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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

[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

[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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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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“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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“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.

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