CHAPTER XVII.

LA ROCHELLE.

La Rochelle is a quiet little town at the bottom of a small bay, the

mouth of which is almost closed up by two islands. There is a sleepy,

peaceful air about the place--a sort of drowsy languor pervades every

thing and every body about it, that tells of a town whose days of busy

prosperity have long since passed by, and which is dragging out life,

like some retired tradesman--too poor for splendor, but rich enough to

be idle. A long avenue of lime-trees incloses the harbor; and here the

merchants conduct their bargains, while their wives, seated beneath the

shade, discuss the gossip of the place over their work. All is

patriarchal and primitive as Holland itself; the very courtesies of life

exhibiting that ponderous stateliness which insensibly reminds one of

the land of dykes and broad breeches. It is the least "French" of any

town I have ever seen in France; none of that light merriment, that gay

volatility of voice and air which form the usual atmosphere of a French

town. All is still, orderly, and sombre; and yet on the night in

which--something more than fifty years back--I first entered it, a very

different scene was presented to my eyes.

It was about ten o'clock; and by a moon nearly full, the diligence

rattled along the covered ways of the old fortress, and crossing many a

moat and draw-bridge, the scenes of a once glorious struggle, entered

the narrow streets, traversed a wide place, and drew up within the ample

portals of "La Poste."

Before I could remove the wide capote which I wore, the waiter ushered

me into a large salôn where a party of about forty persons were seated

at supper. With a few exceptions they were all military officers, and

sous-officiers of the expedition, whose noisy gayety and boisterous

mirth sufficiently attested that the entertainment had begun a

considerable time before.

A profusion of bottles, some empty, others in the way to become so,

covered the table, amidst which lay the fragments of a common

table-d'hôte supper--large dishes of segars and basins of tobacco

figuring beside the omelettes and the salad.

The noise, the crash, the heat, the smoke, and the confusion--the

clinking of glasses, the singing, and the speech-making, made a scene of

such turmoil and uproar, that I would gladly have retired to some

quieter atmosphere, when suddenly an accidental glimpse of my uniform

caught some eyes among the revelers, and a shout was raised of "Holloa,

comrades! here's one of the 'Gardes' among us." And at once the whole

assembly rose up to greet me. For full ten minutes I had to submit to a

series of salutations, which led to every form, from hand-shaking and

embracing to kissing; while, perfectly unconscious of any cause for my

popularity, I went through the ceremonies like one in a dream.

"Where's Kilmaine?" "What of Hardy?" "Is Grouchy coming?" "Can the Brest

fleet sail?" "How many line-of-battle ships have they?" "What's the

artillery force?" "Have you brought any money?" This last question, the

most frequent of all, was suddenly poured in upon me, and with a

fortunate degree of rapidity, that I had no time for a reply, had I even

the means of making one.

"Let the lad have a seat and a glass of wine before he submits to this

interrogatory," said a fine, jolly-looking old chef-d'escadron at the

head of the table, while he made a place for me at his side. "Now, tell

us, boy, what number of the Gardes are to be of our party?"

I looked a little blank at the question, for in truth I had not heard of

the corps before, nor was I aware that it was their uniform I was then

wearing.

"Come, come, be frank with us, lad," said he; "we are all comrades here.

Confound secrecy, say I."

"Ay, ay!" cried the whole assembly together--"confound secrecy. We are

not bandits nor highwaymen; we have no need of concealment."

"I'll be as frank as you can wish, comrades," said I; "and if I lose

some importance in your eyes by owning that I am not the master of a

single state secret, I prefer to tell you so, to attempting any unworthy

disguise. I come here, by orders from General Kilmaine, to join your

expedition; and except this letter for General Humbert, I have no claim

to any consideration whatever."

The old chef took the letter from my hands and examined the seal and

superscription carefully, and then passed the document down the table

for the satisfaction of the rest.

While I continued to watch with anxious eyes the letter on which so much

of my own fate depended, a low whispering conversation went on at my

side, at the end of which the chef said:

"It's more than likely, lad, that your regiment is not coming; but our

general is not to be balked for that. Go he will; and let the government

look to themselves if he is not supported. At all events, you had better

see General Humbert at once; there's no saying what that dispatch may

contain. Santerre, conduct him up stairs."

A smart young fellow arose at the bidding, and beckoned me to follow

him.

It was not without difficulty that we forced our way up stairs, down

which porters, and sailors, and soldiers were now carrying a number of

heavy trunks and packing-cases. At last we gained an ante-room, where

confusion seemed at its highest, crowded as it was by soldiers, the

greater number of them intoxicated, and all in a state of riotous and

insolent insubordination. Among these were a number of the townspeople,

eager to prefer complaints for outrage and robbery, but whose subdued

voices were drowned amid the clamor of their oppressors. Meanwhile,

clerks were writing away receipts for stolen and pillaged articles, and

which, signed with the name of the general, were grasped at with eager

avidity. Even personal injuries were requited in the same cheap fashion,

orders on the national treasury being freely issued for damaged noses

and smashed heads, and gratefully received by the confiding populace.

"If the wind draws a little more to the southward before morning, we'll

pay our debts with the top-sail sheet, and it will be somewhat shorter,

and to the full as honest," said a man in a naval uniform.

"Where's the officer of the 'Regiment des Guides,'" cried a soldier from

the door at the further end of the room; and before I had time to think

over the designation of rank given me, I was hurried into the general's

presence.

General Humbert, whose age might have been thirty-eight or forty, was a

tall, well-built, but somewhat over-corpulent man; his features frank

and manly, but with a dash of coarseness in their expression,

particularly about the mouth; a sabre-cut, which had divided the upper

lip, and whose cicatrix was then seen through his mustache, heightening

the effect of his sinister look; his carriage was singularly erect and

soldierlike, but all his gestures betrayed the habits of one who had

risen from the ranks, and was not unwilling to revive the recollection.

He was parading the room from end to end when I entered, stopping

occasionally to look out from an open window upon the bay, where by the

clear moonlight might be seen the ships of the fleet at anchor. Two

officers of his staff were writing busily at a table, whence the

materials of a supper had not been removed. They did not look up as I

came forward, nor did he notice me in any way for several minutes.

Suddenly he turned toward me, and snatching the letter I held in my

hand, proceeded to read it. A burst of coarse laughter broke from him as

he perused the lines; and then throwing down the paper on the table, he

cried out,

"So much for Kilmaine's contingent. I asked for a company of engineers

and a battalion of 'les Gardes,' and they send me a boy from the

cavalry-school of Saumur. I tell them that I want some fellows

conversant with the language and the people, able to treat with the

peasantry, and acquainted with their habits, and here I have got a raw

youth whose highest acquirement, in all likelihood, is to daub a map

with water-colors, or take fortifications with a pair of compasses! I

wish I had some of these learned gentlemen in the trenches for a few

hours. Parbleu! I think I could teach them something they'd not learn

from Citizen Carnot. Well, sir," said he, turning abruptly toward me,

"how many battalions of the 'Guides' are completed?"

"I can not tell, general," was my timid answer.

"Where are they stationed?"

"Of that also I am ignorant, sir."

"Peste!" cried he, stamping his foot passionately; then suddenly

checking his anger, he asked, "How many are there coming to join this

expedition? Is there a regiment, a battalion, a company? Can you tell me

with certainty that a sergeant's guard is on the way hither?"

"I can not, sir; I know nothing whatever about the regiment in

question."

"You have never seen it?" cried he, vehemently.

"Never, sir."

"This exceeds all belief," exclaimed he, with a crash of his closed fist

upon the table. "Three weeks letter-writing! Estafettes, orderlies, and

special couriers to no end! And here we have an unfledged cur from a

cavalry institute, when I asked for a strong reinforcement. Then what

brought you here, boy?"

"To join your expedition, general."

"Have they told you it was a holiday-party that we had planned? Did they

say it was a junketing we were bent upon?"

"If they had, sir, I would not have come."

"The greater fool _you_, then! that's all," cried he, laughing; "when I

was your age, I'd not have hesitated twice between a merry-making and a

bayonet-charge."

While he was thus speaking, he never ceased to sign his name to every

paper placed before him by one or other of the secretaries.

"No, parbleu!" he went on, "La maitresse before the mitraille any day

for me. But what's all this, Girard. Here I'm issuing orders upon the

national treasury for hundreds of thousands without let or compunction."

The aid-de-camp whispered a word or two in a low tone.

"I know it, lad; I know it well," said the general, laughing heartily;

"I only pray that all our requisitions may be as easily obtained in

future. Well, Monsieur le Garde, what are we to do with you."

"Not refuse me, I hope, general," said I, diffidently.

"Not refuse you, certainly; but in what capacity to take you, lad,

that's the question. If you had served--if you had even walked a

campaign--"

"So I have, general--this will show you where I have been;" and I handed

him the "livret" which every soldier carries of his conduct and career.

He took the book, and casting his eyes hastily over it, exclaimed,

"Why, what's this lad? You've been at Kehl, at Emenendingen, at

Rorshach, at Huyningen, through all that Black Forest affair with

Moreau! You _have_ seen smoke, then. Ay! I see honorable mention of you

besides, for readiness in the field and zeal during action. What! more

brandy! Girard. Why, our Irish friends must have been exceedingly

thirsty. I've given them credit for something like ten thousand 'velts'

already! No matter, the poor fellows may have to put up with short

rations for all this yet--and there goes my signature once more. What

does that blue light mean, Girard?" said he, pointing to a bright blue

star that shone from a mast of one of the ships of war.

"That is the signal, general, that the embarkation of the artillery is

complete."

"Parbleu!" said he, with a laugh, "it need not have taken long; they've

given in two batteries of eights, and one of them has not a gun fit for

service. There goes a rocket, now. Isn't that the signal to heave short

on the anchors? Yes, to be sure. And now it is answered by the other!

Ha! lads, this does look like business at last!"

The door opened as he spoke, and a naval officer entered.

"The wind is drawing round to the south, general; we can weigh with the

ebb if you wish it."

"Wish it!--if I wish it! Yes, with my whole heart and soul I do! I am

just as sick of La Rochelle as is La Rochelle of me. The salute that

announces our departure will be a 'feu-de-joie' to both of us. Ay, sir,

tell your captain that I need no further notice than that _he_ is ready.

Girard, see to it that the marauders are sent on board in irons. The

fellows must learn at once that discipline begins when we trip our

anchors. As for you," said he, turning to me, "you shall act upon my

staff with provisional rank as sous-lieutenant: time will show if the

grade should be confirmed. And now hasten down to the quay, and put

yourself under Colonel Lerrasin's orders."

Colonel Lerrasin, the second in command, was, in many respects, the very

opposite of Humbert. Sharp, petulant, and irascible, he seemed quite to

overlook the fact, that, in an expedition which was little better than a

foray, there must necessarily be a great relaxation of the rules of

discipline, and many irregularities at least winked at, which, in

stricter seasons, would call for punishment. The consequence was, that a

large proportion of our force went on board under arrest, and many

actually in irons. The Irish were, without a single exception, all

drunk; and the English soldiers, who had procured their liberation from

imprisonment on condition of joining the expedition, had made

sufficiently free with the brandy-bottle to forget their new alliance,

and vent their hatred of France and Frenchmen in expressions whose only

alleviation was, that they were nearly unintelligible.

Such a scene of uproar, discord, and insubordination never was seen. The

relative conditions of guard and prisoner elicited national animosities

that were scarcely even dormant, and many a bloody encounter took place

between those whose instinct was too powerful to feel themselves any

thing but enemies. A cry, too, was raised, that it was meant to betray

the whole expedition to the English, whose fleet, it was asserted, had

been seen off Oleron, that morning; and although there was not even the

shadow of a foundation for the belief, it served to increase the alarm

and confusion. Whether originating or not with the Irish, I can not say,

but certainly they took advantage of it to avoid embarking; and now

began a schism which threatened to wreck the whole expedition, even in

the harbor.

The Irish, as indifferent to the call of discipline as they were

ignorant of French, refused to obey orders save from officers of their

own country; and, although Lerrasin ordered two companies to "load with

ball and fire low," the similar note for preparation from the

insurgents, induced him to rescind the command and try a compromise. In

this crisis I was sent by Lerrasin to fetch what was called the

"Committee," the three Irish deputies who accompanied the force. They

had already gone aboard of the Dedalus, little foreseeing the

difficulties that were to arise on shore.

Seated in a small cabin next the wardroom, I found these three

gentlemen, whose names were Tone, Teeling, and Sullivan. Their attitudes

were gloomy and despondent, and their looks anything but encouraging, as

I entered. A paper on which a few words had been scrawled, and signed

with their three names underneath, lay before them, and on this their

eyes were bent with a sad and deep meaning. I knew not then what it

meant, but I afterward learned that it was a compact formally entered

into and drawn up, that if, by the chance of war, they should fall into

the enemy's hands, they would anticipate their fate by suicide, but

leave to the English government all the ignominy and disgrace of their

death.

They seemed scarcely to notice me as I came forward, and even when I

delivered my message they heard it with a half indifference.

"What do you want us to do, sir?" said Teeling, the eldest of the party.

"We hold no command in the service. It was against our advice and

counsel that you accepted these volunteers at all. We have no influence

over them."

"Not the slightest," broke in Tone. "These fellows are bad soldiers and

worse Irishmen. The expedition will do better without them."

"And _they_ better without the expedition," muttered Sullivan, drily.

"But you will come, gentlemen, and speak to them," said I. "You can at

least assure them that their suspicions are unfounded."

"Very true, sir," replied Sullivan, "we can do so, but with what

success? No, no. If you can't maintain discipline here on your own soil,

you'll make a bad hand of doing it when you have your foot on Irish

ground. And, after all, I for one am not surprised at the report gaining

credence."

"How so, sir," asked I, indignantly.

"Simply that when a promise of fifteen thousand men dwindles down to a

force of eight hundred; when a hundred thousand stand of arms come to be

represented by a couple of thousand; when an expedition, pledged by a

government, has fallen down to a marauding party; when Hoche or

Kleber--But never mind, I always swore that if you sent but a corporal's

guard, I'd go with them."

A musket-shot here was heard, followed by a sharp volley and a cheer,

and, in an agony of anxiety, I rushed to the deck. Although above half a

mile from the shore, we could see the movement of troops hither and

thither, and hear the loud words of command. Whatever the struggle, it

was over in a moment, and now we saw the troops descending the steps to

the boats. With an inconceivable speed the men fell into their places,

and, urged on by the long sweeps, the heavy launches swept across the

calm water of the bay.

If a cautious reserve prevented any open questioning as to the late

affray, the second boat which came alongside revealed some of its

terrible consequences. Seven wounded soldiers were assisted up the side

by their comrades, and in total silence conveyed to their station

between decks.

"A bad augury this!" muttered Sullivan, as his eye followed them. "They

might as well have left that work for the English!"

A swift six-oar boat, with the tricolor flag floating from a flag-staff

at her stern, now skimmed along toward us, and as she came nearer, we

could recognize the uniforms of the officers of Humbert's staff, while

the burly figure of the general himself was soon distinguishable in the

midst of them.

As he stepped up the ladder, not a trace of displeasure could be seen on

his broad bold features. Greeting the assembled officers with a smile,

he asked how the wind was?

"All fair, and freshening at every moment," was the answer.

"May it continue!" cried he, fervently. "Welcome a hurricane, if it only

waft us westward!"

The foresail filled out as he spoke, the heavy mass heaved over to the

wind, and we began our voyage.

(_To be continued._)

[From Colburn's Magazine.]

THE WAHR-WOLF; OR, THE LOVERS OF HUNDERSDORF.

There are few rambles that so well repay the summer wanderer who seeks

for novelty, after the fatigues of a London season, as a voyage down the

Danube from Ratisbon to Vienna. In the days when the charming "Lady

Mary" passed along the swelling waters of the dark river in one of the

"wooden houses" which she found so convenient, the romantic solitudes of

the majestic Böhmer-wald had never been disturbed by the hissing of

steam; and swiftly as her boat glided onward between the solemn banks of

the then little frequented stream, the pace of the steamer which now

bears the traveler to his destination, would shame the rowers of the

enterprising embassadress, and leave her far behind.

The native boats, _Weitz-zille_, are not, however, altogether banished

from the watery way which they traversed alone but a few years since;

and very picturesque is it to meet them as they float lazily on, urged

by their two rowers, and guided by primitive-looking paddles. Many are

the long, deal, raft-shaped vessels which still convey goods from one

town to another; and strange do they appear with their sides painted

with broad black stripes, some of them upward of a hundred feet long.

From the deck of the narrow and elongated steamer the traveler can now

with proud pity watch those relics of a simple period, and congratulate

himself that his course is both swifter and surer.

A party of strangers from Ratisbon had taken their places on board the

steam-packet, and were rapidly clearing the waters beneath the rock of

Donaustauf, gazing with admiration on the evidence of two eras presented

in the gray ruins of the formidable middle-age fortress which crowns one

height, and the piled-up white marble blocks of the recently completed

temple of Valhalla, which shines so gloriously on the other, fairly

eclipsing its antique brother, and lording it over the spreading waters,

in which the image of its snowy columns lies reflected.

There were travelers of many nations on board, and all, attracted by the

sudden vision of this magnificent structure, fraternized to welcome it

with exclamations of delight, uttered in various languages. Germans,

French, and English were alike carried away with admiration; and those

who had already beheld its wonders within became quite eloquent in

describing to their neighbors the treasures with which this

unapproachably splendid temple is filled to overflowing.

This incident, at the very beginning of the voyage, made most of the

passengers acquainted, so that the usual coldness and reserve common to

northern nations was at once swept away, and animated conversation

ensued. Among the passengers were two young Englishmen, who had been

pointed out to the party leaving Ratisbon, by the porter of the Goldene

Kreutz--(the house in which it is said Don Juan of Austria, the famous

son of Charles V., was born in secrecy)--as "milors," though their

weather-worn costumes gave but little idea of the importance of their

station; they had attached themselves to a stately but courteous

Bohemian baron, who, with a train of servants and carriages more than

commonly well-appointed, was on his way to his castle situated opposite

Vilshofen on the left bank of the river.

The baron was well acquainted with every nook and corner in every valley

of the winding Danube; and as he was full of good-humor, and described

well, and, besides, was flattered at the interest his hearers took in

his conversation, he enlivened the voyage by a continuous narration of

circumstances which had fallen under his observation.

A legend seldom comes amiss to an Englishman, and enthusiasm is never

wanting in his mind for magnificent scenery, such as abounds on this

glorious river, which possesses much of the beauty of the Rhine, and

superior grandeur and sublimity. Perhaps its waters are scarcely so

abounding, or its bed so filled to the brim, as that of the Rhine

throughout its course; but, at times, one is half inclined to give the

palm, even in this respect, to the more majestic rival of the beautiful

torrent now so familiar to tourists as to have become an unappreciated

treasure of picturesque riches.

The baron directed the attention of his companions to all that was wild

and striking in the scenes around them. As they passed Straubing he told

the sad tale of poor Agnes Bernauer, the Agnes de Castro of the Danube,

whose fate was even more terrible. The Englishmen shuddered as they

looked on the spot where the old bridge stood, from whence the fair

unfortunate was cast, and felt inclined to reproach the very waves which

submitted to assist the crime of the cruel wretch whose hook dragged the

shrieking beauty under water, and drowned her as she struggled to reach

the shore.

He told stories of the dark Bogenberg, as they now approached, now lost

it in the windings of the capricious river; and related how the Emperor

Charlemagne had visited a holy hermit there, whom he beheld, after

cutting down a tree, hang his ax upon a sunbeam, a feat frequently

performed by saints, who, in days of yore, seemed to have no other pegs

for their mantles, caps, &c.

His Satanic Majesty also figured as a conspicuous actor in the baron's

legends, and the evidences of his prowess are sufficiently remarkable,

it must be confessed, in these regions.

For instance, it would be absurd to imagine any influence but that of

the foul fiend could have been exerted to place the perpendicular rock

of Natternberg in the way of the steamer, rising up suddenly, as it

does, several hundred feet above the waters, and exhibiting on its

rugged summit the ruins of the famous castle of Bogen, to reach which

must have required help from the bad spirit himself, perched thus high

out of reach. The lords of this castle were, however, such zealous

worshipers of his, that doubtless he was not niggardly to them in

lending a helping hand when called upon.

It was while the steamer was gliding past the village of Hundersdorf,

which lies at the embouchure of the stream of Kinzach, that the baron

bethought himself of a circumstance which occasioned him to smile, as he

exclaimed,

"There is nothing very striking, you will say, in that little place; but

a story was once told me concerning it which gives it a sort of fearful

interest. But I have already tired you with too many of my legends, and

will spare you this."

"By no means," said one of the Englishmen. "We can not let you off so.

Of course, in a place so close to the mysterious Bogenberg, there must

be something more than common."

"Oh, if you really like to hear what attracts me toward this

insignificant village," replied the baron, "I am ready to tell the story

as it was told to me."

His auditors, grouping themselves round him as he spoke, he accordingly

continued as follows:

After a gloomy cold day the evening set in chill and dreary, and in

spite of all the efforts I had made to reach Vilshofen before dark, I

found myself, owing to various vexatious delays, benighted in one of

the desolate passes of the majestic mountain range which borders the

left bank of the Danube. The gloom became every moment deeper and

deeper, and to proceed appeared almost impracticable; however, as the

prospect of passing the night in the woods held out but small

temptation, I urged my people forward, and accordingly we drove rapidly

on, hoping at least to reach some spot more sheltered than the spectral

valley where we found ourselves. Our haste was of little avail; the

spirits of the mountains seemed to laugh our efforts to scorn; and to

prove how much travelers are in their power, they so contrived it that

the wheels of my carriage coming in contact with a heap of rugged

stones, a violent overturn took place, and our further progress was

altogether stopped. We had no choice now but to kindle a fire under a

huge tree, dispose our cloaks and baggage so as to afford us some

protection from the night air, and wait for dawn before we attempted to

trust ourselves again in the shattered vehicle.

Resolving to submit with a good grace to our misfortune, we produced our

stock of provisions, which hunger made particularly palatable. The fire

soon blazed cheerfully; and as masters and men drew round it, we began

to think our adventure less woeful than we at first considered it. It

was agreed that those of our party who were the most fatigued should

endeavor to procure some sleep, while the watchful should nurse the

useful flame which not only warmed but might protect us from the visits

of wild animals, should any be attracted toward our neighborhood. We had

with us a stout Bavarian, whose lively eyes told that he had little more

inclination to sleep than myself: he and I therefore seated ourselves on

the knotted roots of the ancient oak, and to beguile the time I asked

him some particulars of the country, new at that time to me, but with

which he seemed well acquainted. We are at this moment passing the

places he named; and he said he had traversed these mountains during

many years, indeed, had we followed his advice at Straubing, we had not

then been sitting by the fire, benighted wanderers, listening to him as

you now listen to me.

"It is unlucky," said the Bavarian, "that there is no moon, for these

heights look well in her broad light and shade; I could otherwise point

out to you many a remarkable spot hereabouts. On the summit of the

highest of these mountains stand the ruins of the famous Stammschloss of

Bogenberg, once belonging to the powerful counts of that race, who

lorded it over all the country they could see from their strong-hold,

far into Bohemia. But it is long since their revels are over, and all is

silent enough in those walls, except on the festivals of the

Wahr-wolves, and then indeed there is such a noise and riot that one

might think the old knights and their vassals were once more engaged in

contest with their ancient enemies of Ortenburg."

"What mean you," asked I, "by the Wahr-wolves?"

He stared with astonishment.

"Is it possible," said he, "that you have not heard of them? They are

certainly more rare of late years, yet there are still too many in the

country."

"Are they banditti?" said I, instinctively laying my hand on my pistol.

"Not so," he replied; "since you seem so surprised I will explain. A

Wahr-wolf is a man who has entered into a compact with the Black

Huntsman, which enables him to change his human shape for that of a

wolf, and resume his own form at will. There are many men whom you would

never suspect of such a thing who are known to be of the fraternity.

They meet sometimes in bands and scour the country, doing more mischief

than natural wolves, for when they get into a farm they make wild havoc,

and are mighty beer-drinkers; sometimes, not content with drinking up

all the beer they can find, they pile up the empty barrels in the middle

of the cellar, and go off howling loud enough to scare the whole

country. You smile, but I know a fact relating to one of them which many

besides myself can vouch for as having occurred. A farmer from

Straubing, with some of his people, was passing through these very

mountains, and being overtaken by night, as we are, but not like us

furnished with provisions, one of his men offered to procure some food,

if they would all promise not to tell how he did it. Whereupon he went

away, and in a short time they heard the howling of a wolf; presently

one came in sight bearing a sheep which he had killed. They ran to hide

themselves, but he quietly laid down his prey, and, turning about, ran

off to the heights. Their companion returned not long after, quite out

of breath and much fatigued. They proceeded to cut up and roast part of

the slaughtered animal; but none of them would hold fellowship with the

man afterward, because they knew him at once to be a Wahr-wolf."

"Do you really credit this?" said I; "and could you suspect a companion

of so incredible a propensity?"

"When I tell you what was witnessed and recounted to me by my own

father," said the Bavarian, with great gravity, "you will allow that I

have reasons for my belief.

"Hundersdorf is the native place of our family, and there, when my

father was quite young, lived a mother and her two daughters, Margaret

and Agatha. The first was soon married to a worthy man, a farmer, who by

ill-luck took into his service a young fellow named Augustin Schultes.

No one, to look at him, would have thought his face boded aught but

good, he was so handsome, so gay, and obliging.

"It was not long before he fell in love with the pretty Agatha, who was

the general favorite of the village, though somewhat proud and shy. At

first she looked down upon the servant of her brother-in-law, but by

degrees was won by his insinuating behavior, for women seldom look

beyond the outside. Her mother, however, would not listen to his or her

entreaties, and nothing but weeping, scolding, and discontent was to be

found in the cottage. All on a sudden every thing seemed altered; and

whereas Augustin never dared to cross the threshold of their house, he

was now a constant guest. By-and-by he left off service and bought a bit

of land of his own and some sheep, having had, according to his own

report, a legacy left him. This latter circumstance explained the change

in the behavior of Agatha's mother, for a poor suitor and a rich one are

widely different persons, and many who had never said a word in

Augustin's favor, now came forward with offers of friendship. Heinrich

Ziegler, however, an unsuccessful lover of Agatha's, was still heard on

all occasions to speak slightingly of Augustin, throwing out hints that

his money was not got in an honest way, so that his insinuations filled

the minds of the neighbors with suspicions which they could not account

for. Some thought he dealt in magic, or had found the Great Secret; but

none imagined the truth, which at last came to light.

"It happened one evening that my father was returning from work, and had

to pass through a small wood which leads to the village; and, as the

shades began to fall, he hurried on, because there are many strange

things happen in these places which no good Christian should care to

look upon. Suddenly he heard voices not far off, and, as he thought he

recognized them, he stopped to ascertain, when he clearly distinguished

those of Heinrich and Augustin, at least so it seemed to him.

"'Augustin,' said the former, 'it is of no use; if you do not resign her

I will tell the whole truth, and force you to give her up; for as soon

as it is known what you are--'

"'Tush!' interrupted the other, 'what better are you yourself? Did we

not take the oath together, and are not you as deeply implicated as I

am. Our master provides us with all we want, and our duty is not so very

hard.'

"'I tell you,' muttered Heinrich, sullenly, 'my duty is much worse than

yours; the worst of yours is over, mine is but begun. Am I not obliged

to scour the country in the darkest night _to bring sheep to your

fold_?'

"My father shuddered, a fearful suspicion darkened his mind, which was

soon confirmed by what followed. Heinrich continued:

"'You get the reward and I the pain; but I will no longer endure it;

either give me up the gold you obtain through my means, or give me up

Agatha.'

"They then spoke together, too low to be heard, but my father gathered

enough to learn that Augustin promised to take from his comrade the hard

duty he complained of being obliged to perform at night; and still

muttering to each other words of import which my father could not

comprehend, they passed on, and he, terrified and his hair bristling

with horror, hurried through the wood and reached home he scarcely knew

how.

"He resolved to watch the proceedings of the two comrades narrowly, and

in a little time observed that Augustin's looks were much impaired;

that he went about in the daytime fatigued and haggard, while Heinrich,

who before was dull and heavy, assumed a more cheerful aspect. At length

the time was fixed for the marriage of Agatha and Augustin, and as it

approached he felt greatly disturbed, on considering the conversation he

had overheard: he tried to persuade himself that he had mistaken the

voices or the words, but he still could not divest himself of the

conviction that the two men whose mysterious words he had listened to

were no other than Augustin and Heinrich, and they were, beyond all

possibility of doubt, Wahr-wolves!

"The day before the wedding was to take place, he directed his steps to

the cottage, and there found Agatha's mother alone; she was sitting in

the window, with a face of wonder and alarm, and held in her hand a

small piece of paper, which, as he entered, she handed to him.

"'Read this,' said she; 'you are an old friend, advise me what to do to

save my poor child.'

"On the paper was written, 'Let Agatha fly from the Wahr-wolf.'

"My father turned pale, and on the widow's earnest entreaties that he

would assist her with his advice, he related all he knew. Great was her

amazement and despair; the more so, as she felt certain that Agatha

would never credit the fact, and must inevitably fall a sacrifice. While

we were in this perplexity, we were startled by the sudden appearance of

Heinrich. His face was very pale, and his eyes wild.

"'You doubtless wonder,' said he, 'to see me here, and the more so when

I tell you that I come as a saviour to your daughter. I alone have the

means of delivering her, and if you will confide in me, she shall escape

the fate which hangs over her.'

"He then proceeded to relate that, won over by the deceitful persuasions

of Augustin, he had consented to become his companion in his unhallowed

proceedings; but, having repented, he now resolved to reveal the wicked

practices of his late friend; and if the mother of Agatha would be

guided by him, he would deliver her daughter from all harm. After much

difficulty the mother, by my father's persuasions, at last agreed to

trust him, as no better means offered; and accordingly, having obliged

Heinrich to take a solemn oath of his sincerity, they resolved to

assemble several neighbors, and to put themselves under the guidance of

this new friend.

"It was night when the whole party met, not far from the gate of

Augustin's cottage. Heinrich advanced first, and, at a signal from him,

every man concealed himself till it was observed that Augustin came out

of the house, and proceeded cautiously onward till he reached the

cemetery just without the village; the watchful band still close on his

track.

"He there began to undress himself, and having done so, hid his clothes

under a grave-stone. Scarcely had he finished this arrangement, when

the hoarse cry of a raven seemed to startle him, and the sound was

presently answered by a low howl, when, to the inexpressible horror of

all present, a hideous wolf rushed forth, as if from the tombs, and was

lost in the surrounding gloom.

"No one could stir from the spot where each stood but Heinrich, who

darted toward the place where the garments were hid, and drawing them

forth, wrapped them in a heap, and calling to the petrified group who

looked on, bade them follow. They did so, and having returned to the

village, prepared to complete the directions of Heinrich, who ordered a

large fire to be made, into which all the clothes were thrown; but, to

the surprise of all, among them was discovered the hood and vail of a

female. They were burned with the rest, and as the last spark of the

fire died away, the face of Heinrich seemed to have caught its glow, so

fierce was the expression of his eyes, as he exclaimed,

"'Now the work of vengeance is complete; now the Black Huntsman has his

own!'

"He told the trembling lookers-on that on the destruction of these

habiliments depended the Wahr-wolf's power of resuming his human shape,

which had now become quite impossible.

"After all these ceremonies, each person returned to his respective

dwelling; but my father was unable to obtain a moment's rest all night,

for the continual shrieking of a raven close to his window. As day

dawned the annoyance ceased, and he rose the next morning hoping all he

had witnessed the preceding night was a dream. However, he hastened to

the house of Agatha, and there he found all in confusion and dismay. She

could be nowhere found, nor any trace of her discovered. Heinrich was in

more consternation than any one, and hurried up and down almost

distracted.

"My father now related how his rest had been disturbed by the hoarse

cries of the raven, and said that such an omen boded no good. He then

proposed seeking for the unfortunate girl in the cemetery, as perhaps,

her mysterious lover had murdered and buried her in one of the tombs. At

the mention of this suspicion, a new light seemed to burst on the

awe-struck Heinrich. He suddenly called out in a piercing voice,

"'The hood--the vail!--it is too plain, I have betrayed him, and lost

her forever. I burnt her garments, and doubtless, he had taught her his

infernal art, so that she can never be restored to her human form. She

will remain a raven, and he a Wahr-wolf, forever!'

"So saying, he gnashed his teeth with rage, and, with a wild look,

rushed from the house. No one observed where he went, but, from that

hour, neither he, nor Augustin, nor Agatha, were ever beheld in the

village of Hundersdorf; though often, on a wintry night, the howling of

wolves is heard not far off, and the ill-boding scream of the raven is

sure to echo their horrid yells."

Such was the wild tale of the Bavarian; and when he had finished, I was

so impressed with the earnestness of his manner, and the firm belief he

attached to this strange relation, that I was not sorry to hear the

voices of my awaking companions, nor unrelieved to observe that day was

breaking. We soon resumed our journey, and it was with little regret I

quitted the gloomy valley where I had listened to the fearful legend of

the Wahr-wolf.

The superstition is scarcely even yet done away with in these parts, in

spite of the march of civilization, which has sent steam-boats on the

Danube to drive away such follies. I believe, however, there are few

places now, except in the Böhmer-wald, where such monstrous fables are

believed. Such a belief was once current all over France, and, indeed,

wherever wolves existed; but as our robber chiefs end black bands are

pretty well rooted out, no one has any interest in keeping up the credit

of these imaginary culprits.

"But see," exclaimed the baron, "we are arrived at Vilshofen, and I am

obliged to leave off my gossip, and allow you to pursue your way toward

Vienna. Yonder are the walls of my domicile, and here I must bid you

farewell."

A TRUE GHOST STORY.

"Did you ever hear," said a friend once to me, "a real true ghost story,

one you might depend upon?"

"There are not many such to be heard," I replied, "and I am afraid it

has never been my good fortune to meet with those who were really able

to give me a genuine, well-authenticated story."

"Well, you shall never have cause to say so again; and as it was an

adventure that happened to myself, you can scarcely think it other than

well authenticated. I know you to be no coward, or I might hesitate

before I told it to you. You need not stir the fire; there is plenty of

light by which you can hear it. And now to begin. I had been riding hard

one day in the autumn for nearly five or six hours, through some of the

most tempestuous weather to which it had ever been my ill luck to be

exposed. It was just about the time of the Equinox, and perfect

hurricanes swept over the hills, as if every wind in heaven had broken

loose, and had gone mad, and on every hill the rain and driving sleet

poured down in one unbroken shower.

"When I reached the head of Wentford valley--you know the place, a

narrow ravine with rocks on one side, and those rich full woods (not

that they were very full then, for the winds had shaken them till there

was scarcely a leaf on their bare rustling branches) on the other, with

a clear little stream winding through the hollow dell--when I came to

the entrance of this valley, weather-beaten veteran as I was, I scarcely

knew how to hold on my way; the wind, as it were, held in between the

two high banks, rushed like a river just broken loose into a new

course, carrying with it a perfect sheet of rain, against which my poor

horse and I struggled with considerable difficulty: still I went on, for

the village lay at the other end, and I had a patient to see there, who

had sent a very urgent message, entreating me to come to him as soon as

possible. We are slaves to a message, we poor medical men, and I urged

on my poor jaded brute with a keen relish for the warm fire and good

dinner that awaited me as soon as I could see my unfortunate patient,

and get back to a home doubly valued on such a day as that in which I

was then out. It was indeed dreary riding in such weather; and the scene

altogether, through which I passed, was certainly not the most conducive

toward raising a man's spirits; but I positively half wished myself out

in it all again, rather than sit the hour I was obliged to spend by the

sick-bed of the wretched man I had been summoned to visit. He had met

with an accident the day before, and as he had been drinking up to the

time, and the people had delayed sending for me, I found him in a

frightful state of fever; and it was really an awful thing either to

look at or to hear him. He was delirious, and perfectly furious; and his

face, swelled with passion, and crimson with the fever that was burning

him up, was a sight to frighten children, and not one calculated to add

to the tranquillity even of full-grown men. I dare say you think me very

weak, and that I ought to have been inured to such things, minding his

ravings no more than the dash of the rain against the window; but,

during the whole of my practice, I had never seen man or woman, in

health or in fever, in so frightful a state of furious frenzy, with the

impress of every bad passion stamped so broadly and fearfully upon the

face; and, in the miserable hovel that then held me with his old

witch-like mother standing by, the babel of the wind and rain outside

added to the ravings of the wretched creature within. I began to feel

neither in a happy nor an enviable frame of mind. There is nothing so

frightful as where the reasonable spirit seems to abandon man's body,

and leave it to a fiend instead.

"After an hour or more waiting patiently by his bedside, not liking to

leave the helpless old woman alone with so dangerous a companion (for I

could not answer for any thing he might do in his frenzy), I thought

that the remedies by which I hoped in some measure to subdue the fever,

seemed beginning to take effect, and that I might leave him, promising

to send all that was necessary, though fearing much that he had gone

beyond all my power to restore him; and desiring that I might

immediately be called back again, should he get worse instead of better,

which I felt almost certain would be the case, I hastened homeward, glad

enough to be leaving wretched huts and raving men, driving rain and

windy hills, for a comfortable house, dry clothes, a warm fire, and a

good dinner. I think I never saw such a fire in my life as the one that

blazed up my chimney; it looked so wonderfully warm and bright, and

there seemed an indescribable air of comfort about the room which I had

never noticed before. One would have thought I should have enjoyed it

all intensely after my wet ride, but throughout the whole evening, the

scenes of the day would keep recurring to my mind with most

uncomfortable distinctness, and it was in vain that I endeavored to

forget it all in a book, one of my old favorites too; so at last I

fairly gave up the attempt, as the hideous face would come continually

between my eyes and an especially good passage; and I went off to bed

heartily tired, and expecting sleep very readily to visit me. Nor was I

disappointed: I was soon deep asleep, though my last thought was on the

little valley I had left. How long this heavy and dreamless sleep

continued, I can not tell, but gradually I felt consciousness returning,

in the shape of the very thoughts with which I fell asleep, and at last

I opened my eyes, thoroughly roused by a heavy blow at my window. I can

not describe my horror, when, by the light of a moon struggling among

the heavy surge-like clouds, I saw the very face, the face of _that_ man

looking in at me through the casement, the eyes distended and the face

pressed close to the glass. I started up in bed, to convince myself that

I really was awake, and not suffering from some frightful dream; there

it staid, perfectly moveless, its wide ghastly eyes fixed unwaveringly

on mine, which, by a kind of fascination, became equally fixed and

rigid, gazing upon the dreadful face, which alone without a body was

visible at the window, unless an indefinable black shadow, that seemed

to float beyond it, might be fancied into one. I can scarcely tell how

long I so sat looking at it, but I remember something of a rushing

sound, a feeling of relief, a falling exhausted back upon my pillow, and

then I awoke in the morning ill and unrefreshed. I was ill at ease, and

the first question I asked, on coming down stairs, was, whether any

messenger had come to summon me to Wentford. A messenger had come, they

told me, but it was to say I need trouble myself no further, as the man

was already beyond all aid, having died about the middle of the night. I

never felt so strangely in my life as when they told me this, and my

brain almost reeled as the events of the previous day and night passed

through my mind in rapid succession. That I had seen something

supernatural in the darkness of the night, I had never doubted, but when

the sun shone brightly into my room in the morning, through the same

window, where I had seen so frightful and strange a sight by the

spectral light of the moon, I began to believe more it was a dream, and

endeavored to ridicule myself out of all uncomfortable feelings, which,

nevertheless, I could not quite shake off. Haunted by what I considered

a painful dream, I left my room, and the first thing I heard was a

confirmation of what I had been for the last hour endeavoring to reason

and ridicule myself out of believing. It was some hours before I could

recover my ordinary tranquillity; and then it came back, not slowly as

you might have expected, as the impression gradually wore off, and time

wrought his usual changes in mind as in body, but suddenly--by the

discovery that our large white owl had escaped during the night, and had

honored my window with a visit before he became quite accustomed to his

liberty."

[From the London Critic.]

SKETCHES OF LIFE. BY A RADICAL.

It was an error to call this work[25] the autobiography of an

individual. It is a picturing--faithful, minute, and eloquent--of the

hardships, the sufferings, and the miseries endured by a large mass of

our fellow men. It is an earnest and honest exposure of the hollowness

that infests English society--an insight to the weakness of the

substratum. It shows what education should have done, and what

corruption really has done. ALTON LOCKE is also a personification of the

failings, as well as of the sufferings, that make up the sum of

existence of a large class.

The author has effectually carried out his design--we will not say

altogether with artistic consistency, or with book-making propriety. We

know it is deemed a great offense against taste to make a novel the

medium of exposing social dangers, or political inequalities and wrongs.

We know that those who stick up for "the model," would have a fiction

all fiction, or at least that the philosophy be very subordinate and the

social aim be hidden so completely as not to be discernible excepting to

the professional reader. But _Alton Locke_ is an exception to all these

objections. Spite of its defects, it is a perfect work--perfect, that it

is invested with an air of the wildest romance, while it goes home to

the heart and the judgment as a faithful picture--perfect, that it is

eloquent and natural, and consistent with itself. It is one of those

books which defy classification. We have not seen its like. And to those

readers who accept our eulogy in earnest, _Alton Locke_ will ever remain

a token of rich enjoyment, and a memento that 1850 did produce at least

one cherishable book.

The story of the biography will not impress so much or so favorably as

the style. The hero is a widow's only child: his mother is a stern

Calvinist. Her teachings, and the teaching of the vipers in religious

form who come to administer consolation and to drink the old lady's tea,

are hateful to an intense degree to ALTON. He is of a poetic

temperament, and a great admirer of nature. Opportunities of indulging

his natural tastes are denied him. Born in a close London street, very

rigidly watched and governed by his mother and the good men who come to

visit her, his life is any thing but pleasant. But he subsequently

becomes a tailor, reads largely, writes verses, turns Chartist, falls

in love, and is imprisoned for spouting Chartism. The upshot of his

rough life is, that he becomes a true Christian.

Several characters are hit off with great perfection. Such is the mother

of ALTON; and such is SANDYE MACKAYE, a friend to whom the boy

occasionally ran for sympathy, and to borrow books.

But we will now draw upon the pages of the work itself, merely repeating

that it is a remarkable composition, and one which men in high places

would do well to ponder. It is a growth from the defects of our time,

and should be taken as a presage that change must come. The working-men

of this country will be indebted to ALTON LOCKE for the manner in which

he pleads their cause; all men should be gratified that the warning

voice, which he will inevitably be deemed, is so moderate in tone and so

philosophical in manner.

ALTON'S youth, we have said, was not happy. The following are his

descriptions of his mother, and one of her associates:

ALTON'S MOTHER AND THE MISSIONARY.

"My mother moved by rule and method; by God's law, as she considered,

and that only. She seldom smiled. Her word was absolute. She never

commanded twice, without punishing. And yet there were abysses of

unspoken tenderness in her, as well as clear, sound, womanly sense and

insight. But she thought herself as much bound to keep down all

tenderness as if she had been some ascetic of the middle ages--so do

extremes meet! It was 'carnal,' she considered. She had as yet no right

to have any 'spiritual affection' for us. We were still 'children of

wrath and of the devil'--not yet 'convinced of sin,' 'converted, born

again.' She had no more spiritual bond with us, she thought, than she

had with a heathen or a papist. She dared not even pray for our

conversion, earnestly as she prayed on every other subject. For though

the majority of her sect would have done so, her clear, logical sense

would yield to no such tender inconsistency. Had it not been decided

from all eternity? We were elect, or we were reprobate. Could her

prayers alter that? If He had chosen us, He would call us in His own

good time: and, if not, ----. Only, again and again, as I afterward

discovered from a journal of hers, she used to beseech God with agonized

tears to set her mind at rest by revealing to her His will toward us.

For that comfort she could at least rationally pray. But she received no

answer. Poor, beloved mother! If thou couldst not read the answer,

written in every flower and every sunbeam, written in the very fact of

our existence here at all, what answer would have sufficed thee? And

yet, with all this, she kept the strictest watch over our morality.

Fear, of course, was the only motive she employed; for how could our

still carnal understandings be affected with love to God? And love to

herself was too paltry and temporary to be urged by one who knew that

her life was uncertain, and who was always trying to go down to deepest

eternal ground and reason of every thing, and take her stand upon that.

So our god, or gods rather, till we were twelve years old, were hell,

the rod, the Ten Commandments, and public opinion. Yet under them, not

they, but something deeper far, both in her and us, preserved us pure.

Call it natural character, conformation of the spirit--conformation of

the brain, if you like, if you are a scientific man and a phrenologist.

I never yet could dissect and map out my own being, or my neighbor's, as

you analysts do.

* * * * *

"My heart was in my mouth as I opened the door to them, and sunk back

again to the very lowest depths of my inner man when my eyes fell on the

face and figure of the missionary--a squat, red-faced, pig-eyed,

low-browed man, with great soft lips that opened back to his very ears;

sensuality, conceit, and cunning marked on every feature--an innate

vulgarity, from which the artisan and the child recoil with an instinct

as true, perhaps truer, than that of the courtier, showing itself in

every tone and motion--I shrunk into a corner, so crest-fallen that I

could not even exert myself to hand round the bread-and-butter, for

which I got duly scolded afterward. Oh! that man!--how he bawled and

contradicted, and laid down the law, and spoke to my mother in a

fondling, patronizing way, which made me, I knew not why, boil over with

jealousy and indignation. How he filled his teacup half full of the

white sugar to buy which my mother had curtailed her yesterday's

dinner--how he drained the few remaining drops of the three-penny worth

of cream, with which Susan was stealing off to keep it as an unexpected

treat for my mother at breakfast next morning--how he talked of the

natives, not as St. Paul might of his converts, but as a planter might

of his slaves; overlaying all his unintentional confessions of his own

greed and prosperity, with cant, flimsy enough for even a boy to see

through, while his eyes were not blinded with the superstition that a

man must be pious who sufficiently interlards his speech with a jumble

of old English picked out of our translation of the New Testament. Such

was the man I saw. I don't deny that all are not like him. I believe

there are noble men of all denominations doing their best, according to

their light, all over the world; but such was the one I saw--and the men

who are sent home to plead the missionary cause, whatever the men may be

like who stay behind and work, are, from my small experience, too often

such. It appears to me to be the rule that many of those who go abroad

as missionaries, go simply because they are men of such inferior powers

and attainments that if they staid in England they would starve."

ALTON'S STUDY.

"I slept in a little lean-to garret at the back of the house, some ten

feet long by six wide. I could just stand upright against the inner

wall, while the roof on the other side ran down to the floor. There was

no fire-place in it or any means of ventilation. No wonder I coughed all

night accordingly, and woke about two every morning with choking throat

and aching head. My mother often said that the room was 'too small for a

Christian to sleep in, but where could she get a better?' Such was my

only study. I could not use it as such, however, at night without

discovery; for my mother carefully looked in every evening, to see that

my candle was out. But when my kind cough woke me, I rose, and creeping

like a mouse about the room--for my mother and sister slept in the next

chamber, and every sound was audible through the narrow partition--I

drew my darling books out from under a board in the floor one end of

which I had gradually loosened at odd minutes, and with them a

rushlight, earned by running on messages, or by taking bits of work

home, and finishing them for my fellows. No wonder that with this scanty

rest, and this complicated exertion of hands, eyes, and brain, followed

by the long dreary day's work of the shop, my health began to fail; my

eyes grew weaker and weaker; my cough became more acute; my appetite

failed me daily. My mother noticed the change, and questioned me about

it, affectionately enough. But I durst not, alas! tell the truth. It was

not one offense, but the arrears of months of disobedience which I

should have had to confess; and so arose infinite false excuses, and

petty prevarications, which embittered and clogged still more my already

overtasked spirit. Before starting forth to walk two miles to the shop

at six o'clock in the morning, I sat some three or four hours shivering

on my bed, putting myself into cramped and painful postures, not daring

even to cough, lest my mother should fancy me unwell, and come in to see

me, poor dear soul!--my eyes aching over the page, my feet wrapped up in

the bed-clothes to keep them from the miserable pain of the cold;

longing, watching, dawn after dawn, for the kind summer mornings, when I

should need no candlelight. Look at the picture awhile, ye comfortable

folks, who take down from your shelves what books you like best at the

moment, and then lie back, amid prints and statuettes, to grow wise in

an easy chair, with a blazing fire and a camphine lamp. The lower

classes uneducated! Perhaps you would be so too, if learning cost you

the privation which it costs some of them."

* * * * *

But ALTON read largely, notwithstanding his privations. What of his time

was not spent on the tailor's board, was devoted to the writings of the

great spirits of the age. On a holiday he visited the National Gallery,

and learned to love and bless the painters. He studied narrowly MILTON

and TENNYSON, and many other writers, and among them "that great prose

poem, the single epic of modern days, THOMAS CARLYLE'S _French

Revolution_." ALTON'S daydreams were more numerous than we should

imagine are those of the majority of men who are steeped in poverty as

he was; and he has described them well. When he did learn to walk into

the fields, he truly enjoyed the liberty thus attained.

THE FIRST SIP OF FREEDOM.

"It was a glorious morning at the end of May; and when I escaped from

the pall of smoke which hung over the city, I found the sky a sheet of

cloudless blue. How I watched for the ending of the rows of houses,

which lined the road for miles--the great roots of London, running far

out into the country, up which poured past me an endless stream of food,

and merchandise, and human beings--the sap of the huge metropolitan

life-tree! How each turn of the road opened a fresh line of terraces or

villas, till hope deferred made the heart sick, and the country

seemed--like the place where the rainbow touches the ground, or the El

Dorado of Raleigh's Guiana settlers--always a little farther off! How,

between gaps in the houses right and left, I caught tantalizing glimpses

of green fields, shut from me by dull lines of high-spiked palings! How

I peeped through gates and over fences at trim lawns and gardens, and

longed to stay, and admire, and speculate on the names of the strange

plants and gaudy flowers; and then hurried on, always expecting to find

something still finer ahead--something really worth stopping to look

at--till the houses thickened again into a street, and I found myself,

to my disappointment, in the midst of a town! And then more villas and

palings; and then a village: when would they stop, those endless houses?

At last they did stop. Gradually the people whom I passed began to look

more and more rural, and more toil-worn and ill-fed. The houses ended,

cattle yards and farm buildings appeared; and right and left, far away,

spread the low rolling sheet of green meadows and corn-fields. Oh, the

joy! The lawns with their high elms and firs, the green hedgerows, the

delicate hue and scent of the fresh clover-fields, the steep clay banks

where I stopped to pick nosegays of wild flowers, and became again a

child--and then recollected my mother, and a walk with her on the river

bank toward the Red House. I hurried on again, but could not be unhappy,

while my eyes ranged free, for the first time in my life, over the

checkered squares of cultivation, over glittering brooks, and hills

quivering in the green haze, while above hung the skylarks, pouring out

their souls in melody. And then, as the sun grew hot, and the larks

dropped one by one into the growing corn, the new delight of the blessed

silence! I listened to the stillness; for noise had been my native

element; I had become in London quite unconscious of the ceaseless roar

of the human sea, casting up mire and dirt. And now, for the first time

in my life, the crashing, confusing hubbub had flowed away, and left my

brain calm and free. How I felt at that moment a capability of clear,

bright meditation, which was as new to me, as I believe it would have

been to most Londoners in my position. I can not help fancying that our

unnatural atmosphere of excitement, physical as well as moral, is to

blame for very much of the working-men's restlessness and fierceness. As

it was, I felt that every step forward, every breath of fresh air, gave

me new life. I had gone fifteen miles before I recollected that, for the

first time for many months, I had not coughed since I rose."

* * * * *

The following is the utterance in a more eloquent mode, of some

startling facts revealed by the London Correspondent of _The Morning

Chronicle_:

THE TERRORS OF THE COMPETITIVE SYSTEM.

"Well: one day our employer died. He had been one of the old sort of

fashionable West-end tailors in the fast decreasing honorable trade;

keeping a modest shop, hardly to be distinguished from a dwelling-house,

except by his name on the window blinds. He paid good prices for work,

though not as good, of course, as he had given twenty years before, and

prided himself upon having all his work done at home. His work-rooms, as

I have said, were no elysiums; but still, as good, alas! as those of

three tailors out of four. He was proud, luxurious, foppish; but he was

honest and kindly enough, and did many a generous thing by men who had

been long in his employ. At all events, his journeymen could live on

what he paid them.

"But his son, succeeding to the business, determined, like Rehoboam of

old, to go ahead with the times. Fired with the great spirit of the

nineteenth century--at least with that one which is vulgarly considered

its especial glory--he resolved to make haste to be rich. His father had

made money very slowly of late; while dozens, who had begun business

long after him, had now retired to luxurious ease and suburban villas.

Why should he remain in the minority? Why should he not get rich as fast

as he could? Why should he stick to the old, slow-going, honorable

trade? Out of some 450 West-end tailors, there were not one hundred left

who were old-fashioned and stupid enough to go on keeping down their own

profits by having all their work done at home and at first-hand.

Ridiculous scruples! The government knew none such. Were not the army

clothes, the post-office clothes, the policemen's clothes, furnished by

contractors and sweaters, who hired the work at low prices, and let it

out again to journeymen at still lower ones? Why should he pay his men

two shillings where the government paid them one? Were there not cheap

houses even at the West-end, which had saved several thousands a year

merely by reducing their workmen's wages? And if the workmen chose to

take lower wages, he was not bound actually to make them a present of

more than they asked for. They would go to the cheapest market for any

thing they wanted, and so must he. Besides, wages had really been quite

exorbitant. Half his men threw each of them as much money away in gin

and beer yearly, as would pay two workmen at a cheap house. Why was he

to be robbing his family of comforts to pay for their extravagance? And

charging his customers, too, unnecessarily high prices--it was really

robbing the public!

"Such, I suppose, were some of the arguments which led to an official

announcement, one Saturday night, that our young employer intended to

enlarge his establishment, for the purpose of commencing business in the

'show trade;' and that, emulous of Messrs. Aaron, Levi, and the rest of

that class, magnificent alterations were to take place in the premises,

to make room for which our work-rooms were to be demolished, and that

for that reason--for of course it was only for that reason--all work

would in future be given out, to be made up at the men's own homes....

"'We were all bound to expect this. Every working tailor must come to

this at last, on the present system; and we are only lucky in having

been spared so long. You all know where this will end--in the same

misery as fifteen thousand out of twenty thousand of our class are

enduring now. We shall become the slaves, often the bodily prisoners, of

Jews, middlemen, and sweaters, who draw their livelihood out of our

starvation. We shall have to face, as the rest have, ever decreasing

prices of labor, ever increasing profits made out of that labor by the

contractors who will employ us--arbitrary fines, inflicted at the

caprice of hirelings--the competition of women, and children, and

starving Irish--our hours of work will increase one-third, our actual

pay decrease to less than one-half; and in all this we shall have no

hope, no chance of improvement in wages, but ever more penury, slavery,

misery, as we are pressed on by those who are sucked by fifties--almost

by hundreds--yearly, out of the honorable trade in which we were brought

up, into the infernal system of contract work, which is devouring our

trade and many others, body and soul. Our wives will be forced to sit up

night and day to help us; our children must labor from the cradle

without chance of going to school, hardly of breathing the fresh air of

heaven; our boys, as they grow up, must turn beggars or paupers; our

daughters, as thousands do, must eke out their miserable earnings by

prostitution. And after all, a whole family will not gain what one of us

had been doing, as yet, single-handed.'...

"'Government--government? You a tailor, and not know that government are

the very authors of this system? Not to know that they first set the

example, by getting the army and navy clothes made by contractors, and

taking the lowest tenders? Not to know that the police clothes, the

postmen's clothes, the convicts' clothes, are all contracted for on the

same infernal plan, by sweaters, and sweaters' sweaters, and sweaters'

sweaters' sweaters, till government work is just the very last, lowest

resource to which a poor, starved-out wretch betakes himself to keep

body and soul together? Why, the government prices, in almost every

department, are half, and less than half, the very lowest living price.

I tell you, the careless iniquity of government about these things will

come out some day. It will be known, the whole abomination; and future

generations will class it with the tyrannies of the Roman emperors and

the Norman barons. Why, it's a fact, that the colonels of the

regiments--noblemen, most of them--make their own vile profit out of us

tailors--out of the pauperism of the men, the slavery of the children,

the prostitution of the women. They get so much a uniform allowed them

by government to clothe the men with; and then--then, they let out the

jobs to the contractors at less than half what government give them, and

pocket the difference. And then you talk of appealing to government!'"

* * * * *

Only DICKENS or THACKERAY could have rivaled the following sketch of a

discussion on

THE REAL OFFICE OF POETRY.

"'What do you mean, Mr. Mackaye!' asked I, with a doleful and

disappointed visage.

"'Mean--why, if God had meant ye to write about Pacifics, He'd ha put ye

there--and because He means ye to write aboot London town, He's put ye

there--and gien ye an unco sharp taste o' the ways o't; and I'll gie ye

anither. Come along wi' me.'

"And he seized me by the arm, and hardly giving me time to put on my

hat, marched me out into the streets, and away through Clare Market to

St. Giles's.

"It was a foul, chilly, foggy Saturday night. From the butchers' and

greengrocers' shops the gas-lights flared and flickered, wild and

ghastly, over haggard groups of slip-shod, dirty women, bargaining for

scraps of stale meat, and frost-bitten vegetables, wrangling about short

weight and bad quality. Fish-stalls and fruit-stalls lined the edge of

the greasy pavement, sending up odors as foul as the language of the

sellers and buyers. Blood and sewer-water crawled from under doors and

out of spouts, and reeked down the gutters among offal, animal and

vegetable, in every stage of putrefaction. Foul vapors rose from

cow-sheds and slaughter-houses, and the doorways of undrained alleys,

where the inhabitants carried the filth out on their shoes from the back

yard into the court, and from the court up into the main street; while

above hanging like cliffs over the streets--those narrow, brawling

torrents of filth, and poverty, and sin--the houses with their teeming

load of life were piled up into the dingy choking night. A ghastly,

deafening, sickening sight it was. Go, scented Belgravian! and see what

London is! and then go to the library which God has given thee--one

often fears in vain--and see what science says this London might be!

"'Ay,' he muttered to himself, as he strode along, 'sing awa; get

yoursel' wi' child wi' pretty fancies and gran' words, like the rest of

the poets, and gang to hell for it.'

"'To hell, Mr. Mackaye?'

"'Ay, to a verra real hell, Alton Locke, laddie--a warse ane than ony

fiend's' kitchen, or subterranean Smithfield that ye'll hear o' in the

pulpits--the hell on earth o' being a flunkey, and a humbug, and a

useless peacock, wasting God's gifts on your ain lusts and

pleasures--and kenning it--and not being able to get oot o' it, for the

chains o' vanity and self-indulgence. I've warned ye. Now look there--'

"He stopped suddenly before the entrance of a miserable alley:

"'Look! there's not a soul down that yard, but's either beggar,

drunkard, thief, or warse. Write aboot that! Say how ye saw the mouth o'

hell, and the twa pillars thereof at the entry--the pawnbroker's shop o'

one side and the gin palace at the other--twa monstrous deevils, eating

up men and women, and bairns, body and soul. Look at the jaws o' the

monsters, how they open and open, and swallow in anither victim and

anither. Write aboot that.'

"'What jaws, Mr. Mackaye!'

"'Thae faulding-doors o' the gin shop, goose. Are na they a mair

damnable man-devouring idol than ony red-hot statue o' Moloch, or wicker

Gogmagog, wherein thae auld Britons burnt their prisoners? Look at _thae

barefooted, barebacked hizzies, with their arms roun' the men's necks,

and their mouths full o' vitriol and beastly words_! Look at that

Irishwoman pouring the gin down the babbie's throat! Look at that raff

o' a boy gaun out o' the pawnshop, where he's been pledging the

handkerchief he stole the morning, into the ginshop, to buy beer

poisoned wi' grains o' paradise, and cocculus indicus, and saut, and a'

damnable, maddening, thirst-breeding, lust-breeding drugs! Look at that

girl that went in wi' a shawl on her back and cam out wi'out ane!

_Drunkards frae the breast!--harlots frae the cradle!--damned before

they're born!_ John Calvin had an inkling o' the truth there, I'm a'most

driven to think, wi' his reprobation deevil's doctrines!'

"'Well--but--Mr. Mackaye, I know nothing about these poor creatures.'

"'Then ye ought. What do ye ken aboot the Pacific? Which is maist to

your business?--thae bare-backed hizzies that play the harlot o' the

other side o' the warld, or these--these thousands o' barebacked hizzies

that play the harlot o' your ain side--made out o' your ain flesh and

blude? You a poet! True poetry, like true charity, my laddie, begins at

hame. If ye'll be a poet at a', ye maun be a cockney poet; and while the

cockneys be what they be, ye maun write, like Jeremiah of old, o'

lamentation and mourning and woe, for the sins o' your people. Gin ye

want to learn the spirit o' a people's poet, down wi' your Bible and

read thae auld Hebrew prophets; gin ye wad learn the style, read your

Burns frae morning till night; and gin ye'd learn the matter, just gang

after your nose, and keep your eyes open, and ye'll no miss it.'"

* * * * *

One other extract, and we will have done with this original but

captivating and convincing volume. ALTON speaks prophetically of

THE DANGERS THAT ARE LOOMING.

"Ay, respectable gentlemen and ladies, I will confess all to you--you

shall have, if you enjoy it, a fresh opportunity for indulging that

supreme pleasure which the press daily affords you of insulting the

classes whose powers most of you know as little as you do their

sufferings. Yes; the Chartist poet is vain, conceited, ambitious,

uneducated, shallow, inexperienced, envious, ferocious, scurrilous,

seditious, traitorous.--Is your charitable vocabulary exhausted? Then

ask yourselves, how often have you yourself, honestly resisted and

conquered the temptation to any one of these sins, when it has come

across you just once in a way, and not as they came to me, as they come

to thousands of the working-men, daily and hourly, 'till their torments

do, by length of time, become their elements?' What, are we covetous,

too? Yes? And if those who have, like you, still covet more what wonder

if those who have nothing, covet something? Profligate too? Well, though

that imputation as a generality is utterly calumnious, though your

amount of respectable animal enjoyment per annum is a hundred times as

great as that of the most self-indulgent artisan, yet, if you had ever

felt what it is to want, not only every luxury of the senses, but even

bread to eat, you would think more mercifully of the man who makes up by

rare excesses, and those only of the limited kinds possible to him, for

long intervals of dull privation, and says in his madness, 'Let us eat

and drink, for to-morrow we die!' We have our sins, and you have yours.

Ours may be the more gross and barbaric, but yours are none the less

damnable; perhaps all the more so, for being the sleek, subtle,

respectable, religious sins they are. You are frantic enough if our part

of the press calls you hard names, but you can not see that your part of

the press repays it back to us with interest. _We_ see those insults,

and feel them bitterly enough; and do not forget them, alas! soon

enough, while they pass unheeded by your delicate eyes as trivial

truisms. Horrible, unprincipled, villainous, seditious, frantic,

blasphemous, are epithets of course when applied to--to how large a

portion of the English people, you will some day discover to your

astonishment. When will that day come, and how? In thunder, and storm,

and garments rolled in blood? Or like the dew on the mown grass, and the

clear shining of the sunlight after April rain?"

FOOTNOTE:

[25] ALTON LOCKE, Tailor and Poet--An Autobiography. In the press

of Messrs. Harper and Brothers.

BURKE AND THE PAINTER BARRY.

Burke delighted in lending a helping hand to genius struggling against

adversity; and many who were wasting their powers in obscurity were led

by his assistance to the paths of eminence. Barry, the painter, was

among those to whom he had shown great kindness; he found pleasure in

the society of that eccentric being. A long time had passed without his

having seen him, when one day they met accidentally in the street. The

greeting was cordial, and Barry invited his friend to dine with him the

next day. Burke arrived at the appointed hour, and the door was opened

by Dame Ursula, as she was called. She at first denied her master, but

when Burke mentioned his name, Barry, who had overheard it, came running

down stairs. He was in his usual attire; his thin gray hair was all

disheveled; an old and soiled green shade and a pair of mounted

spectacles assisted his sight; the color of his linen was rather

equivocal, but was evidently not fresh from the bleach-green; his

outward garment was a kind of careless _roquelaire_. He gave Burke a

most hearty welcome, and led him into the apartment which served him for

kitchen, parlor, studio, and gallery; it was, however, so filled with

smoke that its contents remained a profound mystery, and Burke was

almost blinded and nearly suffocated. Barry expressed the utmost

surprise, and appeared utterly at a loss to account for the state of the

atmosphere. Burke, however, without endeavoring to explain the mystery

on philosophical principles, at once brought the whole blame of the

annoyance home to Barry--as it came out that he had removed the stove

from its wonted situation by the chimney-piece, and drawn it into the

very middle of the room. He had mounted it on an old dripping-pan, to

defend the carpet from the burning ashes; he had in vain called in the

assistance of the bellows, no blaze would come--but volumes of smoke

were puffed out ever and anon, as if to show that the fire could do

something if it pleased. Burke persuaded Barry to reinstate the stove in

its own locality, and helped him to replace it; this done and the

windows opened, they got rid of the smoke, and the fire soon looked out

cheerfully enough on them, as if nothing had happened. Barry invited

Burke to the upper rooms to look at his pictures. As he went on from one

to the other, he applied the sponge and water with which he was

supplied, to wash away the dust which obscured them. Burke was delighted

with them, and with Barry's history of each, and his dissertation as he

pointed out its particular beauties. He then brought him to look at his

bedroom; its walls were hung with unframed pictures, which had also to

be freed from the thick covering of dust before they could be admired;

these, like the others, were noble specimens of art. In a recess near

the fire-place the rough stump-bedstead stood, with its coverlet of

coarse rug.

"That is my bed," said the artist; "you see I use no curtains; they are

most unwholesome, and I breathe as freely and sleep as soundly as if I

lay upon down and snored under velvet. Look there," said he, as he

pointed to a broad shelf high above the bed, "that I consider my

_chef-d'oeuvre_; I think I have been more than a match for them; I have

outdone them at last."

Mr. Burke asked of whom it was he spoke.

"The rats," replied he, "the nefarious rats, who robbed me of every

thing in the larder. But now all is safe; I keep my food beyond their

reach. I may now defy all the rats in the parish."

Barry had no clock, so depended on the cravings of his stomach to

regulate his meals. By this unerring guide, which might have shamed the

most correct regulator in a watchmaker's shop, he perceived that it was

time for dinner; but forgot that he had invited Burke to partake of it,

till reminded by a hint.

"I declare, my dear friend, I had totally forgotten, I beg your

pardon--it quite escaped my memory; but if you'll just sit down here and

blow the fire, I'll get a nice beef-steak in a minute."

Burke applied all his energies to the bellows, and had a nice clear fire

when Barry returned with the steak rolled up in cabbage-leaves, which he

drew from his pocket; from the same receptacle he produced a parcel of

potatoes; a bottle of port was under each arm, and each hand held a

fresh French-roll. A gridiron was placed on the fire, and Burke was

deputed to act as cook while Barry performed the part of butler. While

he laid the cloth the old woman boiled the potatoes, and at five

o'clock, all being duly prepared, the friends sat down to their repast.

Burke's first essay in cookery was miraculously successful, for the

steak was done to admiration, and of course greatly relished by the

cook. As soon as dinner was dispatched the friends chatted away over

their two bottles of port till nine o'clock. Burke was often heard to

say that this was one of the most amusing and delightful days he had

ever spent.

[From Hogg's Instructor.]

THE IRON RING.

A TALE OF GERMAN ROBBERS AND GERMAN STUDENTS.

"I am inclined to side with our friend," said the venerable pastor, "and

I would rather not see you so skeptical, Justus. I have known, in my own

experience, several remarkable instances of presentiments; indeed, on

one occasion, I and those who were with me, all save one, greatly

profited by the strange prophetic apprehension of one of our party.

Would we had listened to him sooner! But it was not so to be."

"Come, tell us the story, dear grandfather," said Justus; "it will

doubtless edify our guest; and, as for me, I do not object to be

mystified now and then."

"Justus, Justus, lay aside that scoffing mask. You put it on, I know, to

look like another Mephistopheles, but you don't succeed."

"Don't I?" returned Justus, with a smile. "Well, grandfather, that ought

to be a comfort to you."

"No, you don't, so you may as well give up trying. But come, if you

would really like to hear the story" (the fact was, that the good man

was anxious to tell it, and feared to lose the opportunity), "I shall be

happy to please you. I think, however, we shall be better out of doors.

Let us go and take our wine under the great plane-tree. You had as well

bring your chair with you, my young friend" (this was addressed to me),

"for the bench is somewhat hard. And Trinchen, my girl, put glasses on a

tray, and some bottles of wine in a pail, and bring them out to us under

the great plane-tree. And you, Justus, my boy, be kind enough to

transport thither this big chair of mine, like a dutiful grandson and a

stout, as you are."

We were soon established in the pleasant shade. The pastor took an easy

posture in his chair, when, after many efforts, Justus had coaxed it

into touching the ground with all its four legs at once; I straddled

across the seat of mine, and, placing my arms on the back, reposed the

bowl of my long pipe on the ground; and Justus, with his cigar in his

mouth--the twentieth, or thereby, that day--threw himself down on the

turf at a convenient distance from the wine-pail, prepared to replenish

our glasses, as need might be. Noble glasses they were, tall and green,

with stalks to be grasped, not fingered.

"It is now nearly sixty years ago," began the pastor, when our

arrangements were complete, "a long time--a long time, indeed, to bear

the staff of one's pilgrimage. I was then in my third year at the

university, and was something like what you are now, Justus--a merry,

idle, and thoughtless student, but not a very bad boy either."

"Thank you, grandfather," said Justus; "however, that accounts for your

being the man you are at your years."

"No, it does not," said the old man, smiling; "but let me tell my story,

my boy, without interrupting me--at least, unless you have something

better to say than that. As I was saying, I was in my third year, and,

of course, I had many acquaintances. I had, however, only two friends.

One was a countryman of yours, young gentleman, and his name was

Macdonald. The name of the other was Laurenberg."

"Why, that was my grandmother's name!" said Justus.

"Laurenberg was your grandmother's brother," continued the pastor, "and

the event I am about to relate to you was the means of my becoming

acquainted with her. But has any one ever told you his fate, Justus?"

"No," said Justus, "I never before even heard of him."

"That is not wonderful, my boy; for, since his sister was taken from me,

there has been no one but me to remember my poor Laurenberg. But, as I

was saying, these two were my only friends. That summer, when the

vacation came, we three resolved to make a pedestrian tour together.

(Fill our glasses, Justus.) So, after some discussion, we decided on

visiting the great Thuringian Forest, and one fine morning off we set.

Just as we got beyond the town, Macdonald said, 'My dear brothers, let

us return; this expedition will bring us no good.' 'You would almost

make one think you were a prophet,' said Laurenberg, with mock gravity.

'And what if I be?' cried the other, quickly. 'Why, then, don't be a

prophet of evil--that is to say, unless you can not help it. Come, my

dear fellow.' 'I tell you,' interrupted Macdonald, 'that, if we go on,

one of us will never see Göttingen again--and Laurenberg, my beloved

Laurenberg, it is you who will be that one. You will never return,

unless you return now. I tell you this, for I know it.' 'Oh, nonsense,'

said the other; 'pray, how do you know it?' It seemed to me that

Macdonald slightly shuddered at the question, but he went on as if not

heeding it: 'He of us three who first left the house, is destined never

to enter it again, and that was the reason why I tried to get out before

you. You, Laurenberg, in your folly, ran past me, and it is thus on you

that the lot has fallen. Laugh if you will; if you had let me go before

you, I would have said nothing; but as it is, I say, laugh if you will,

and call me a dreamer, or what you please, only return, my friends,

return. Let us go back.' 'Let us go on. Forward!' cried Laurenberg; 'I

do not laugh at you, my brother, but I think you are scarcely

reasonable; for either you have truly foreseen what is to happen, or you

have not. If you have, then what is to happen _will_ happen, and we can

not avoid it; if you have not, why, then it will not happen, and that is

all. Either you foresee truly my destiny--' He was going on, but

Macdonald interrupted him: 'It is with such reasoning that men lose

themselves in this world--and in the next,' he added, after a pause.

'Oho! dear schoolfox,' returned the other, 'we have not undertaken our

march to chop logic and wind metaphysics, but, on the contrary, to be

merry and enjoy ourselves. So,' and he sung,

'There wander'd three Burschen along by the Rhine;

At the door of a wine-house, they knocked and went in,

Landlady, have you got good beer and wine?'

'Laurenberg, your gayety is oppressive,' interrupted Macdonald; 'why

sing that song? You know there is death in it.' 'It is true,' replied

Laurenberg, somewhat gravely, 'the poor little daughter of the landlady

lies in her coffin. Another stave, then, if you like it better,

'Up, brothers! up! enjoy your life!'

and so on he went with that stupid song."

"Stupid!" cried Justus, rising suddenly on his elbow; "stupid, did you

say, grandfather?"

"Well, my boy, I think it stupid now, though at your age, perhaps, I

thought differently. But there," continued the pastor, "I was sure of

it; I never can keep both my pipe and my story going at the same time.

Give me a light, Justus. Thank you. Those matches are a great invention.

In our time, it was all flint, and steel, and trouble. Now, fill our

glasses, and then I shall go on again."

Justus obeyed, and his worthy relative thus proceeded:

"Notwithstanding all his singing, Laurenberg was evidently more

impressed by our companion's words than he was willing to own; and, as

for me, I was much struck with them, for your countryman, young

stranger, was no common man. But all that soon wore off. Even Macdonald

seemed to forget his own forebodings. We marched on right cheerfully.

That night we stopped at Heiligenstadt, very tired, for it was a long

way for lads so little used to walking as we were."

"Did you put up at the Post, grandfather?" asked Justus. "It is a

capital inn, and the landlady is both pretty and civil. I staid there

when I went from Cassel to Halle."

"I don't remember where we put up," replied the pastor, "but it is

scarcely likely we put up at the Post. In those days, students preferred

more modest hostelries. Don't interrupt me. The next night we slept at

Dingelstadt; and I remember that at supper Laurenberg knocked over the

salt-cellar, and that Macdonald said, 'See, I told you! every thing

shows it!' Next night we were at Mülhausen, making short journeys, you

see; for, after all, our object was to enjoy, not to tire ourselves.

Mülhausen is a very prettily situated town, and, though I have never

been there since, I remember it quite well. The next afternoon we got to

a place whose name I forget at this moment. Stay--I think it was

Langensalza; yes, it was Langensalza; and the following day we arrived

in Gotha, and lodged at the sign of the Giant, in the market-place.

Gotha is the chief town in the duchy, and--"

Here the worthy pastor diverged into a description of Gotha and its

environs. This, however, I lost, for, the interest of the story ceasing,

I went off into a sort of reverie, from which I was awakened only by the

abrupt cessation of the tale, and the words, "Justus, my boy, you are

not asleep, are you? Give me a cigar; my pipe is out again."

Justus complied, and the old man, leaning his long pipe, with the rich

bowl, against the great plane-tree, received "fire" from his grandson,

lit the Cuba, and, after admonishing the youth to fill our glasses, thus

went on:

"Our new friends were students from Jena. They were each of a different

country. One was a Frenchman; one a Pole; the third alone was a German.

They were making a sort of pilgrimage to the different places remarkable

for events in the life of Luther--had been at Erfurt, to see his cell in

the orphan-house there, and were now going to Eisenach and the Castle of

Wartburg, to visit the Patmos of 'Junker George.' However, on hearing

that we proposed marching through the Thuringian Forest, they gave up

their original plan, and agreed to join us, which pleased us much, for

all three were fine fellows. That night we got to Ohrdruff, and the next

day we set off for Suhl. But we were not destined ever to reach that

town. About noon, Laurenberg said, 'Come, brothers, do you not find this

road tiresome? This is the way every body goes. Suppose we strike off

the road, and take this footpath through the wood. Is it not a pleasure

to explore an unknown country, and go on without knowing where you will

come to? For my part, I would not have come so far only to follow a

beaten track, where you meet carts and carriages, and men and women, at

every step. If all we wanted was to walk along a road, why, there are

better roads near Göttingen. Into the wood, say I! Why, who knows but

there may be an adventure before us? Follow me!' Macdonald would have

remonstrated, but our new friends, and I also, I am sorry to say, felt

much as Laurenberg did, so we took the footpath, and plunged into the

forest. We soon thought ourselves repaid. The solitude seemed to deepen

as we proceeded. Excepting the almost imperceptible footpath, every

thing bespoke the purest state of nature. The enormous pines that

towered over our heads seemed the growth of ages. Great red deer stared

at us from a distance through the glades, as if they had never before

seen such animals as we, and then bounded away in herds. High up we saw

many bustards--"

Here my excellent host launched in a current of descriptive landscape,

which, though doubtless very fine, was almost entirely lost to me, for

my thoughts again wandered. From time to time, the words "valleys,"

"mountains," "crags," "streamlets," "gloom," "rocks," "Salvator Rosa,"

"legends," "wood-nymphs," and the like, fell on my ear, but failed to

recall my attention. And this must have lasted no little time, for I was

at length aroused by his asking for another cigar, the first being done.

"The glen gradually opened out into a plain," resumed the pastor, "and

our progress became easier. We, however, had no idea where we were, or

which way to turn in order to find a resting-place for the night; we

were completely lost, in short. Nevertheless, we pressed on as fast as

our tired limbs would admit of, and after half an hour's march across

the wooded level, we were rewarded by coming on a sort of road. It was,

indeed, nothing more than the tracks of hoofs upon the turf, but we were

in ecstasies at its appearance. After some deliberation as to whether we

should take to the right or to the left along it, we resolved on

following it to the right. Half an hour more, and we saw before us a

house among the trees. It was a cheerful sight to us, and we gave a

shout of joy. 'I trust they will give us hospitality,' said Richter, the

German from Jena. 'If not,' exclaimed his French friend, 'it is my

opinion that we will take it.' 'What! turn robbers?' said the Pole,

laughing. 'It is a likely looking place for robbers,' remarked

Macdonald, looking rather uneasily round him. We soon reached the house.

It was a long building, with low walls, but a very high thatched roof.

At one end was a kind of round tower, which seemed much older than the

rest of the structure. It might at one time have been much higher than

it then was, but in its actual state it scarcely overtopped the gable

built against it. Fill our glasses, Justus, if you please."

"Ready, grandfather," said Justus. "But, before you go on, tell us

something of the personal appearance of Laurenberg and Macdonald. As for

the Jena boys, I don't care about them."

"Laurenberg, Justus, was a tall and very handsome lad. His golden hair

curled over his shoulders, for he wore it very long, and his blue eyes

were like his sister's. Macdonald, again, was rather under the middle

height; his features were dark, and his expression composed, or perhaps,

I should rather say, melancholy. Laurenberg was always gay, vivacious,

and even restless; Macdonald, on the contrary, was usually listless,

almost indolent. But, as you will see, when the time of need came, he

was a man of iron. But where was I? Yes, I remember. Well, we came up to

the door, and knocked at it. It was opened, after a short delay, by a

young girl. The evening shadows were closing in, but, even by the

imperfect light we had, we could see she was very beautiful."

"Ha! grandfather, come, that is very interesting!" cried Justus.