The Commandant Von Wallenstein gave his periodical
ball. He was, as I have said, a stern, grave man, and
interested himself but little in matters of society. His
position, however, rendered it necessary for him to entertain
occasionally, and he therefore had been in the habit
of setting aside a certain evening, in each half-year,
when the whole of Göttingen were invited.

This party was called a “dancing-tea,” (or thé dansant,”
in the French, which was of course affected by

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the fashionables there, as every where,) because they
drank tea, and danced; in opposition to the “aesthetic
tea” of Frau Von Rumplestern, and others, where they
drank tea, and talked aesthetics.

And they did dance with a vengeance! I hardly know
why people have a fancy for calling the Germans dull!
Certainly, as far as my experience goes, they are all,
high and low, rich and poor, noble and simple, among
the gayest, the most enthusiastic, and the most mercurial
of the nations of earth. As for dancing, it always
seems to me that no other people dance at all.

A German ball, in a provincial town, is the only party
I have ever seen, where people apparently meet for the
sake of dancing, and for that alone.

I went at six in the evening, being determined to see
the whole ceremony, and found a large company already
assembled. The guests were received by the Commandant,
and his daughter, the Countess Bertha, in a small
boudoir, which communicated with a dancing-saloon of
noble dimensions, into which they were immediately
afterwards ushered.

Bertha was beautiful that night;—she was a perfect
incarnation of Germany,—the blonde, blue-eyed, fair-haired
Germany. She was in white; but a dark chaplet
of oak-leaves, and red ivy berries, contrasted finely
with her sunny tresses, and with the exquisite whiteness
of her skin.

Her father was in full uniform, with a bunch of orders
dangling at his breast.

I made my bow to her on entering, and her wandering
eyes lighted up with an emotion of pleasure. “I
am so glad to see you,” she cried, “for I know you are
an intimate friend of —” and here she blushed and

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faltered a little,—“of my father's,” concluded she, with a
laugh, and turning me over to the Commandant.

“Otto will be here soon,” I whispered; “I left him
an hour ago.”

“I am afraid to ask you how he was employed,—at little
of good, I fear. Alas, poor Otto!—why must his glorious
genius, his bravery, his wit, his accomplishments,
be thus thrown away?—why must the materials of a
hero thus prematurely evaporate into the vapid and uncertain
smoke, which is a student's existence?”

“These very metaphysical questions, gracious Fraulein,”
I replied, “have but one answer. I would make
that answer,—but here comes one more qualified.” And
as Otto Von Rabenmark made his bow, I made my exit
into the dancing-room.

There was an immense circle of dancers, which reached
entirely round the saloon;—nearly all the company
present were upon the floor. A few remained on the
seats that were ranged round the wall, but they were
apparently the lame, the halt, and the blind. All the
able-bodied, from sixteen to ninety-six, were divided into
couples, and standing at their posts.

A band of music was stationed in the gallery, and a
glorious overture of Mozart's rose and floated through the
vaulted saloon. Ah! Germany is indeed the Paradise of
Music, and with that luxury in unbounded and endless
profusion, what other earthly dainty is there that we
may not forego? I felt the influence of those god-like
strains upon every fibre of my soul. All present felt it,
and were happy, they knew not why. Those glorious
harmonies swept like a south wind of music over every
human bosom, and caused the hearts of all to dance and
flutter, and vibrate and sigh, like linden-leaves in the
passing breeze.

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'Twas finished!—those sweet and solemn strains
were hushed; and ere the last dying cadence had melted
in the air, the music of a mirthful and bewildering
waltz whirled from its fainting echoes, and circled round
the room in rapid eddies of heart-inspiring melody. All
were drawn at once into the vortex, and glided round the
hall, responsive to the merry measure.

What music is so gladdening, so intoxicating, as a
German waltz played by a German band? My heels
flew up incontinently, and I looked round for a partner.
They were all engaged, except a woman with one leg,
and another who was blind. Madame de Rumpelstern
was there, to be sure; but as I knew she was eighty,
she was, of course, not to be thought of. I went up to
her, however, to beg her advice and influence in securing
a partner, when suddenly a tall student danced out of the
crowd, and flung his arms round her waist. The amiable
octagenarian, nothing loth, abandoned herself to his
guidance, and after waiting a few seconds for an opening
in the whirlpool, away they span, “like two cockchafers
spitted on one pin.”

After this I could not deny that Germany was the
land of dancing as well as of music, and I determined to
ask the lady with the cork leg. She was afraid to venture,
however with a partner she was not used to; and
as I found the blind woman was deaf into the bargain,
and could not hear a word of my invitation, I gave up the
point altogether.

I wandered into an adjoining room and found several
old gentlemen playing whist. Poodleberg was there
explaining his orders; Harlem was eating an ice, and
the Commandant and Professor Noodleberg were playing
ecarté. There was nothing for me to do but be a spectator.

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