matters.”
I could not help being somewhat puzzled by the
whole business of the Fräulein Poodleberg, but hoped
still that time would unravel the mystery; and
in the mean time, we entered the duelling-room.
The house where I now found myself was an inn
of rather large size, and situated not more than a
quarter of a mile from one of the gates of Gottingen.
It had nothing in particular to distinguish it
from other inns of the same class, and the room where
we had arrived, after ascending the principal stair-case,
was simply the hall which was used as a dancing-room
on Sunday afternoons by the maid-servants
and peasants from the town and its environs,
although on week-days it was the scene of blood
and devastation.
It was a hall of very considerable dimensions,
tolerably lofty, and lighted by two windows at each
end. On each side, towards one extremity of the
hall, was a small chamber.
As we entered, there were already some fifty or
sixty students present, of all ages, sizes, and denominations.
There had already been several duels
that afternoon; but nothing of importance had taken
place.
“Do you go los this afternoon, Rabenmark?”
said Schnappsberger.
“Yes, if any of my men are here.”
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[figure description] Page 208.[end figure description]
“Whom do you expect?” said Schnappsberger.
“Kopp and Fizzelberg are the two first on the
list.”
“What! Kopp the Westphalian?”
“Exactly.”
“Thousand donnerwetters! why, he is senior of
the Westphalian club, and the best schläger in all
Göttingen.”
“Sausage!”
This word sausage is a student's expression for
indifference, and is one of the most frequent of their
slang phrases. To say such a thing is sausage to
me, means, I care nothing at all for it—it's all one—
“Je m'en moque.” By the way, I may as well remark,
that the German student's slang is almost as
copious as the language itself, and is so totally distinct
from it, that a very ample dictionary of it has
been published.
“So you are going los with Kopp the Westphalian,”
grunted Dummberg, who was always present
on these occasions.
“Yes; at your service,” said Rabenmark.
“Why, he is senior of the Westphalians, and the
best schläger in Göttingen. You will certainly get
your nose cut off,” returned Dummberg.
“Sausage!” repeated Rabenmark.
“Who else shall you fight this afternoon, if you
get off from Kopp?” asked Trump Von Toggenburg.
“Fizzelberg.”
“Fizzelberg! why he is consenior of the
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Westphalians, and the next best schläger in Göttingen,”
said Trump, in dismay.
“Sausage!”
In the midst of these encouraging pieces of information,
Rabenmark, nodding to me to accompany
him, marched into the chamber belonging to the
club.
There were some dozen students there belonging
to the Pommerania. Three stood at a table, on
which lay a box of sword-blades, with hammers,
screw-drivers, and other accompaniments of the armourer's
trade. One of them fussed up to Rabenmark
with an important face, and held out to him
a schläger.
“There,” said he, “I have just picked out the
best blade in the whole box of new ones, which we
have just received from Solingen. I have screwed
it in on purpose for you. Try it.”
Rabenmark took the schläger, threw himself into
a posture of defence, and cut a few slashes in the
air.
“This will do for Fizzelberg; but old Kopp seems
such a redoubtable customer, that I must have a
look myself at the box.”
The three opened the chest, and displayed their
collection. Rabenmark poked among them for a
few minutes, feeling the edge of one, the weight of
another, and at last selected one, which the fussy
personage with the important face immediately
screwed into the hilt.
Rabenmark took off his coat and prepared to
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undress, and dress himself for the conflict. Two or
three other students, who appeared to have recently
finished an affair of honour of the same kind, were
resuming their usual habiliments.
“Got any thing to-day, Plattenheim?” asked
Rabenmark of one of them.
“No cuts:—but that devil, Manlius, has beaten
me with the flat most infernally.—He is a splendid
schläger; but he cannot cut sharp,” was the answer.
“Swine for you,” said Rabenmark.
Swine (Schwein) is the reverse of Pitch (Pech)
in the student's dialect, and is the elegant expression
for all kinds of good luck.
“And you, Zinzendorf,” said the fox, continuing
to undress, “what was the result of your Paukerei
with Stott?—It came off to-day, I believe?”
“Pitch enough,” was the reply; “look here, under
my arm:” and Zinzendorff showed a small
cut, about an inch long, and hardly skin-deep,
which had, however, been found exactly of sufficient
dimensions to answer the requisitions of the “Comment,”
and consequently entailed the disgrace of
discomfiture on him who received it.
Rabenmark had now divested himself of all clothing
but his shirt and trowsers. The defensive armour,
used in these student's duels was now brought
him.
He first put around his neck a stock of silk, wadded
very tightly, and nearly an inch in thickness.
This effectually protected the throat, and its vital
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arteries, from any sword-cut. Next he assumed the
duelling-breeches. This elegant article of dress resembles
an apron divided into two compartments,
and perhaps it is a hyperbole to dignify it with the
appellation of breeches. It is made of strong leather,
padded to a great thickness, is strapped and buckled
round the body and the legs, and reaches from the
waist to the knees. His right arm, from the shoulder
to the wrist, was then swathed with a kind of
rope of old black cravats; and upon his head was
placed a large and wadded club cap, with a large
leather front-piece.
Thus it will be seen that the only parts of the
combatant left exposed are the face and breast; and
it is consequently these alone that are invariably
found covered and tattooed with scars.
Affenstein, with his sinister and noseless visage,
and Schnappsberger, who were to be Rabenmark's
two seconds, had already assumed a sort of costume,
less defensive than the principal's, which is always
worn by the seconds. Affenstein looked into the
room, and observed that the opposite parties were
entering—upon which we made no delay, but hastened
to the scene of action.
Rabenmark and his seconds marched stoutly into
the centre of the hall, at the exact moment that
Kopp and his friends appeared from the opposite
door. Old Dummberg, who was to be umpire, was
already there, smoking his pipe with perfect composure,
and holding a bit of chalk between his
thumb and finger. As soon as the combatants
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appeared, he stooped down, and marked off with his
chalk the proper places and distances. A ring was
formed, and the five were left in the centre of a circle
of some forty or fifty spectators.
“Join your blades,” said Dummberg, in a sonorous
tone.
The two principals threw themselves on guard,
and crossed their weapons. The two seconds standing
at opposite corners, did the same, and laid their
blunt iron swords across the bright blades of the
combatants.
“The blades are joined,” said Affenstein.
There was a moment's pause.
The whole picture was peculiar, and would have
been a fit subject for Caravaggio.—The costume of
the students, (particularly the duelling-costume,)
though wild-looking and bizarre enough, as may be
supposed, is rather picturesque in its effect.
Both the combatants, and both the seconds, were
tall, well-formed young men. The two Pommeranians
wore bright red caps, with broad gold bands,
and their scarfs and sword-hilts were of the same
colours. The Westphalians wore dark green and
silver. The four had thrown themselves into warlike
postures of offence and defence, and the word
was just to be given for the commencement of the
contest.
It was after all a gladiatorial exhibition worthy
the arena of a Roman amphitheatre; and the aspect
of the spectators, with their bearded faces, singular
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dresses, tasselled pipes, and doughty clubs, was in
good accordance with the rest of the show.
“Join your blades,” repeated Dummberg.
“Joined they are,” responded Affenstein.
“Los!” roared the umpire.
In a twinkling of an eye the seconds withdrew
their swords from the conjunction, and backed to
the verge of the “mensura.”
The principals were left alone, with their swords
crossed.
For an instant they remained motionless, and
eyed each other warily, but undauntedly. Suddenly
Rabenmark raised his weapon, and making a feint
at the head of his antagonist, directed a violent
blow at his breast. It was skilfully parried by the
opposite party, who retorted with a savage “quart,”
which, if successful, would have nearly severed him
in two. The fox caught it on his sword, with a
skill which I hardly believed him capable of, and
then becoming animated, rained a succession of
violent and rapid blows, now quart, and now tierce,
upon his adversary. They were all parried with
wonderful precision and coolness, till the last, when
a tremendous “deep tierce” evidently took effect.
The seconds sprung in, and struck up the swords
of the combatants.
“A hit, — I swear it was a hit!” roared Affenstein.
“No hit, — no hit, —” cried the opposite second.
“Umpire, — umpire, — I appeal to you!” vociferated
both parties, equally inflamed.
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“I think it was a hit; but am not sure where.—
You may examine,” said Dummberg, very calmly,
without taking his pipe from his mouth.
Kopp's second now advanced, opened the bosom of
Rabenmark's shirt, and searched carefully for any
scratch or sign of the conflict. — There were none
visible. — Affenstein did the same to Kopp. It was
then discovered that the blow had really not been
parried, but had alighted, however, on the padded
leather, just below the breast. — It was of course
harmless, and passed for nothing.
“Join your blades!” said Dummberg, chalking
down one gang on the stem of the pipe he was smoking.
“Joined they are,” said the seconds.
“Los!”
Away went the seconds, and furiously the antagonists
renewed the conflict. Kopp, who, as we have
already heard, was a celebrated champion, rendered
furious at having been already so nearly wounded
by a fox, now threw himself on the offensive. I
trembled for Rabenmark, for I knew that he was
bad at parrying, and that his only chance of success
with his present adversary was in a desperate and
furious attack. He was, however, now obliged to
act on the defensive, and he stood his ground at first
very well.
Kopp followed him up with tremendous ferocity.
Now he struck half-a-dozen quarts in rapid succession, —
then an unexpected tierce would nearly
throw the fox off his guard, — and then he
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alternated all kinds of blows in the most bewildering and annoying
manner.
I perceived that the dexterity of my friend was
nearly exhausted, and expected every instant to
see him stretched upon the floor. At last, Kopp
aimed a prodigious blow at Rabenmark's head. It
came within a quarter of an inch of the frontlet of the
cap, before Rabenmark succeeded in beating it off
with a desperate and successful back-handed stroke.
The fox, now throwing himself entirely off his guard,
rushed wildly upon his adversary. He beat down
his sword before he had time to recover his posture
of defence, and with one last, violent and tremendous
effort, he struck at his adversary's head. It was unexpected,
and too late to parry; the blow alighted
full upon the cheek of the enemy. Its force was prodigious;
the Westphalian, stunned and blinded, staggered
a few paces forwards, and then his feet slipped
up, and he fell upon the floor.
The seconds sprang in.
“I suppose you will allow that to be a hit?” said
the fox, to his adversary's second.
“Little doubt of it, I am afraid,” replied he, turning
to his principal. He was bleeding profusely, and
was already quite insensible.
As it is very seldom that the wounds received in
these duels are so severe as to prevent the parties from
walking home very soon after, it will be seen at once
that this blow inflicted by Rabenmark was of more
than usual magnitude. It is very rare indeed, to see
either of the parties fall at all; but here was Kopp,
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one of the strongest and most athletic men at the
university, struck to the earth, and lying in a state
of total insensibility.
I went up, and took a look at him. The Pauk
doctor was busily sponging away the blood, and an
assistant was applying restoratives to awaken him
from his swoon. The side of the cap had been cut
through by the violence of the blow, and a deep
and ghastly wound extended from the top of the
head across the temple and the cheek. The whole
side of the face was laid open.
“He has enough for the next six weeks,” said
Rabenmark, coolly turning towards the dressingroom.
“Verfluchter Fuchs!” (cursed fox) murmured the
wounded man, reviving at the sound of his adversary's
voice for an instant, and then relapsing into
his swoon.
“I suppose you are too fatigued for Fizzelberg
now?” inquired I.
“Not a bit,” he replied. “I shall finish old Fizzelberg
at once. I have evidently swine to-day, and
don't know how it may be to-morrow. Affenstein,
go and ask him to get ready; in the meantime, I
will rest myself a little.”
He sat down by an open window to cool himself,
and in the meantime Trump Von Toggenburg and
others discussed the “paukerei” which had just
taken place.
“That's a devilish good deep tierce of yours, fox,”
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said Affenstein; “I have noticed that it is your
favourite blow.”
“I always put myself on guard in this manner,”
said Trump, seizing and brandishing one of the
schlägers; “and I always strike this quart,”' continued
he, making what he considered a very scientific
stroke in the air. That deep tierce of Rabenmark's
is dexterous, but my `quart' is irresistible. I
learned it of my grandfather. When my grandfather
was a student at —”
“Rabenmark! Fizzelberg is waiting for you!”
cried Affenstein, fortunately interrupting Trump's
biographical anecdotes.
“Very well,” answered the fox; “here goes.” And
he again entered the arena.
It was a great exaggeration of Trump's to say
that Rabenmark's present adversary was the second
best schläger in Göttingen. In fact, Trump knew
nothing about the matter; but as he was one of
that sort of people who are always for knowing
more than any one else upon every subject, he was
in the habit of venturing assertions at haphazard,
without knowing whether they were right or wrong.
In the present instance, he was totally mistaken.
Fizzelberg was neither con-senior of the Westphalians,
nor a good schläger. He was, in fact, but a
beginner in the science of defence. He was, moreover,
I perceived, considerably fluttered by the tremendous
discomfiture of his friend Kopp. He came
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up to the scratch pretty manfully, however, and
put the best face he could on the matter.
“Join your blades!”
“Joined they are.”
“Los!”
Whack! — whack! — whack!
“Hold! hold!” cried the seconds, striking up the
swords, after half-a-dozen blows and parries had
been exchanged.
“A hit!”
“No, — no.”
“Umpire?” appealed the seconds.
“Nichts,” said Dummberg, and so they went at
it again.
Whack! — whack! — whack!
Rabenmark had, on first commencing the conflict,
conducted himself rather warily. He had heard
falsely, as we know, of the high reputation of his
new antagonist, and determined that his previous
triumph over Kopp should not be thrown into the
shade by a present overthrow. He, however, soon
perceived how much he had been mistaken in the
character of Fizzelberg, and felt himself secure of
an easy victory. He accordingly contented himself
for the present with parrying his adversary's blows,
till he was roused to exertion by being nearly cut
across the face by a successful quart from his opponent.
“Tausend Teufel!” he cried, as he barely contrived
to parry it. “Take care of yourself now, Mr.
Fizzelberg!” and forthwith began to make play in
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the most vigorous manner. His adversary, however,
held his own pretty well, and parried the strokes
with tolerable success, till a back-handed tierce,
something similar in its character to the tierce
which had settled Kopp's business, although far less
violent, took him inside his guard, and hit him just
above the leather breeches.
The swords were struck up.
“A hit!”
“Yes,” said Dummberg, marking the third gang
on his pipe-stem. “Let the seconds examine.”
Rabenmark was examined by his adversary's
second, and found unscathed; while, at the same
time, Affenstein clawed up the shirt of Fizzelberg.
“Bah!” said he, “what a trifle—but sufficient to
decide the duel. It is a —, at least,” said he,
using the usual student's expression for a wound of
the requisite size and depth, but which is too coarse
to be mentioned either in German or English.
“No, it is not,” cried Fizzelberg's second.
“Umpire!”
“Let it be measured,” pronounced Dummberg.
I must here mention, for the benefit of the uninitiated,
that the simple duel of twelve “gangs,” or the
more important one of twenty-four gangs, without
any wound given or received, or before the completion
of the exact number, by the reception on either
side of a wound of a certain length and depth, and
from which the blood flows within a given time. It
is only, however, simple duels — that is to say,
duels to revenge a simple insult, such as that which
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passed between Rabenmark and his two antagonists—
which are settled in so simple and trivial a manner.
Quarrels of a serious nature are settled in a
more important manner; as, for instance, a meeting
without defensive armour, and for an indefinite number
of rounds, that is, as long as the parties can
stand on their legs. It was my lot to see, and it is
my intention to describe, a very desperate encounter
which took place some time subsequent to these
proceedings, between Rabenmark and another,
which was more serious in its nature and its effects;
but at present it is necessary for me to return to the
thread of my story.
“Let it be measured,” said Dummberg.
“Have you a measure?” asked Affenstein of the
adverse second.
“Yes; here is one,” he replied, producing a little
silver rule graduated in the minutest manner.
“Have the kindness to measure the wound, and
satisfy yourself, then,” said Affenstein. “Umpire,
look at your watch.”
Accordingly Fizzelberg's second advanced towards
his principal, and looked on while Affenstein
laid bare his breast. A ridiculous little scratch presented
itself, from which the blood had hardly begun
to flow. The second took the silver rule, and
gravely adjusted it to the wound. It was discovered
to be exactly one inch and one-tenth in length;
and as the “Comment” only required one and onetwentieth,
its size was declared sufficient.
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“But the blood — the blood, my dear Sir,” said the
second. “Mr. Dummberg, please to approach with
your watch.”
Mr. Dummberg, plucked from his fob an antediluvian
time-piece, and the seconds, the doctor, and the
spectators crowded around, with anxious and important
faces.
The scratch looked very dubious, and seemed
hardly determined whether it would bleed or not.
Just, however, as the umpire was about to declare
the time expired, a few drops rolled slowly down
from the wound.
“It suffices,” said Dummberg solemnly, and returned
the antediluvian repeater to his pocket.
“Gentlemen, the duel is at an end!”
“Psha!” said Rabenmark. “What stuff!”
“Yes,” said Fizzelberg, “what stuff.”
“Swine for you, my dear fellow,” said his second,
“that you got off so well from that ferocious fox. I
am sure I shall see him cut off some one's head
one of these days. What a tremendous `deep
tierce!”'
“What a tremendous `deep tierce,' indeed!” said
the principal, kicking off the breeches; and from
that day Fox Rabenmark was the most renowned
schläger in Göttingen.
I bade adieu to Rabenmark and the others, who
intended making a night of it at the inn, and returned
by myself to the town.
eaf284v1.n4[4] Paukerei means, in the student's slang, a duel.
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CHAPTER XI. A MYSTERY.
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It was nearly dusk when I entered the city, and
quite accidentally I passed up the same street in which
Baron Von Poodleberg lived. As I approached the
house, I remembered the occurrence of the former
evening, and began to walk slowly. Just as I reached
the door-way, exactly as on the previous occasion,
another bunch of violets fell on the pavement at my
feet.
I looked up, and at the same window I saw the
same smiling face. I was almost sure that I recognized
the features of the little Ida, but in the gathering
twilight I could not feel positive. She held her
finger to her lip for an instant, and then made a succession
of rapid gestures. It was some time before
I could perceive what she intended; but after a little
while I was certain that she was beckoning me
to ascend. “The plot thickens,” thought I; “however,
it is a very agreeable mistake after all. I hope
that infernal door is not locked. I have no inclination
to make a confidant of that booby of a servant.
To think of the little Ida nourishing a fatal passion for
me, and then rumour ascribing it all to this Mr. Von
Pappenheim.” So saying, I tried at the door; it
was not fastened, but opened to my hand. A cursed
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bell, however, which, according to the prevalent German
fashion, was fastened over the entrance, gave a
jingle, and directly afterwards a puppy began to bark
in the porter's room. I had got in, however, and it
was too late to retreat; so I made myself as small
as possible, and stuck myself in the darkest corner of
the passage at the left side of the door.
“Run, Diedrich,” said a female voice from the
porter's room, “run to the door. I heard the bell
ring—the master has come in, I suppose.”
“Nonsense, Gretel,” answered a voice, which I
recognized as that of the servant who had opened
the door for me; “the master has not been gone ten
minutes, and he was to sup at the commandant's.
He will not return before ten. Let me smoke my
pipe in peace and quietness.”
“Lazy fellow!” answered the wife. “How do
you know that it is not some visitor, or even some
robber? Well, I shall go and look into the business.”
The door of the lodge opened. Luckily there was
no light in the porter's room, or I must inevitably
have been discovered. It was, however, now pitch
dark in the passage. The porter's wife came out,
and called towards the door.
“Is there any one there?” she demanded.
I nearly threw myself into convulsions by my
efforts to resist a provoking inclination to sneeze and
cough at the same moment; which inclinations, I
have always observed, are sure to come upon one
just when they are particularly inopportune. I continued,
however, to make no noise, and the old
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woman receiving no answer, began to think herself
mistaken, and returned towards the room. As ill-luck
would have it, however, the confounded cur,
whose voice I had heard on first entering, now
thought proper to turn his attention to the subject,
and jumping out into the passage, commenced sniffling,
and whining, and poking his nose into every
corner, with an evident intention of thoroughly investigating
the whole matter.
“Come here, Blitz,—come here, little dog,” cried
the old woman.
But Blitz would not hear of such a thing. He
had already got up in the corner, and commenced
hostilities, by catching me by the leg. I could stand
it no longer; but making up my mind to be discovered,
and abide the consequences, I indulged the infernal
little beast with a kick, which sent him most
rapidly into the impenetrable darkness of the other
end of the passage.
“Hollo!—hollo!—hollo!” cried the porter.
“Ach! Herr Jesus!” cried the porter's wife.
“Blitz,—Blitz;—what the devil are you about?”
asked the porter, of his four-footed ally. Blitz made
no answer but by a deplorable whine.
The porter came out, with a lantern.
“Here's the devil to pay, to be sure,” thought I;
and as I supposed it impossible to escape, I prepared
to bluster. Luckily, however, the first thought of
the porter's wife had been to snatch up the much-injured
little Blitz, and lug him into her room,—so I
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was clear of that couple, at least, and had only to
deal with one antagonist.
Very fortunately, as the porter came along with
the lantern, he directed his attention to the right
side of the door, instead of the left, where I continued
to occupy my original position.—As he got close to
the entrance, his back was towards me.—Watching
my opportunity, I sprang upon him from behind,
knocked the lantern out of his hand, which, of
course, was extinguished in the fall, and then rolled
him over on the ground. I then, by a sudden and
lucky thought, threw the door hastily open, and
slammed it violently to, making it appear as if I
had evacuated the premises, and left them masters
of the field of battle. In the mean time, I fled rapidly
up the stair-case, which I was enabled, almost
by a miracle, to find.—As soon as I reached the first
landing, I crouched down into the obscurity, in order
to find out what would be the issue of this last
manœuvre.
“Thieves!—fire!—murder!—robbers!—rape!”
roared the porter.
“Robbers!—rape!” screamed the porter's wife,
hastening to the assistance of her husband.
As soon as she had assisted him to his legs, she
received the information, that a whole gang of robbers
had suddenly assaulted him, thrown him on the
ground, picked his pockets, and then all fled out of
the street-door. They magnanimously resolved to
follow them, and so rushed together out of the house
in pursuit of the fugitives.
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These events occupied not more than five minutes.
As soon as the coast was clear, I resolved to
ascend to the presence of my inamorata.
I ascended two flights of stairs, and found myself
in a tolerably spacious passage, lighted dimly by a
single lamp.—Presently a door was thrown slightly
ajar, and a female figure, which I knew to be Ida's,
presented itself.
“Hush!” she said, in a very low tone, as I was
preparing a speech; “Hush!—I know what you
are going to say.”
“Then you know a great deal more than I do!”
thought I, but said nothing.
As she spoke, she came forward a little way out
of the room, and caught me by the hand.—I squeezed
it affectionately, and thereupon she made no
more ado, but threw herself into my arms, and began
to weep for joy.
“Dearest,—dearest,—” she murmured, “it is so
long, that I have been dying to see you.”
“Very long, indeed,” thought I, “as I was never
within three hundred miles of you in my life, till a
week ago.”
“You must not speak a single word,” she repeated,
playfully laying her pretty little fingers on
my lips, as I prepared again to speak; “I am afraid
to trust you a moment.—I heard all the noise below,
and understood it perfectly,—that shocking little
dog of Diedrich's,—he is so annoying—One
thing is certain:—my father has gone out, and will
not return for two hours.—It is, however, so
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provoking, that I could not get rid of that old Madame
Meerschaum, in any way. There she is, snoring
away in the next room, till supper is ready.—My
voice does not interrupt her in the least, but if she
hears a strange one, she is wide awake in an instant.
So come in:—I will sit and sing to you for
an hour, and then you must be gone.—I will drop
you another bunch of violets, the next chance we
have of meeting.—How cruel of you not to come the
other day.—Ah! I forgot:—the door was locked,
and you were obliged to meet the porter!—so come
in:” and so saying, she extended me her hand, to
pilot me through the twilight into her room.
It was so evident that she was making a mistake,
and the perfect and confiding innocence of her appearance,
made it so certain to me, that she thought
herself admitting to these terms of intimacy only
one to whom she was connected by the closest bonds,
that I determined to explain myself, at all events,
and tell her who I was.
“I see that —” I began.
“Hush! — hush! — hush!—” said she, peremptorily;
“my dearest Wolf, you must really not
speak: it might cause us much embarrassment.”
“Why then the devil is in it,” thought I; “if
you will not let me speak, I certainly cannot explain.—
Well, you certainly have a talent for making
acquaintances!”—and with these thoughts in my
mind I gave her my hand, and she led me into
the room.
“I feel the troth-ring on your finger,” she
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[figure description] Page 228.[end figure description]
whispered; “mine is there too, you see, — and they shall
never leave their places till they are exchanged for
the only ones which are more sacred.”
The room was not lighted except by the expiring
embers of the fire, for she informed me that she was
afraid to have candles there, as it was only under
pretext of keeping Mrs. Meerschaum company, that
she had been allowed to remain at home. I could
accordingly only distinguish that the room was a
little boudoir, evidently Ida's own peculiar sanctuary;
and that it contained, among other things, a
harp, a piano, and a table or two covered with books
and music.
“There, Sir, you are to sit down there, and promise
not to come any nearer,” said she, placing me
on a sofa, and then throwing herself at some distance
on a low seat by the window. “And now I will
sing to you the song you begged me to learn the
other day.”
Hereupon she took up her guitar, and began to sing
a pretty German ballad. During this performance
I reflected on the singular position in which I
found myself. If I spoke, old mother Meerschaum
would awake, and little Ida be exposed; and not
only be exposed in the innocent intrigue which
she was carrying on, but be discovered in intimate
connexion with an entire stranger. It was
evident that the mistake, whatever it was, had
been made by my having been seen by Ida only in
the twilight, and by the uncertain glimmering
of a single lamp; and if I were once placed in
full light, I should be recognized at once for the
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wrong person. On the other hand, I could not
reconcile it to my conscience to take advantage of
the mistake of an unsuspecting little creature.
Moreover, it was disagreeable to me to reflect, that I
might at any moment be discovered, before I had
time to discover myself, and so be upbraided for an
impostor and deceiver. On the whole, I concluded
to remain quiet for the present, and retire as soon as
she was willing to release me; and determined to
convey to her next morning a letter explaining the
mistake she had made, and my innocent imposture.
When she had concluded her ballad, she said, “I
know the song you are going to ask for, so don't say
a word, and you shall have it; but stay, I must first
look into the next room, and see what Mrs. Meerschaum
is doing. Wait one instant, I shall return
directly.” And with this she slipped into the adjoining
chamber.
When she was gone, I began to look about me.
I suddenly seized the determination to disappear
before she returned. I got up, and walked about the
room. I hesitated a little, for I was anxious in spite
of myself, to enjoy a little more of her charming
society. In the mean time I walked up, as I thought,
to a full-length mirror, and surveyed myself in the
dim twilight with complacency. I began to fondle
and arrange my moustachios, (at that period the
objects of my tenderest solicitude,) and thinking the
mirror rather dim, I reached out my hand to brush
off the dust. In so doing, I found myself unexpectedly
pulling the nose of a gentleman who stood in
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the doorway, and whose wonderful resemblance to
myself in air, height, figure, and costume, was so
striking, that I had actually taken the open door-way,
with his figure in the centre, for a large mirror
with my own reflection.
“Well,” thought I, hurriedly, “if the resemblance
is strong enough to deceive me, no wonder that poor
little Ida should have made this mistake in the twilight.”
It was no time, however, for deliberation.
A rapid reflection passed through my mind that I
had got into a scrape, and that I had better get out of it
in a most summary manner. I felt how unable I was
to account satisfactorily for my presence, and that my
staying would not help to clear up the inevitable quarrel
between Ida and her lover. Right or wrong, it was
necessary to act promptly; so I determined to knock
down my new acquaintance, and make the best of
my way out of the house. These thoughts passed
like lightning through my mind, and the execution
was almost as rapid. I floored the gentleman without
the least difficulty, for taken altogether by surprise,
he offered hardly any resistance, and then
jumping over his prostrate body, I rushed down the
stairs like a whirlwind.
I reached the street-door in an instant. Judge of
my dismay when I found it locked, and no key in
the door.
“Damnation!” I muttered in excellent English.
“What am I to do now?” I shall inevitably be
discovered, and thrown into a common jail as a thief
and a housebreaker. Very delightful prospect
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certainly! O, Ida Poodleberg!—Ida Poodleberg!—
into what a devil of a scrape have you got yourself
and me!”
In the first ebullition of my rage, I resolved to
rush into the porter's lodge, where I could still distinguish
the voices of my late antagonists, strangle
Diedrich, his wife, and the poodle —find the key to
the door, or, if I was unsuccessful, set fire to the
house, and make my escape in the general confusion.
Luckily, however, I hesitated a little to put these
desperate measures into execution, and presently
after a carriage drove up to the door.
“Run, Diedrich, man—run and open the door;
I hear the Professor's carriage,” said the portress;
and presently the porter made his appearance again
with a lantern. I gnashed my teeth in utter despair,
and gave vent to my mingled feeling of rage, disappointment,
and withal my sense of the ridiculous
absurdity of the whole affair, in a horrid and unearthly
sort of laugh.
“Ach—Herr Jesus!” shrieked the appalled porter,
letting both lantern and house-key drop from his
hand, and rushing back to his room as fast as possible.
I hastened to take advantage of this lucky catastrophe,
groped for the key, found it, fortunately, in
an instant, opened the door, and danced out, half
beside myself with joy at my final liberation.
I left old Poodleberg waiting patiently in the carriage,
and fled hastily towards my own lodgings.
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CHAPTER XII. MY FRIEND THE EXECUTIONER.
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A day or two after this, I went with Lackland to
buy a dog. He informed me that he had recently
seen one of a particularly fine Danish breed, which
he wished to purchase, and had been told that there
was a litter of puppies of the same sort at a dogmerchant's
not far from the town. After passing a
village about half a mile off, we came upon a comparatively
solitary and deserted path. We proceeded
along this road for about half a mile farther,
without seeing a single habitation of any kind; but
at last descried, at a few yards' distance from the
road, a solitary house.
It was a long, low, scrambling kind of building,
filled in with brick, and covered with a dingy plaster,
with a large stork's nest placed majestically upon
the red-tiled roof.
There were no trees or plantations of any kind in
the neighborhood, and the whole household had a
careless, untidy look.
As we came to a wicker gate by which the path
leading up to the house was separated from the road,
we were saluted by the baying of innumerable dogs.
As we advanced, we discovered that there were a
series of kennels placed at about a hundred yards
from the house, and extending in a circle entirely
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around it. The yard and all the intermediate space
was filled with skeletons of horses, skulls of cows,
and a miscellaneous and grotesque collection of
thigh bones, ribs, and shin pieces.
The dogs were all carefully secured in their
kennels, which was, as Dummberg would have
expressed himself, “devilish swine for us;” for to
judge by their savage looks, and ominous growling,
we should otherwise have been made dog's meat of
with great celerity.
A rough, red-headed, scarecrow of a boy, with
half a pair of breeches, and no shirt, was seated on
the ground, amusing himself with shying pebbles at
a savage-looking dog, confined in one of the kennels.
“Where's the skinner?” demanded Lackland of
this worthy.
“Who knows?” answered the ragamuffin, with
a stupid stare.
“You know or ought to know, you black-guard,”
replied Lackland.
The boy sulked and said nothing. Lackland
gave him a four groschen-piece, and repeated his
inquiry.
“Well; the father told me to say he was gone
out; but he is in the house I know, — he is tired,
and is now refreshing himself with a game of cards
with Crooked Skamp, the undertaker.”
“Why is he tired so particularly to-day, that he
cannot receive visitors?”
“O! he has been hard at work to day,” answered
the boy.
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“Whose cow is dead?—whose donkey has been
skinned?— whose cart-horse has foundered?” asked
Lackland.
“Oh! none of such every-day work. But Teufel
and Hanswurst, were executed to day.”
“And who are Teufel and Hanswurst?”
“Why, don't you know?” The fellows who
killed the old gentlewoman in the Hartz, and stole
her fifty rix-dollars. To-day they were executed.”
And hereupon the boy began to cry bitterly.
“What are you blubbering about? Were these
gentlemen relations of yours?”
“O no,—not that,—not that.”
“What are you howling for then? Out of general
benevolence, I suppose?”
“What did your excellency observe?” asked the
urchin, evidently not comprehending the meaning
of general benevolence.
“I say, I suppose you are crying because these
criminals were your fellow-creatures? But no matter;
remember that they deserved their fate.”
“No; but the father said last year, that if I was
diligent, and practised sufficiently, I should have a
go at Hanswurst and Teufel myself. I worked as
hard as I could, and cut off the strawman's head
sometimes a dozen times in a morning, and yesterday
I was all expectation that my father would say,
`Gottlob, thou hast been a good youth, — thou shalt
be rewarded, — take my sword, go out and cut off
Hanswurst's head, and be an honour to your family.'
But instead of that, he only said, `Gottlob, you lazy
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beast, stay at home, and take the skin off Branmeier's
two oxen that died this morning.' To think
that I am sixteen years old, and have cut off nobody's
head yet.” And here the boy wept and
roared again wofully.
“Hold your tongue, you lubber, and go in and tell
your father that Mr. Lackland is here about the dog
he spoke of yesterday,” said my companion.
“In God's name, Lackland,” said I, as the boy
went into the house, “into whose respectable dwelling
have you introduced me?”
“This—why this is my particular friend, the
skinner, or executioner, or dog-merchant, which ever
suits you the best, for he combines these three interesting
professions. I had forgotten there was an
execution to-day, or I should not have intruded upon
him; but as we are here, we may as well settle our
business.”
“Why do you call him the skinner?” I asked.
“Because he is a skinner. If the cow, or the ox,
or the ass of a peasant die on his farm, he would
sooner die than flay him himself. He considers it
as great a sacrilege as if he were to skin his own
father. He sends him off at once to the executioner,
and consequently the flaying of dead cattle has
become almost as great a branch of his business, as
chopping off criminals' heads.”
“Is the disrepute of the executioner as great as it
was in the middle ages?”
“No; it has become rather a joke than any thing
else. It is seldom, however, that a peasant visits
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sociably, and sits down in the house of the executioner.
It is very seldom that he will ring glasses
with him in drinking; but this is pretty much all
that remains of the old superstition.”
“The office is still hereditary?”
“Oh, yes. The interesting young gentleman
whom you have just seen, is the first born and eldest
hope of the present executioner, and you saw yourself
how anxious he is to tread in the footsteps of
his father.”
“Here Gottlob appeared, and told us we might
walk in. We walked through the kitchen, and came
into a long low room, which seemed to be the principal
if not the only sitting apartment in the house.
It was decent enough in appearance, and less untidy
than I expected. A glazed stove covered with blue
tiles, was at one end, and an old-fashioned clock at
the other. The floor was sanded, of course, and a
long unpainted table was in the centre, upon which
were a jug of beer, and two or three long glasses of
some kind of “schnapps.” Half-a-dozen crockery
pipes, very dirty, and of the most ordinary description,
stood in one corner of the room, and a fowling-piece,
and a two-handed sword, were in another. Two
men were seated at a table, earnestly engaged at the
game of Landsknecht. One was dealing from a
particularly dirty pack of cards, while the other was
raking together, and counting a pile of small silver
coin.
“Knave and lady!—knave and lady!—knave
and lady!” cried the skinner, who was dealing.
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He was a tall stout man, with a red head, like
his son's, and a broad, jolly, good-humoured face.
He was decently dressed, in a brown hollands blouse,
fastened round his waist with a leathern girdle, and
on his legs was a pair of leather spatterdashes.
“Knave and lady—knave and lady!” continued
he, telling out the cards, one after another,—“Knave
for you—lady for me. Come, madam—come dear
little lady—lady! Psha—a cursed knave! Skamp,
you win—deal the cards,” he concluded, pushing
over his money, and skimming the cards towards
his antagonist.
“How d'ye do, Skinner?—how d'ye do, Skamp,
old fellow?” cried Lackland, advancing.
“Ah, Count Lackland,” said the excutioner, rising
politely. “This is an unexpected honour;”
and so saying, he dusted a chair for each of us, and
begged us to be seated.
“I am afraid I have intruded upon you rather
unseasonably,” said Sansterre. “I was not aware,
till Gottlob told me, that you had been engaged this
morning.”
“Oh, a trifle, your excellency—a perfect trifle.
The two subjects I had this morning the pleasure of
operating upon, gave me no manner of trouble.
They were as gentle as lambs—quiet as kittens.
They sat down, side by side in the execution chairs,
with such docility, that it was a perfect pleasure to
behold them. They conducted themselves with
such perfect propriety, that I really felt proud of them.
I am not the least fatigued. But as I always make
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a holiday on these occasions, I invited Mr. Skamp,
who was, of course, present in his official capacity,
to accompany me home, and talk over the whole
business over a pipe of good Kanaster.”
Hereupon “crooked Skamp, the coffin-maker,”
as Gottlob had denominated him, arose, and with a
bland smile, “hoped that his presence would not
interfere with our business; if so, he would immediately
withdraw.”
He was a singular-looking individual, this Mr.
Skamp, and I suspected immediately what the reader
will soon find to be the case, that his vocation had
not always been the grave and peaceable one of village
undertaker.
He was a square-shouldered, broad-chested, powerful-looking
man, with a head and bust resembling
those of the Farnese Hercules. His hair and beard
were jet-black, luxuriant and curling. His ready
smile exposed a set of teeth, as strong and white as
the tusks of a blood-hound. The great blemish, however,
to his personal appearance were his legs, which
were short and stumpy, and were, moreover, bowed
outwards to such a preposterous extent, that they
had not unjustly obtained for him the appellation of
“crooked,” which we have noted. Altogether,
however, his figure was remarkably strong and athletic,
and together with his pleasant smile, and the
merry leer of his little black eyes, consorted but oddly
with the melancholy habiliments in which, conformably
to the customs of his profession, he had arrayed
himself.
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He wore, namely, a long black fustian tunic,
reaching to his knees, and fastened round his loins
with a scarf of black crape; while black woollen
small-clothes, and black worsted stockings, set off the
peculiar beauties of his nether limbs. Shoes, with
with large black buckles, were on his feet, and a
small three-cornered hat of black beaver, with a broad
crape banner waving and weeping from one of the
ends, decorated his head. On his neck, lastly, he
made an ostentatious display of a coarse linen neckcloth,
which he evidently mistook for white.
“Never like to intrude,” continued this worthy;
“it ill becomes a man of my cloth. I have but little
concern with the secular affairs of this life. My
thoughts are always bent on grave subjects,” said
he, draining off one of the glasses of Schnapps, and
bagging the proceeds of his game by way of demonstration.
“Have you all your life been in this reverend and
cheerful line of business?” asked I, of Skamp, who,
during an earnest conversation which had commenced
between my friend and the executioner, had
very courteously seated himself near me, with an
evident intention of doing me the honours of the
house.
“Ever since I retired from the vanities of this
world, which has not been long, by the way,” replied
the coffin-maker. “My biography, however,
is rather too long and complicated a subject to begin
upon just now; but if you will allow me to bring
you next week a particularly fine haunch of
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venison, which I can supply you with at a more moderate
price than any butcher, I will relate to you some
passages in my life, which, perhaps, may prove to
you amusing and instructive. You need not be
surprised that I have conceived this sudden friendship
for you. I have long known you by reputation,
and, moreover, I have the greatest respect and
admiration for all Englishmen.”
“But pray inform me, if it is usual for undertakers
in Germany to unite the trade of butcher to their
own respectable professions?” I asked.
“Oh, no, sir. Do not suppose it is I who will
provide your venison. I have a son, sir, who is the
pride of my heart, and he is as sure, though I say it,
with his rifle, as any lad in the Electorate. He has
rendered himself such a favourite with several of the
neighbouring noblemen, by his dexterous shooting,
and his pleasant and respectful deportment, that he
is allowed the privilege of shooting over their manors
as much as he chooses.”
“Hum—allows himself,” thought I. “I have
heard of a fellow called poaching Skamp, who has
been punished half-a-dozen times for deer-stealing.
It must be the hopeful son of my friend here.—Any
time,” said I, aloud, “that you have a spare haunch
at your disposal, I shall be glad of it. I am very
glad that your son is such a favourite.”
“You have a taste in lace,” continued Skamp,
looking at my ruffles. “If you are willing to provide
yourself with as nice an article as can be had
in Germany, it is fortunately in my power to
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supply your wants;” and so saying, this extraordinary
undertaker plucked from his bosom a small roll of
the most exquisite Flemish lace.
“Your son is a lace-maker too, I suppose?” said I.
“Pardon me, your excellency. Although my second
son is serviceable in the way of peddling my
lace when it is made, yet neither Hermann nor
Adolph is employed in the manufacture. No, sir,
that lace is the fruit of the industry of my amiable
wife and three dutiful daughters,” said the coffin-maker,
sentimentally.
“It looks as beautiful as any that ever came from
Brussels,” said I, buying enough for a pair of ruffles.
“The price?”
“Ten Louis d'ors a-yard. It has, indeed, a resemblance
to the Brussels; but my wife and daughters
are careful to collect and copy from the best
Flemish models.”
“Yes: and to copy the best Flemish prices,” said
I, unwillingly forking out the money.
In the meantime Lackland and the executioner
had gone out into the yard to discuss the subject of
dogs more at their ease, and I proposed to follow
them. We were preparing to go out, when a slight
tap was heard at a door, that was almost concealed
in an obscure part of the room. Presently afterwards,
an individual, in a slouched hat and cloak,
presented himself, crying out, eagerly:—
“Skamp!—my best Skamp!—sweet Skamp!—
angel Skamp!—the jewelry is all safe and snug,
and we—Holy father Abraham! whom have we
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here?” concluded the stranger, hastily muffling himself
in his cloak, and pulling his hat over his face.
It was too late, however, for I had recognized
both the features and the accents of the Jew banker,
Potiphar, the father of Trump's Judith. I forbore,
however, of course, to manifest any signs of recognition,
and the Jew evidently flattered himself that
he had not been discovered. A moment after, Skamp
begged me, in the most confidential manner, to
withdraw for a moment, as he had particular business
with this gentleman.
“I will join you, presently, in the yard,” he
added.
As I entered the yard, the skinner came up to
me, leaving Lackland and Gottlob engaged with the
dogs.
“The horse-skull, and the two skeletons, will be
quite ready for you at the time you bespoke them
for,” said he to me.
“Horse-skull!—skeletons!” said I, in amazement;
“what upon earth do you mean, Mr. Skinner?”
“You know you wanted them for your uncle, in
Prague,” he replied.
“My uncle in Prague!—I have no uncle in
Prague.—I have but one uncle in the world, and
he is in America!”
“Why, sir, you do not mean seriously to deny
that you were here last Friday, and begged me to
select the best horse-skull, and the two best skeletons
of asses, I could find, as you wished to send them a
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present to your uncle, who, you said, was the greatest
naturalist in Bohemia.—I don't care so much
for the trouble I have been put to; but I don't care
to be made game of in this sort of way.”
But here the impending quarrel with my formidable
antagonist was averted by the appearance of a
new personage on the scene.
This stranger brought with him a solution of the
little mystery which had occupied me for the last
few days, and that in the simplest manner.
As he advanced, the skinner looked surprised,
puzzled, and then half-frightened; and I rubbed
my eyes in absolute bewilderment, not knowing
whether or no I was to believe the evidence of my
senses.
It was, however, after all, only a natural phenomenon:
a person, namely, who was the exact and
perfect counterpart of myself, in face, figure, gait,
and address. It was probably the suggestion of my
vanity, but I remember I could not help thinking,
at the time, that he was a particularly well-looking
young man; and I have half a mind to describe
him minutely, that the reader may likewise be of
my opinion. On the whole, however, I believe all
my friends must take my word for it, both with regard
to Pappenheim, (for it was he,) and myself.
Although it created much wonder, and sometimes
much merriment, it was not a very remarkable phenomenon.
When it is recollected, that the only
persons who were ever entirely deceived, were Ida
Von Poodleberg, and the executioner, it will lessen
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any extraordinary wonder that might have been
created by the occurrence.
The executioner had seen Pappenheim but once,
and was consequently not likely to note the appearance
of his guest so accurately, but that he might
have been easily deceived by a much less striking
resemblance. As for Ida, it must be borne in mind,
that she had been only deceived by my appearance at
a distance, in the street, and at dusk; and that
when we were in the house together, we were almost
in total darkness. The reader may remember, that
at Frau Von Rumplestern's conversazione, she had
merely been struck by the singular resemblance,
and with a passing comment had dismissed the subject;
and that at both our memorable interviews in
the street, it happened to be exactly that sort of incipient
twilight, which is more deceiving than any
other kind of light. Besides this, it was only our
walking-dresses that corresponded so exactly,—the
evening costume was different.
Pappenheim, as he advanced, seemed also bewildered
by my appearance. Various emotions
were visible in his countenance, as he advanced,
and at last anger seemed to predominate.
He advanced rapidly, and prepared to address me.
“Stop, sir!” said I, “there has been a mistake;
but no harm done. Let me tell you every thing in
three words, and if you are not satisfied, then, it is
for you to decide upon any other mode of satisfaction
you choose.”
I then took him aside, and told him the whole
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story from beginning to end; showed how anxious
I had been to explain to Ida her mistake, and how
I had been prevented; and assured him I had been
on the point of flying from my dangerous position,
on that adventurous evening, at the very moment
when I had encountered, and been obliged to assault
him.
He seemed convinced, at last, and after a little
hesitation, made up his mind to laugh at the whole
affair. He held out his hand:—
“It is certainly a ridiculous affair altogether,”
said he, “and the best way for me to avoid being
laughed at, is for me to keep my own secret, in
which I am sure you will assist me. The honourable
manner in which you have acted, throughout
this affair, makes me think we shall be excellent
friends, and I dare say we shall neither of us regret
our singular acquaintance.”
With this, my new acquaintance made me a polite
bow, and begged to know my address. I gave
it him, assuring him of my reciprocal and ardent desire
of doing the same thing, and he gave me in return
his own, on which was engraved, “Oscar Von
Pappenheim.” He then observed that he was somewhat
hurried at present and must beg me to excuse
him, but that he should have the pleasure of meeting
me at Baron Poodleberg's supper that evening.
With that he hastened off, and began his conference
with the executioner, touching his uncle's skeletons.
As Lackland had completed his purchase, and as
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I saw no opportunity of renewing my conversation
with the coffin-maker, we returned to town.
As we went along, I mentioned to Lackland this
singular conversation with Skamp, and particularly
the industrious and productive habits of his wife and
family.
“He is certainly an extraordinary fellow, that
Skamp,” said Lackland, “and I should like to be
acquainted with the whole of his real history. Besides
being a coffin-maker and undertaker, he is the
most desperate smuggler and poacher in all Germany;
and yet so cunning a rascal, that he is
never discovered. You have heard that he offers to
supply you with venison and lace?”
“Yes,” said I; “but his son is to shoot the one,
and his wife and daughters to work the other.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Lackland, “what a
lying rascal! He certainly is the most extraordinary
fellow. His wife! he never had a wife in his
life. Sons and daughters he may have in plenty,
I dare say, but none that he knows any thing of, or
who acknowledge, or who are acknowledged by him.
The venison he steals himself, and the lace he smuggles,
with a thousand other things, from all countries
in the world.”
“What do you think this Jew Potiphar, (for I
am sure it was he that came into the room in a cloak
and slouched hat,) was in search of?”
“Excellent! capital!” shouted Lackland. “I
am glad you saw him. We shall have sport out of
this yet. Why, Morton, I know enough of that old
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Hebrew scoundrel to hang him. But be quiet; let
us keep it to ourselves for the present. We shall
have rare sport, and by the way, I think we may
devise a plan to assist Trump Von Toggenburg,
`Count of the Holy Roman Empire,' (as he calls
himself,) in his wooing.”
“But here we are at our rooms,—au revoir. We
meet, I believe, at Poodleberg's.”
END OF VOL. I.
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Motley, John Lothrop, 1814-1877 [1839], Morton's hope, or, The memoirs of a provincial, volume 1 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf284v1].
