University of Virginia Library

4. BOOK IV.

1. CHAPTER I.
THE FERRY-BOAT.

I have placed the letters contained in the foregoing
book by themselves, because they contain the introduction
to the short drama which I now purpose to relate.

Early in the spring, 1777, and accordingly very soon
after the date of the last letter, I mounted my horse for
my afternoon's canter.

It was on the afternoon of Sunday, and the weather
was mild and delicious for the season.

On my return I stopped by the ferry-boat, and sending
Praise-God home with the horses, I crossed over to
“Dyers” Island.

I am fond of observing the gaiety of the lower classes,
and of a Sunday afternoon this paradise of “the Dyers”
is as pretty a location for that purpose as heart can desire.

The island is in the centre of the river, and the view
of the town, and the mouldering fortifications about it is
very romantic, and very feudal. There is a promenade
of magnificent linden-trees for loungers, a platform and
a band of music for those who are inclined to waltz;
plenty of seats for those who are fatigued or in love, and
and a restaurateur for those who are more substantially
inclined. The latter furnishes the ladies with tea and
ginger-bread, and the gentlemen with beer and tobacco,
at one groschen per cent. advance upon the Prague
prices.

I had been dodging among the trees with my pipe and
poodle, ruminating upon “a mass of things, but nothing
distinctly,” and contemplating with much satisfaction the
good-natured gaiety of the Bohemian artizans, when
some one tapped me on the shoulder.

I turned round. It was a tall, awkward young man,
with very thin legs, and a pair of blue spectacles. He
had a bundle of papers thrust about half way into his
coat-pocket, which, added to the spectacles and his shabby
dress, gave him rather a literary look.

He observed to me that some of his friends were about
to dance a German cotillion, and were in want of one
couple. A lady had been found, but the cavalier was
wanting—“would I be so good?” I told him I was not
fond of dancing, moreover, that it was getting late, and
I was just going home. He made me a very long speech
in reply, which, owing to the uncouth accent in which
it was delivered, I did not more than half understand.
The drift, however, as far as I could make it out, seemed
to be to persuade me that I was particularly fond of
dancing, that it was exceedingly early, and that it was
impossible I could have serious intentions of going home
at present.

As I persisted in declining his invitation, he turned
short about, took my arm confidentially, and assured
me that he cared not a fig for dancing himself, but infinitely
preferred a short conversation with me.

He led the way accordingly to one of the benches, and
as soon as we were seated, drew the ominous roll of
paper from his pocket, and gravely proposed reading to
me the first book of an Epic, in the Bohemian dialect.

It was in vain that I assured him I knew as much of
Chinese as of Bohemian. It was no matter, the rhythm
of his work was so exquisite, that my ear alone would
furnish me with gratification enough. To all other objections
I thought proper to make, he seemed provided
with equally satisfactory answers. At last, I begged
him to return at least to the “dancing board,” and to
defer his lecture till the cotillion was concluded.

He was not more than half satisfied, but consented,
on condition that I should retract my previous refusal,
and join in the dance myself. Any thing was better
than his terrible epic, and I reluctantly gave in. When
we got there, we found they were about beginning without
us. My shabby friend and myself, were, however,
hailed with rapture, and were immediately pressed into
the service. The company consisted principally of postillions,
tinkers, bakers' apprentices, and other representatives
of the more laborious classes of society, and were
all in their Sunday finery, with nosegays in their button-holes.

The girls were dressed out in their best petticoats, and
were flaunting in fine ribbons and holiday caps. Some
of them were very pretty, and they seemed all gay and
happy. I felt in a very philanthropic mood, and was

delighted that I had allowed myself to join the festive
scene.

Presently a pretty little creature with fair hair and
rosy lips, bounced up to my companion, and claimed the
fulfilment of his engagement—and directly afterwards,
a fat wench with the air and figure of a female hippopotamus,
was assigned to me as my partner. I confess
that my philanthropy began to ooze away very rapidly,
and accordingly, as soon as the creature's back was
turned, I bolted without further ceremony.

Impelled by the fear of pursuit, I ran straight through
a double row of quiet burghers and their wives, who
were gravely smoking their pipes, drinking their tea, and
knitting their stockings in the most gregarious and
sociable manner; overset two or three tables, and half a
dozen bottles of beer, received two or three dozen curses,
and never stopped till I had sprung into the ferry-boat,
which was luckily just starting, and ensconced myself
in the snuggest and most distant corner.

It was not till we were fairly under way that I felt assured
of my safety, and began to survey my fellow-passengers.

The only group that excited the least interest were
two ladies attended by three gentlemen; the whole
party apparently superior in rank to most frequenters of
Dyers' Island.

One of the ladies was already advanced in years;
but the other, as far as I could judge from a pair of long
dark eyes, which shone softly through a thick veil, was
both young and pretty.

Two of the gentlemen were Germans, whom I had
frequently seen in Prague, and the third was evidently
an Englishman.

This latter, I hardly know from what reason, for I
had never seen him before, immediately attracted my
attention. He was apparently beyond the middle age,
and with a figure slightly tending to corpulence. He
was dressed with the niceness and accuracy which invariably
mark a well-bred Englishman; and flourished
his switch and his eye-glass with the air of a man who
wishes to appear younger than he is. His features were
regular and handsome, and the teeth still good. In
short, he had the appearance of a well-preserved old
bachelor. His manner was supercilious, and his conversation
seemed to me satirical and ill-natured. From
one or two observations which fell from him, I decided
that he was Sir Doomsday Gules, a gentleman of whom
I had often heard but never seen.

The boat was very full, and just as were half across,
there was a cry that she was sinking. There was a
confusion—in the midst of which some threw themselves
overboard, and some were pushed in by others. I fortunately
retained my seat, but there were many in the
water, and among the rest, the whole party I have been
describing. The Englishman, who could not swim,
was clinging to the boat; one of the Germans was assisting
the old lady, who was his mother; and the third
was magnanimously making for the shore. The young
lady was a couple of yards from the boat, and very near
drowning.

I pointed out the whole affair to Toby, my poodle;
he understood me in a moment, gave me a wink, and
flounced into the water. If I had been a hero and a
booby, I should have jumped overboard of course, and
probably succeeded in reaching the place after she had
sunk. At any rate, it was fated that I should never
win a medal from the life-preserving society.

The poodle, in thirty seconds, had caught the lady by
the dress, and at the same time the boat, as I foresaw,
had yielded to the current and was close alongside of
her.

I supported her with an oar for an instant, and then I
reached out my arms and drew her into the boat. A
few minutes afterwards the boat reached the shore in
safety. The old lady had recovered, and the two Germans
now busied themselves with the younger lady.
Sir Doomsday Gules was carsing his own misfortune.

He sat down on a stone with the most vexed expression
of countenance.

“There's my hat gone,” said he—“the hat that was
purchased new the other day in Vienna, and my stick
with the diamond in the head. Cursed folly it was, by
the way, to put a diamond in a cane like these ostentatatious
beggars on the Continent—and, let me see—yes,
by the Lord, my purse has gone to the bottom too!
Fifteen Louis and a couple of crown dollars, the last of
the last remittance from London. Curse my folly, I
say,—if I ever cross a ferry again, may I be—”

He was interrupted by the wailing of a poor wretch
of a woman, whose husband, a cobbler, had been
drowned in this catastrophe.

“Oh, my dear husband! Oh, my poor, dear, blessed,
miserable Hans! What will become of me? Where
shall I go? What shall I do? Oh, my husband! Oh,
save my husband, sir!” cried she, appealing in her
distraction to Gules.

“Damn your husband, woman,” said the baronet,
“look at my coat,—my last coat—the coat I have worn
but twice, completely drenched, utterly ruined! By the
Lord, the infernal ferryman shall pay me; and I am

taking cold here, too,” rising from his stone, and advancing
towards the rest of the group.

The young lady began to revive, and as she had
already two cavaliers, to say nothing of the Englishman,
I whistled to Toby, and we walked quietly home.

I stumbled over what I took to be a bundle of clothes
on opening the door of my apartments. I lighted a
candle, and examined it, and found it to be the effigy of
a man without a head.

“Praise-God! what the devil is the meaning of
this?” said I to my servant.

“Nothing, sir—only I have been practising.”

“Practising! what do you mean?”

“Nothing, sir—only you were long coming home,
and I had nothing to do, sir. So I took a coat and
trousers from your wardrobe, and stuffed them with a
little straw, sir; and then I tied it in the chair, and
practised a little.”

“Practised what, in the name of Heaven?”

“Look here, sir, and the red-headed scoundrel exhibited
in one hand a double-handed sword, as sharp as
a razor, while in the other he extended a stuffed night-cap
with a paper mask.

“I cut it off, sir, with a single blow. The father
never did it better, and I have been out of practice a long
time. Indeed, sir, it was a shame about Teufel and
Hanswurst—was it not, sir?”

“Practise, indeed,” said I, with a shrug; “the fellow
has been practising executioneering.”

“Shall I bring you your pipe and slippers, sir?
There is some of Count Trump's tobacco left. Adolph,
the Count's man, assured me that his master's two-grosschen
tobacco was—”

“Hold your tongue, sir, and go blow the bellows in
the laboratory.”

“Yes, sir; but does not your excellency think it was
a shame about Teufel and Hanswurst?” And with
this, my respectable valet marched off to the workshop.

“The fellow will cut off my head in his practice,'
said I to myself; “I wonder what Sir Doomsday Gules
would say, if any of his wardrobe were so lacerated as
as this unfortunate coat is.—Let me see, this alkali dissolved
in four ounces and a half of—Psha! that little
drowned girl had a fine pair of eyes of her own; I
wonder if she was English? She never spoke a word.
How pretty she looked after her ducking. Praise God!
Don't make such an infernal noise with the bellows.
Well, I may go and seek the philosopher's stone as well
as another. Devilish fine eyes, certainly!”

2. CHAPTER II.
THE OPERA.

It was by the merest chance in the world that I strolled
the next evening towards the theatre.

I was sick of my studies, and desirous of some relief.
Letters from my own country had moreover occasioned
me some trouble, and I went to the nearest resort for distraction.

When I got into the theatre I was pleased to find that
there was no person of my acquaintance present. The
overture of the much-vaunted opera was played, the curtain
drew up, and with the very first notes of the invisible
songstress my heart was vanquished. I have,

however, no intention of composing any rhapsodies on
the subject. Ten years before, I dare say I should
have become very romantic; as it was, I merely listened
with composure, and felt my heart filled with very
placid and very agreeable sensations. As to the voice, it
seemed to me like a new instrument. The sounds were
beyond and different from all other melody I had ever
heard; and my first wish (prompted, I dare say, by my
recent anatomical studies,) was that I might be present
some day at a post-mortem examination of the actress.
I felt sure that I should discover some new arrangement
of the larynx, or the bronchis, or the windpipe, or the
lungs, by which these rare and exquisite notes were produced.
In short, my enthusiasm, if indeed it amounted
to so considerable a sensation, was purely scientific and
physical.

At last she appeared. She came forward to the foot-lamps.
She was certainly a glorious creature. Her
form was above the middle height, and of the most majestic
and symmetrical development. Her walk was
alone sufficient to make her adorable. I never saw
motions so stately and yet so modest — so lithe—so graceful—so
feminine. There are probably never more than
six women at a time in the world, who can walk: in
general, they shuffle or scuffle, or wriggle, or mince, or
amble, or stride—but Minna Rosenthal walked, and her
walk was perfection.

She reached the extreme verge of the stage, and stood
quietly with her arms folded across her breast. What
was my surprise in beholding in her the resuscitated
divinity of the ferry-boat! It was she indeed; and
while the tenor, a little fellow in a hero's wig, and a helmet
bigger than himself, was making love to her in a

laborious cavatina, I had time to criticise her at my
leisure.

It is rather for the sake of recalling all her particular
charms to my own memory, than in the hope of presenting
her portrait to others, that I am willing to dwell a
few moments on her appearance that evening.

I well know that a brush and colours even in the
fingers of Titian, are but feeble substitutes for the cunning
workmanship of nature; but with a pen for a pencil,
and with only a palette full of recollections, what can
I expect to produce? No matter.

The face was large and oval. The nose was delicate
and straight as the Niobe's; and the eyes stretched boldly
away on either side, broad and long, and leaving space
for a third between the delicate but accurately determined
brows. The whole cast of the features—the cheek—
lip—throat, had the voluptuous faultlessness of a Corregio's
Magdalen; but it was, after all, the singular and
harmonious discord of the eyes and hair, which it seems
to me must have evolved that peculiar charm to which
every heart yielded on first beholding this paragon.

The contrast of golden hair with eyes as dark as night,
is as rare as it is beautiful, and is the secret of half the
beauty of the Venetian schools. Although this was
eminently the character of her face, yet the sober style
of her costume on this particular night, assimilated her
more to the demure but lovely Madonnas of Perrugino
and the youthful Raphael. Her dress was a red boddice,
with a sad-coloured skirt, and her hair was snooded behind,
and smoothed upon her forehead in broad and
heavy folds.

Although I had been studying of late the whole theory
and practice of colours, for,—as will hereafter appear,

I had added the fine arts to my other pursuits,—yet I
own I was utterly perplexed by the shifting hues of those
luxuriant tresses. As she stood in the light, they seemed
a pure, pale gold. She stepped back, they were auburn,
and when fairly in the shade, they were the darkest
chestnut.

In short, she was altogether divine; and I determined
incontinently to burn the copy I had been painting from
Giorgione.

The perriwig-pated fellow finished—she turned to
him. The music died away to a scarcely audible murmur—the
house was still as death. She raised her melting
eyes—she opened her rosy mouth, and hardly were
her lips parted, when an imprisoned and invisible bird
shot from her throat, and floated triumphantly and melodiously
through the air. I swear that this is true.

I shut my eyes, and determined to fall in love with
her as soon as possible.

The whole evening I was in a decidedly romantic
mood, but as soon as I left the theatre, I found myself
relapsing into my usual indifference, and by the time I
reached my lodgings, I had nearly forgotten all my enthusiasm.
I felt provoked with my want of susceptibility,
and summoned Praise-God and his bellows in no
very amiable humour.

2. CHAPTER III.
THE SOIRÉE.

The next evening I went again to the theatre. I stationed
myself in the box close to the stage, and paid for

all the seats, that I might be secure from all interruption.

She stood on the edge of the stage. She was within
a yard of me—she raised her eyes. Did I mistake? or
was there indeed a glance of recognition. Again! there
was no doubt—our eyes met. Her glance was soft—bewildering—almost
loving. And why not? After all, it
would have been very ungrateful if she had forgotten
the owner of the poodle.

Two or three nights after this, I went to a soirée at
Madame von Walldorff's, a woman, to know whom, it
was worth any man's while to expatriate himself. There
was a number of persons present, and Minna was expected.
In the meantime I conversed with the hostess.

Minna entered. I was soon after presented to her. I
flattered myself that there was a flutter in her manner
as she acknowledged my salute. As for me, I cannot tell
why, but I felt but little of the romance and enthusiasm
that I had gotten up at the theatre. She looked as beautiful,
she moved as gracefully, she spoke as melodiously
as ever; but something adamantine within me resisted
her fascination.

She spoke of the ferry-boat adventure, and of her gratitude,
and I introduced Toby as the real hero. I made
fun of the whole business, of course but in the midst of
it all I thought bitterly of another adventure, somewhat
similar in its character, and which I have recorded in a
previous portion of these memoirs.

Judging from the expression of my face, she supposed
that she had vexed me by her allusion to the circumstance,
and soon afterward she made herself very amusing.

I could of course not expect to monopolize her more

than a few seconds, and very soon she was surrounded
by a whole regiment of her admirers. They dragged
her to the harp, they chained her hand and foot. She
sang one or two little ballads, and then protested she
could sing no more. While she was singing she stole
two or three glances at me. I was highly flattered. At
the end of a half hour, however, she pleaded fatigue,
summoned her carriage and retired.

A buzz of admiration succeeded her departure.

“If I could only induce her to sing my Bohemian war
song,” said somebody, taking me by the button.

I turned round—it was my epical friend in the blue
spectacles.

“It would certainly be delightful. I suppose, however,
it would be necessary to instruct her first in the
language.”

“Poh! she is a native Bohemian—she is a countrywoman
of mine—I am a Bohemian. The Bohemian
physiognomy is said to be very peculiar. Fair hair and
dark eyes are thought very handsome—I have fair hair
and dark eyes,” said he, taking off the blue spectacles,
“and Mademoiselle Minna and I are said to resemble
each other. Do you think so?”

“God forbid,” said I, with a shudder; and yet, by
Heaven! when I looked at the wretch. I could not help
acknowledging the truth of his assertion. There was
certainly a very marked resemblance to the divine creature
which loomed through the mist of his ugliness, like
the sun through a fog. It was certainly very extraordinary.
I ran away from the fellow as if he had been a
leper.

I accosted Madame von Walldorff, who was talking
to a bevy of beaux.

“I am glad to see you have at last surrendered at
discretion,” said she to me. “Is not Minna magnificent?”

“Very showy, indeed, and a wonderful voice,” I replied.

“Ah, I knew you would come to terms,” said she.
“By the way, I am glad to see you patronizing my
Bohemian. How did you become acquainted with him?”

I narrated to her the unceremonious commencement
of our acquaintance.

“He is an oddity,” said she, “but he is a young man
of much genius. I have been trying to persuade Sir
Doomsday Gules to make his acquaintance. By the
way, you do not know Sir Doomsday?”

She forthwith introduced us. The baronet made me
a stiff inclination, and then took aim at me for a few seconds
with his eye-glass, as if to criticise the person whom
he had deigned to be made acquainted with. I gave
him a very impudent stare in reply, and I fancy he recollected
me and the circumstances of our recent meeting;
he looked sheepish for an instant, and hung down
his head. He recovered his self-possession, however,
immediately.

“You must certainly patronize the Bohemian, Sir
Doomsday,” said Madame Walldorff. “It is one of
the privileges of exalted rank to become the friend of
artists.”

“Yes, yes,” said the Englishman, “but the fact is, it
is not in my line just now: I wish it was. It is well to
be friends with that sort of people. They are apt to
sting you if you tread upon them too heavily. I am not
very fond of poetry myself, however—”

“But do you admire some your own poets?” said
Madame Walldorff.

“Yes—no—not exactly—some of them.”

“I dare say you write yourself, sometimes,” said the
lady.

“I, good God! what do you mean? I write poetry!”
said Sir Doomsday. “No gentleman writes poetry.
When I get my affairs adjusted I mean to keep a poet,
if I can get a cheap one. I had a valet, just before I
left England, who was very literary. He was a clever
fellow in his way, but he could only write prose. He
got to be very conceited, however, and very useless; so I
turned him off. He was a long time out of place, and
begged hard to come back, but he is now engaged by a
bookseller to write fashionable novels. In that way he
gets higher wages than I could afford to give him. Do
you think your Bohemian could be taught to write English
verse?”

“Unquestionably. But to change the subject, Sir
Doomsday, how came you to let little Minna take herself
off so suddenly?”

“As if I could help it—the tormenting woman! By
the way, shall you go to the birth night ball next month
at Vienna?”

“Perhaps—and you?”

“Yes; Minna is going, I believe—”

“Poh, nonsense! she cannot be presented.”

“I shall beg the English ambassador to introduce her.”

“He will refuse—it is contrary to etiquette altogether.”

“Refuse! oh no, he will not refuse. Psha! as if an
ambassador had a right to refuse me such a request.
What is he stationed there for but to present English gentlemen
and their friends. Contrary to etiquette, indeed!
An ambassador, madame, I regard as merely an upper

servant at court. I should as soon think of my butler's
refusing any of my orders as an ambassador.”

“Were you ever at any of the German courts?” said
Sir Doomsday to me, after concluding his choice dissertation
on ambassadors.

“I had the honour to be once presented to Frederic of
Prussia,” I replied.

“Ah, Frederic! Frederic the Great, they call him.
Dirty fellow—I recollect him—I was never presented
to him. Took snuff immensely—had his waistcoat
pocket lined with tin to save the trouble of opening his
snuff-box. Very filthy fellow!—all Prussians are.”

“I beg your pardon,” said I, “I consider the Prussians
a remarkably neat people, and the court one of the most
elegant as well as the most accomplished in Europe.
Frederic the Great is certainly the greatest man of the
age, and is no less distinguished for his literary abilities
than for the prowess of his arms.”

“Yes,” said Sir Doomsday, “oh, I recollect, I have
heard. He has gained several victories, they say—he is
always in hot water. But I know nothing about him—
I never read the papers. He wrote some farces, too, but
they were all damned—`Jack at all trades but good at
none. Voltaire humbugged him completely—made an
ass of the fellow. It was very amusing their correspondence.”

At this juncture, I saw the Bohemian making towards
us, and as I was getting tired of the party, I took French
leave that I might avoid him.

4. CHAPTER IV.
BARON KINSKI.

The next opera night I was of course in my favourite
box. There was no doubt of the interest which I most
unwittingly, God wot! had contrived to excite in her.

The moment she recognized me at my post, her eyes
glistened with pleasure, and there was scarcely an interval
in which they did not seem clandestinely to be seeking
mine—all this was as unexpected as it was delightful.

This evening it was a different opera. The dress in
which she was now arrayed, was richer than her usual
costume, and displayed her gorgeous and most picturesque
beauty to singular advantage.

She was a sultana, and wore a robe of rich Indian
fabric, and of a thousand dyes; her golden hair fell
from beneath a graceful and sibylline turban; a necklace
of pearls hung round her snowy throat; her arms
were bound with bracelets, and her fingers glittered with
rings.

She was like one of Titian's most voluptuous creations.

The music was worthy to be sung by her, but it is
not my intention to write a critique on the opera.

The next evening we were all at a soirée at Kinski's.
She was singularly entertaining. She acted a charade
composed by herself, which occupied five minutes in
representation. She sang half a dozen comic songs.
She dressed herself like a Bohemian gipsy, and told
fortunes. She danced a Styrian dance with old Baron

Kinski. She conversed in all languages;—in short, she
seemed determined to display herself:—and she did—
she was certainly a miracle of a woman.

At last, we all went to supper. There were not more
than a dozen persons present. We sat down and made
ourselves comfortable. The repast was enlivened by a
thousand brilliant sallies from Minna She was also
well seconded by the host, who seemed to renew his
youth in the sunny influence of the enchanting
girl.

At last, as the repast was nearly concluded, Kinski
entered into a long discussion with me on galvanism.
The subject, which was of so recent invention, had necessarily
attracted much of the attention of this votary
of science, and I was anxious to obtain some of his
views in relation to it. It is due to politeness to state
that our conversation had been carried on sotto voce;
for although I was getting weary of the society of those
present, not even excepting the actress, I was not savage
enough to display it. Owing, however, to the interest
which had spread from one to another as the animated
description of the Baron became more eloquent, the conversation
of the others had ceased, and all were listening
to the scientific lecture.

“What a tiresome old man you are!” said Minna,
yawning disconsolately in his face, as he concluded his
exposition.

“Have you no more compassion for an old professor—
well—well—I see you have no head for the sciences;
so come and sing the commencing aria of the last night's
opera.” It was the most favourite of all her melodies.
A general burst of supplication followed the request of
the Baron.

“I shall do no such thing—I am determined never to
sing another song!” was the reply.

“I shall not let you off—who ever heard of such wilfulness—come
away to the harp directly. If you do not
behave yourself better, I shall not come to the opera for a
month!”

“Tanto meglio—but, indeed, I cannot sing!” said
Minna. “Now, don't ask me again, that's a good man.
I hate to sing except to individuals!”

As she said this, I can take my oath, she shot a glance
at me.

“Why you little piece of obstinacy!”—began Kinski.

“Now, no names, if you please Baron Kinski!” interrupted
Minna.

“Well, my dear child,” said the old gentleman, “what
stuff to say you only sing to individuals, when you sing
to the whole public every night.”

“Ah—but the public is to me an individual. When
I sing in the theatre, I sing to one general ear, and one
general heart, if it may be. But here in your saloon,
there is the Baron Kinski, and Sir Doomsday, and
Madame Walldorff, and this gentleman who despises
music!” said she, smiling reproachfully at me.

I felt half convinced that her refusal to sing was in
consequence of our scientific conversation. I was little
enough to enjoy the petty triumph of having piqued her
without intending it. We all went into the saloon. I
engaged in conversation with Minna—most of the others
sat down to cards.

“You will pardon my barbarism at supper,” said I,
“The fact is I hate to see you except when we are alone.”

“Why, we were never alone in our lives!” said she,
with a look of wonder.

“Have you forgotten what you said but an instant
ago? I tell you, that it is in the same spirit, I feel I am
communing directly with you, when we are in the midst
a thousand. Rills may flow from mountains that are
thousands of miles asunder; when they meet together
in the multitudinous ocean their very existences are
mingled. Have not our eyes met when none dreamed
of it? Say, say it was not my imagination only.”

We were far from the rest of the company. I seized
her hand—she did not withdraw it—she faltered something
in reply. A footstep appproached—it was Sir
Doomsday.

Before the near-sighted lover was aware of our presence,
we had vanished together into the music-room.

She had recovered from her confusion. She raised
her drooping lashes, and with her dark, pleading eyes
fixed upon mine, she sank beside her harp, and, without
a word of preface or apology, sang the melody she had
just refused the rest. I felt the full force of the favour.

The moment she had ended, I heard company approaching;
I stole a look at Minna, which was understood
and returned; and then I hastened from the house.

5. CHAPTER V.
CARLSBAD.

Let me not dwell upon details. I am anxious to hurry
over these darkest passages of my life. Suffice that in
a very short time Minna became mine, utterly and entirely
mine.

Of course, our intercourse was a profound secret from

the world. We met in society as the most ordinary acquaintance,
and such was our precaution, that not even
a breath of scandal had attached itself to her reputation.

I look back upon this whole affair with feelings sometimes
nearly allied to madness. Throughout that whole
amour, I feel that I was heartless, selfish, criminal. I
was loved to the uttermost of a woman's passionate
heart. I was loved by a being who had recklessly surrendered
her whole existence to me; and yet I loved her
not.

Guilty we were; for I have no intention of palliating
the conduct of either. Guilty we were; but, alas! I
was by far the most criminal.

Her conduct was at least excused by her love; it was
at least purified, as far as might be, by the fire of passion.
But I—I was heartless and cold; and it was only
by an effort of the imagination that I was enabled to
persuade myself that I returned her passion.

Of course these reflections came later. At the time
my vanity was excited, and I realized the charm that
so many have delighted in, of being loved.

But even my vanity was of temporary duration.
When I looked around and saw what men had been
loved by what women;—when I saw the apes who had
been hallowed by woman's blind and Egyptian adoration;—I
shrunk from the category, and felt inclined to
base my vanity on any other foundation than on this.

For the present, however, it was natural that I should
behave like a lover. Any deficiency of warmth was set
down by myself to a change in my natural character;
and if perceived by her at all, did not at first occasion
any uneasiness.

I remember that I have often, in the midst of our

most passionate interviews, recollected something in relation
to my scientific employments, which I was unwilling
to forget, and have coolly taken out my note-book
and made a memorandum, as if I had been alone, or in
the most indifferent company.

Such incidents as these could not of course fail to
make her uneasy, but she trusted still; and who does
not know how boundless, how unfathomable, is a
woman's faith.

The opera season was now over; we remained of
course in Prague. Minna had resisted several invitations
to the country. Baron Kinski had gone to Carlsbad,
and Madame von Walldorff was entertaining Pappenheim
and his wife with several others at her
château, which was in the vicinity of that celebrated
watering-place.

Finding it impossible to resist a pressing invitation to
join the party, and really wishing to pay my respects to
the couple who have figured in another part of these memoirs,
I resolved to make my escape for a few days.

Knowing that I should never be able to tear myself
away from Minna if I apprised her of my intentions in
person, I merely wrote a letter to be delivered to her after
my departure, and leaving Praise-God and the skeletons
in possession of my apartment, I decamped for a few
days.

The day after my arrival, I received a letter from
Minna; she acknowledged the justness of my argument,
reproached me less than I deserved for my precipitate
flight, consoled herself with my promise to return within
the week, and concluded as follows:—

“Indeed, dearest, you must soon return. Recollect
that I have no existence now, but in yours. My whole

being is bounded in my love as in a circle. It seems that
it never had a beginning, and, ah! I am sure it cannot
have an end.

“Alas! Morton, you must return. You have taken
me from myself. I have no repose now but in forgetfulness,
and I have no forgetfulness except in your arms.
It is only when I am alone that I realize how I am fallen.
It is only when I am alone that I see that I am
guilty. But, alas! there are moments when I descend
into the very bottom of my heart; when the inmost recesses
of my whole nature are revealed to me, and then
I shudder as I gaze. And yet there is blessed light which
shines from the deepest caverns of my heart, and in
whose blessed influence I feel I am not yet utterly wretched.
It is the light of your love, dearest Morton.

“Indeed, you must return; I am too forlorn without
you. It seems to me that as soon as you leave me I am
delivered over to the power of something unholy; I seem
to pass into a demon's arms. I try to pray every night,
but I cannot. I cannot pray—Morton, I cannot pray
as once I did—I cannot believe as I once did.

“I was till lately one of those fortunate mortals who
believe, as children believe, because, and what, they are
told.

“At any rate, I made belief the foundation of whatever
feeble reasoning I was capable of, for I was not
strong enough, and had no inclination to make an approved
reasoning the foundation of my belief. Ah, they
are happy!—are they not, dearest?—those mortals who
are still as children; and how does the remembrance of
the early prayer of my childhood, profferred without a
doubt that it would be heard, before the knowledge of
good and evil, of the world and of men, had led my soul

astray—come over my spirit now. I stand alone and
dismayed on a dreary and a barren waste; I feel alike
unable to reach the far distant paradise of truth, or to
return to the green spot of innocence and security, whence
I have too far wandered. And lo! in the midst of this
arid desert, the remembrance of that early prayer descends
upon me, like the cooling and blessed dew of
Heaven; soothing the scorching breeze, and moistening
the dreary sands.

“But alas! I cannot renew that prayer, although its
memory is sweet. Come back to me, dearest, for you
are now my heaven and my god!”

Will it be believed, that in spite of this and one or two
more equally urgent letters, I far overstayed the appointed
time. I was in pleasant society. We made each
other gay in recalling past adventures; and I, selfish
wretch that I was, knew that a fond heart was breaking
in my absence; and I even looked forward with apprehension
to a return to the alternate calms and whirlwinds
of her stormy love.

I had, however, set out so far on my return, that I
had left Walldorff and returned to Carlsbad; I passed a
day or two there, in the society of Kinski, and intended
to return the next day.

I was walking up and down the magnificent promenade
on the same afternoon, and musing over the events
of my past life, when I perceived a slight but elegant
young man approaching me; I was about to pass him
with a hasty glance, when he stopped me and seized me
suddenly by the arm. His eyes flashed upon me with
indignation, and I was about resenting the impertinence,
when a deep low voice stole to my heart.

“Have you forgotten me so soon?” said the stranger.

It was Minna!

She was very angry with me. I found some means
of pacifying her for the moment at least, and we returned
to my lodgings.

I discovered, however, that she was by means satisfied
with the excuses I had given her for my prolonged absence,
and there seemed to be something still hanging
on her mind.

By degrees, I drew from her that she had, in the latter
part of my absence, become the victim of an anonymous
letter-writer; one of the serpent-hearted scoundrels
(whether male or female) who are not assassins only because
they are even too cowardly for that profession.

She had been induced to believe that my absence
from Prague was protracted by an amour in Carlsbad;
the name of the lady in question was mentioned, and it
happened that I had never seen or heard of her.

The most absurd part of the whole affair was, that
Minna, immediately on her arrival, had discovered the
address of this person and despatched a letter to her. Little
by little, I drew from her the contents of this letter.
It was nothing more nor less than a challenge. She had
dared her supposed rival to mortal combat, assigned the
place, and engaged to provide the weapons, and I have
no doubt would have carried the affair through, for she
had the spirit of a tigress.

Whether her antagonist would have accepted her polite
invitation or not, is at least problematical. Luckily
my meeting with Minna prevented the ridiculous catastrophe.

The next day we returned to Prague.

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE POET.

There was now an end to her faith. She tried to trust
me, but it seemed to be always with an effort. And yet
I had in reality done nothing to excite her suspicion.

Very soon after our return, I discovered that I existed
under the strictest surveillance. When I came to her
lodgings after one or two days' absence, she would question
me of the reasons for various trifling occupations in
which I had happened to be busied.

“Why were you in Troddel's shop an hour after breakfast
yesterday? Why did you buy three ounces of copper
in the evening, when you had bought four the same
morning? How came you to be three hours at Baron
Kinski's yesterday, and why was Praise-God allowed to
be absent the whole afternoon last Wednesday? Who
lives in the yellow house in the Neustadt with the balcony
in front, and who sent the flowers which were found
on the pavement last evening?”

These and similar questions, with which she was in the
habit of saluting me, excited my astonishment. At first
I attributed them to chance, and supposed that she must
have met me abroad without my being aware of it, or
had received accidental information from her servants;
but at last, so minute and so complete was her knowledge
of my conduct during every hour that I was away
from her, that I became certain that I was the object of
a close espionage.

It was in vain that I exerted myself to discover the
means by which the secret information was obtained; it
was in vain that I invented all sort of stratagems, and
summoned Praise God to my assistance, to carry on the
most ingenious counterplots. It was all useless; the
enemy was too wily for me. I never discovered a clue to
her sources of information, and it was a long time, and
too late, before I was better instructed.

Of course all these events did not increase my languid
affection. Still, however, they served for a time to tease,
to perplex, to irritate, and to interest me.

I was so innocent of having given her any real cause
for jealousy, that I was apt to be rather entertained than
otherwise, by the occasional vague suspicions which it
was so easy for me to dissipate.

It is disagreeable for me to dwell on those shadows of
a character, which was intended originally, I am persuaded,
for that of a perfect woman. Our course of life
continued for some weeks much the same.

She received her friends occasionally at her lodgings,
when all the dilettanti of Prague were sure to be present.
Sir Doomsday Gules was as devoted as ever,
although his attentions had naturally ceased to afford
her the amusement which they had originally done.
Sometimes, however, in her moments of gaiety, she
would laugh at the unfortunate baronet; and at the
whimsical struggles which now and then were visible
between his chivalry and his economy.

“Have you been long in Prague?” said Sir Doomsday
to me one evening.

“A few months only,” said I. “I believe it is a
favourite city of yours.”

“Very; it is the cheapest town of its size in Europe.”

“I suppose you pass some of your summers in Töplitz
and Carlsbad?” said I.

“I used regularly to pass eight weeks of every year,
from the middle of June to the middle of August, in
Töplitz; but I have given it up now.”

“I am surprised to hear that,” said I. “I know few
prettier spots in Germany than Töplitz, it is just the
place to which I should think one would get attached,
from an habitual residence there.”

“Yes, but the fact is, the town has been getting
fashionable; the Emperor of Russia, the Elector of
Bavaria, and all that sort of people are flocking to the
place. The prices rise immediately. However, I care
very little about it; it has got to be too common.”

“And you pass your summer here, at present?” said I.

“Yes, but I shall perhaps take a run in Styria for a
month or two. I am told the mountains are almost
as fine as in Switzerland, and the expenses are a great
deal less. But I shall spend my winter in Prague. I
am very well satisfied.”

“Yes,” said I, “the Bohemians are an honest race.”

“So, so,” said the Baronet. “But let me advise you
to avoid the Jews' quarter. Do not be allured by the
asserted cheapness of some of the shops there. If you
should ever happen to be in love in Prague, don't buy
presents of the Jews. I purchased some articles of
Solomons in the Juden strasse, and discovered that
a shawl was second-hand and threadbare, and some
trinkets, which I paid a round sum for, were all false!”

“I shall certainly take your advice,” said I, “but in
the mean time let us go to the music-room?”

Minna sang two or three songs that night. They
were all mournful; and her voice was as plaintively
sweet as the wall of a fallen angel.

When I returned home, my way led me by one of
the principal churches. I was pausing for a few moments
to contemplate in the moon-light, the Gothic
splendour of its architecture, when I perceived something
moving in the adjacent burying-ground. It was a man,
who seemed to be musing among the tombstones. There
was, however, nothing very interesting about him, and
after having looked at him a few moments, I turned to
leave the place.

“Hillo—hillo!” cried the stranger, as I was commencing
my retreat. “Hillo!—a word with you, if you please?”

It was my Bohemian friend, the epic poet. I did not
feel inclined to sleep as it was a pleasant night, and felt
no objection to a little conversation with this whimsical
character. I leaped accordingly over the low wall of
the burial ground, and was at his side. He was seated
quietly on a broad low monument, and was gazing complacently
at the moon. Although he had called me, he
seemed no longer aware of my presence, and was certainly
in no hurry to acknowledge the promptness with
which I had accepted his invitation.

At last, he looked up at me for a moment, and pointing
to a flat tombstone very near his own position, he
motioned to me to be seated. I complied with his request,
and after a moment he again relapsed into meditation.

“Prague,” said he, at last breaking the silence,
“Prague was built in the year— I've studied the
history of the empire lately. Prague was built probably
somewhere between the years 800 and 1300. Now reflect
how many more people have died here, than are
now living. How many more dead men there are in
this very grave-yard, than are live people in the whole
city. Stay—I made a calculation yesterday.”

He took a dirty bit of paper scrawled all over with
numbers and mathematical figures from his pocket.

“Here,” continued he. “Look at this diagram?
A. represents the living. B. the dead. Now allowing
so many to be the number of births in one generation,
which we will call X. and C the number of centuries;
and dividing the whole by Y. which I take to be the
average number of persons buried here, there will be a
certain immense number of ghosts in this one enclosure.
I have not quite finished the calculation. I am not quick
at figures—perhaps you are. Here take it, you can
solve the problem for yourself at your leisure!”

With this he thrust the paper into my hand, and continued
his singular oration.

“So many ghosts are much better company than a
few living mortals. The more the merrier. My disposition
is social, very social. I come here of a pleasant,
rainy evening, and sit on this stone, (the tomb of my old
friend, Count Rosenberg.) I wait till the clock strikes
twelve. Then all the old fellows come out of their
graves—old fellows of all centuries. What dresses!
It's your only place for studying the costumes and the
manners of the past. I'm writing a history, you know;
very good it will be of course, and many an important
piece of information I have received from my friends
here. Well, they come out at the stroke of the clock.
They all assemble. They walk gravely about. They
dance the Polonaise, and then they waltz. Funny
fellows! How they whirl! Of a bright night they look
so gay and happy, with their white bones glancing in
the moonlight, and their old musty skulls grinning for
joy. And they whirl about, and the stars whirl too;
and the toads and the rats creep out of their corners, the

bats flap their cool smooth wings in your face; and the
moon shines down on the whole so calmly. Delightful!”

“Very delightful!” said I. “But it must be dull for
you to be alone among all these amusing people—you a
living man!”

“I a living man!” said my companion, “I a living
man! Bless your soul, I have been dead these hundred
years!”

“Indeed, I was not aware of your decease before.”

“Yes, yes,” said the poet, “Martinez killed me,
shabby fellow! Here's my tomb. Remarkably pretty
epitaph. Let me read it to you?”

He dragged me to a tomb at a little distance, and read
me a couple of doggrel verses.

“There,” said he, “very pretty is it not? Very
pretty sculpture too—sweet cherub—some mischievous
boy has knocked his nose off—how sacrilegious? but I
am to be appointed minister of finance to-morrow. I
shall institute a fund for the repairing of all honourable
monuments.”

The clock struck twelve.

“There they come—there they come! hurrah!”
shouted he, “We must join with them at once. They
are dancing already.”

With this he seized me round the waist, and began
waltzing furiously about, till after a short time, we
stumbled over a tombstone, and lay sprawling in a bed
of nettles.

7. CHAPTER VII.
A SCENE.

One day I was absent from my lodgings in the morning.
I left a packet of old letters lying accidentally upon
the table.

On my return, I was informed by Praise-God, that
Minna had paid me a visit; but I did not find the bunch
of flowers upon the table, which she was in the habit of
leaving when she found me absent. I missed also the
packet of letters.

I went to see her in the evening. She was alone.
She was weeping. I went forward to console her. I
put my arms around her; but she repulsed me.

“Away from me, serpent!” she cried.

As this polite welcome was not exactly to my taste,
and as she had of late grown so unaccountably capricious
and unreasonable, that I could make nothing of
her, I was preparing to take her at her word, and to
make my exit.

She sprang from her recumbent position. She threw
herself between me and the door. She folded her arms
upon her bosom.

“Do you think to leave me thus? You would desert
me wholly, would you not? Monster—I know your
perfidy; but do you not dread my vengeance?”

To these interesting queries I returned no answer.
She held up the packet of letters, and continued to upbraid
me.

“Yes, all your perfidy. You reproached me for listen

ing to the counsels of my nameless adviser.” (The infernal
anonymous assassin had been at his work
again.) “But have I one enemy, whose arts are darker,
more treacherous, or more subtle than your own? Is
there any dagger keener than that with which you have
smitten me? You, to whom I gave my whole soul! Are
not these your letters—is not this your name? Your
very address in Prague?”

“No doubt of it,” said I coolly, and smiling in her
face.

“Perjured, heartless wretch!” she cried; “but thank
God there is yet revenge.”

She bounded towards me like a panther. She drew
a poignard from her bosom, and struck at me with all her
force. I grew pale as I felt the cold sharp steel pass through
my flesh. She drew back the dagger. It was reeking
with blood. She threw it down with despair. She uttered
a wild cry, and threw herself in my arms.

“Alas! alas! I have slain him. Speak to me, Morton—my
own, own Morton! Say I have not killed you.
Forgive me, for the love of God, forgive me. I was mad.
I was frantic. Speak to me—speak to me!”

She hung upon my neck, and covered me with frantic
kisses. I was already aware, that I was but very
slightly wounded. By good luck the weapon had passed
through the fleshy part of my shoulder. It was but
a scratch; but there was no doubt that in her rage she
intended to kill me. The moment she saw my blood,
the woman revived within her. She forgot all her anger
—all my supposed crimes, and remembered but her love.
She dragged me to the sofa. She tore my dress from
my arm. The blood was flowing fast. She kissed the
wound. She plucked a scarf from her neck and staunched

the hurt, and then she threw herself upon the ground
and wept as if her heart would break.

I saw the advantage I had gained. I arose and took
from the table the packet of letters.

“If you had not been blinded by your jealousy, and
utterly besotted by the fell counsels of your nameless correspondent,
you would have seen the worth of these important
documents.”

As I spoke I pointed out to her the date of the letters.
They were all six years old. I recalled to her mind that
I had occupied my present lodgings during my former
residence in Prague.

She was struck dumb at the wretched absurdity of
her conduct. She clasped my knees, and besought my
forgiveness.

I was frightened at her reckless vehemence. She
was a child in the tumultuous and ungovernable flow
of her passions. She lay on the sofa almost choking
with contending emotions. I was frightened—I was
afraid her reason would give way. She spoke wildly
and incoherently, but unceasingly implored my pardon.

By degrees I pacified her. I assured her of my forgiveness,
of my unabated love. I kissed her forehead
and her eyes, and at last she sobbed herself to sleep.

When she was fairly asleep, I placed her head gently
upon the pillow, and stole noiselessly away.

When I got into the street, I lighted a cigar and strolled
homeward. On my arrival I sent Praise God for a
surgeon, had my arm comfortably bandaged, and then
went to bed. A few days afterwards the tables were
temporarily turned.

One evening I came unexpectedly to her house. As
I entered her boudoir, I observed a visible agitation in

her manner. At the same time I saw a man
skulking behind a screen. When he saw he was perceived,
he made for a side-door. I saw him distinctly.
Wonder upon wonder! It was the crazy Bohemian
poet. I own I never dreamt of a rival in him; but I
had seen too much of women, to be surprised at any of
their tastes.

I sprang towards him. He was too quick for me.
He escaped through the door which he bolted on the
outside. Directly afterwards I heard him descending
the stairs.

I threw myself of course into a violent passion. I
demanded what the fellow was doing there. She assured
me that there was nothing of which I had a right
to complain. She treated the idea of my jealousy with
contempt. She seemed struck with wonder when she
found I was serious in my suspicions. She began another
scena. In the midst of it, a closely-written letter
caught my eye. It was from the Baron Kinski, and began
“my dearest love.” I was surprised, and looked at
the direction. It was, indeed, addressed to Minna.
“What the Baron too!” cried I, in a rage. “What an
old wretch!” She seemed as unable to account satisfactorily
for this letter as for the appearance of the poet.
She protested, however, that my thoughts were groundless
and ridiculous; but she regretted that there was a
mystery about herself which she could not for the moment
explain.

I was incredulous. I told her so. She continued her
scena. I shall hurry over it, for I will not fatigue my
readers.

“You shall believe me. You know I am innocent.
Tell me that you believe me innocent,” said she, imperiously.

I laughed and shook my head.

“Do not make me hate you,” said she. “I was a
woman—I am a woman no longer. You have called
me an angel—have you never heard of a fallen one?”

I was weary of her heroics. I took up my hat and
was bidding her good morning—I was not to get off so
easily—she again intercepted me, and then she folded
her arms and came close to me. There was a majesty
about that woman which it was difficult to resist. She
was a perfect Medea, and there was something in the
dark light of her eye that made your very heart-strings
quiver.

“Is it possible?” said she—“Do I not dream?” Her
voice was placid, her mien was perfectly composed. She
laid her hand upon my forehead, and smoothed the hair
gently from my brows. She gazed calmly upon me.

“And while I look upon you, can I believe you such
a heartless knave? You would go away, now. You
have planted the arrow in my heart, and now you will
leave it rankling there. Go, then, go—you have won
and worn me; and now you will crush me like a broken
toy.

“Tremble, Morton, tremble! I shall be fearfully
avenged. You know me—but you do not know me
well. You know the woman, but you have yet to know
the fiend. I tell you I shall be revenged.”

As she spoke, her woman's hand clutched my arm
with the gripe of a giant. Her voice was very low, and
her manner was perfectly placid. I had never seen her
in this mood before. I began to feel chilly, to grow irresolute,
for the calm rage of a woman is as awful as
her vociferations are ludicrous and contemptible.

I determined not to be frightened, however. She

asked me once more, “Do you solemnly believe you have
cause for jealousy?”

I answered in the affirmative.

“Then go,” said she, `for I despise you.”

As she spoke, she flung the door open. I hesitated a
moment, and then walked hastily out.

8. CHAPTER VIII.
A LETTER.

When I got home I found a foreign letter upon my table.
It was from America. I read it, and was thrown
into excessive agitation. In a single instant the whole
current of my thoughts was changed. In a single instant
the petty passion which accident and ennui had fanned
into a flickering and temporary flame, expired. In a single
instant Minna was nothing to me. Her image vanished
from my heart as instantaneously as if I had never
sought to give it a resting-place there.

It hardly needed this to prove to me how utterly inane
and worthless had been the sentiment with which I had
repaid her deep affection.

With a passing curse upon my heartlessness, with a
passing pang of regret for my insensibility, I resolved to
annihilate the whole connexion. I endeavoured to persuade
myself that my suspicions were well founded,
although my whole nature rebelled against the attempt.
I sought to justify my conduct by a miserable juggling
with my own conscience. So faithless was I, that I
sought to cheat myself.

I remained absent several days.

After the lapse of nearly a week, I found a letter on

my table. It was in her handwriting. I enclosed it in
a blank sheet, and sent it to her address.

The next morning there was another, which met the
same fate; and the next morning I returned to Carlsbad.

I remained there a week. On my return I found
seven letters — I sent the whole packet to her house without
note of comment or inquiry.

After this I heard no more of her for some days. After
the expiration of a week I began to feel uneasy. Such
was the perversity of my nature, that the moment when
she seemed to have summoned her woman's pride to her
assistance, and to have determined to reciprocate my
coolness, my affection revived. I grew every day more
anxious. Every morning when I awoke, I inquired if
there were no letters, and with each successive disappointment
I grew more sick at heart. Every time my
door-bell sounded, I started from my chair, and every
step in the passage I imagined to be Minna's Still I
would not go to her house. At last one morning Praise-God
entered with a letter in his hand.

I snatched it from him. It was only an invitation
from Madame von Walldorff, who had returned to
Prague.

“Perhaps she will be there,” thought I; and I was
impatient till the evening should arrive.

I went to Madame von Walldorff's. Minna was
there; I never saw her so beautiful. I accosted her —
there was not a flutter in her manner.

She spoke to me as if I had been the most indifferent
acquaintance. I was irritated beyond bearing. I endeavoured
to pique her. She answered all my attempts with
a look of wonder. I was completely baffled. Some company
approached us, and I was obliged to leave her; my

agitation was becoming excessive. Half an hour afterwards
she was alone, and seated in a retired window;
I advanced towards her, determined to come to an understanding
at once.

The moment she saw me approaching, she rose from
her seat and crossed the room towards Madame Walldorff.
She was then in the midst of a circle, and five
minutes afterwards she sat down to ecarté with Sir
Doomsday.

I rushed from the house in a rage.

I lay awake most of the night, pondering unutterable
revenge. The next day I was calmer, and I determined
to see her immediately. Early in the forenoon I proceeded
directly to her house.

When I was within a few yards of the door, her carriage
drove up. I waited an instant, and presently
Minna appeared. She was handed into the carriage by
a gentleman, who got in immediately after. They drove
by me, and saluted me formally. The gentleman was
the infernal poet.

I gnashed my teeth, and vowed revenge. Turning
the corner I blundered against Sir Doomsday. The
concussion was violent, the baronet stumbled into the
gutter. Instead of falling into a passion like a booby, he
commenced wiping his coat sleeves with his pocket handkerchief.
When that was finished, he begged my pardon;
I accepted it of course, and felt already in better
spirits. I was delighted with his miserable and muddy
condition.

His lodgings were hard by; he went up stairs to refit,
and begged me to accompany him. I hardly know how
it was that we sat down to ecarté. The baronet was a
passionate lover of the game; and as he was very cool,

and very scientific, and as he moreover always played for
small points, he rather increased his income by his cards.

I determined, if possible, to win his money. I knew
that nothing would so annoy him as to lose any considerable
sum. Fortune favoured me; little by little I egged
him on. How I was enabled to carry him so far, I know
not; but at last, from playing four-kreutzer points, we
came to betting a thousand dollars on a single game. I
won two doubles in succession. Sir Doomsday stopped—
he was a loser to the tune of four thousand crown-dollars.
He would play no more. His face was perfectly white and
his lip trembled. He kept, however, his temper admirably;
it is a gift which is possessed by most Englishmen.
He was calm, although that morning had annihilated
the economical practices of a year.

He wrote a check on his bankers for the amount. I
pocketed it, while I expressed my regret, and assured
him of my readiness to afford him his revenge.

“Thank you—thank you,” said he, “but it is quite
unnecessary. I shall never touch a card again. This
is exactly the catastrophe which I always contemplated
as possible, and for which I was provided. I have long
had a sum set by expressly for this purpose. When I
first began to play, I thought I might on some occasion
be tempted beyond my depth. I named a certain sum,
and determined if I ever lost so much at a single sitting,
I would play no more. Let me see.”

He took out his tablets and referred to a memorandum.

“What I have lost to-day,” continued he, “comes
within three dollars of the exact sum. My gaming is
finished. I am much obliged to you, Mr. Morton, for I
was getting tired of it, and I shall now never be tempted
to play again. Let me see.”

He again referred to his memoranda.

“Yes,” said he, “I thought so. I am on the whole a
gainer. Deducting these four thousand four hundred
and twenty dollars, I remain a gainer in the last fifteen
years of seven hundred and ninety pounds, fifteen shillings
and four pence. So you see I have nothing to
complain of. Good morning, Sir—good morning.”

I left the house, drew the money, and laid it out in purchasing
an annuity for the faithful Praise-God. I had
long been determined to provide for him in case of any
contingency; but I was well pleased that it was done at
the expense of Sir Doomsday instead of my own.

In the evening I went to a soirée at Kinski's. I knew
Minna would be there, and I determined to meet her on
her own ground. My eyes lighted upon her the moment
I entered the room. She seemed to have been expecting
me. There were many persons assembled. They were
mostly people of my acquaintance. I talked with every
body. I did not even look at Minna. Whenever my
eyes fell accidentally in the direction of her seat, I observed
that she was endeavouring to attract my attention.
I frustrated all her attempts.

It is a fact which I shall leave to metaphysicians to
speculate upon if they choose, that at the very instant I
perceived her resolution giving way, and knew that her
passion remained unchanged (all which her single
anxious glance informed me,) I felt my whole factitious
love die away in my bosom. I felt and was in reality as
indifferent as I had been. I think this would have been
so, in spite of the letter to which I have alluded.

I chatted with Kinski. I talked politics with Madame
Walldorff, and the moment Minna sat down to her harp,
I lounged into the next room.

The singing was soon finished. There was a little
bustle in the room, but I was in earnest conversation
with an artist whom I had found in the library, and
heeded it not.

When I returned to the saloon, I was informed that
Minna had become suddenly unwell, that in the midst
of her song she had nearly fainted, and that after having
partially recovered she had immediately left the house.
It was of course attributed to the heat of the rooms,
though Heaven is my witness, that the house was as
cold as Iceland. I remained quite late. There were one
or two persons present whom I had not met for a long
time, and the hours passed insensibly away. It was
past midnight before I reached my lodgings.

When I arrived Praise-God had gone to bed. I was
a little vexed, for I had some important directions to give
him. I determined, however, to defer them till the
morning and passed into the parlour for a candle.

There was none there, but the moonlight streamed
broad and full through the lofty windows. Presently
something moved from a distant corner. A female figure
advanced towards me. It was Minna.

I felt perfectly vexed—for I already hated her. I
threw myself on the sofa and began to whistle. She
came and sat down by my side. She took my hand. I
did not withdraw it. Her own was icy cold.

“Do not be afraid,” said she, “there shall be no more
scenes. You do not love me—you never did?”

Her voice was calm. I answered not a word. She
spoke the truth indeed.

“You were jealous of the Bohemian poet—he is my
brother. You were enraged at the intimate letter of
Baron Kinski. He is my father, alas! not my legitimate

parent; but his nature scorns the distinctions of the law,
and he has welcomed to his heart his long lost daughter.
The proofs are there, if you wish them.” She
placed a packet of papers in my hand.

“It is unnecessary,” said I, “I know it.” Madame
Walldorff had told me the singular story that evening.
It had produced no effect upon me except to make me
hate Prague with all its inhabitants, and Minna more
than all.

“You knew it!” said she, and for a moment her voice
was suffocated by her emotion. In a moment, however,
she commanded herself, and her voice was calm as she
resumed: “You knew it and it produced no change in
you. Alas! there wanted not that proof of my utter
and hopeless desolation. At least there is an end to my
struggles.”

As she finished she knelt down and kissed my feet.—
Her sobs were audible, but they were low and powerfully
repressed. She rose. A lingering feeling of affection
came over me. I reached out my arms to her—she
evaded my embrace and vanished.

Three days after this, I took up the Prague Government
Journal. Among the list of foreign departures and
arrivals, I read the departure of Sir Doomsday and Lady
Gules for England.

It was furthermore stated, that the bride of the Englishman,
was the daughter of a nobleman celebrated for
his travels and his scientific researches, and that she was
the same person who had so recently delighted and astonished
the world by her extraordinary musical genius.

3. CHAPTER III.
A TERMINATION AND DETERMINATION.

The letter from America, to which I have already alluded
was as follows:—

I read this letter over unceasingly. It was true—
every word of it. The language may strike the reader
as bombastic and unnatural. Perhaps it was; but if
they saw the scene where it was written, and the man
who wrote, and knew (as they will know before the conclusion
of these memoirs) the extraordinary events which
had marked that man's career, they would, perhaps, feel
more sympathy with his language and his thoughts.

My determination was soon taken. There was now
nothing to detain me. My preparations were all made.
On the night of the 13th and 14th of June, I was up
very late. I had been completing my arrangements,
and burning various letters and papers.

When all was ready I read over the letter again. Yes
it was true. “I was a nameless and obscure adventurer.”
I had been, indeed, “the despised despiser of my country,”
and certainly whatever may have been the opinions
of others, by none was I despised so bitterly as by myself.

I threw myself upon my couch. The candles had
burned out; but the dim light of a waning moon accorded
with the melancholy train of my thoughts. I could
not sleep. I mused long and deeply. One by one the
events of my past life—of my most senseless and unprofitable
life—displayed themselves to my memory. The

ghosts of departed days rose up before me,—the shades
of vanished and of distant friends surrounded me, and
in the reproachful face of each, I read a lesson and a
moral.

I saw the young, gallant, martyred Deane; the benevolent
features of my venerable uncle; the pale face
of Mayflower; the bloody corpse of Wallenstein; the
distorted frame of Rabenmark; the scornful glance of
Lackland.

Was not the tragic fate of some of these, and the useless
career of others pregnant with meaning for myself?

Why was Lackland an obscure and melancholy loiterer
in the world? Why had the highborn Rabenmark
become a robber and a felon? Were they not both ambitious,
gifted, generous, brave? Why is it that they quarrelled
with their own age and country? Why was it
that they sunk in the struggle between their wishes and
their power?

At last I sunk into a sort of trance. I did not sleep. I
was conscious of every thing around me. I remained
upon the sofa in the same position in which I had thrown
myself, and I saw distinctly every object in the room.

Suddenly as my eyes were directed towards the centre
of the room, I perceived that I was not alone. A child
sat upon the floor playing by himself, and ever and anon
he uttered a shout of boyish and triumphant glee. Presently
the face was turned to me. I gazed eagerly upon
it. It was my own!

Before I had recovered from the horror caused by this
apparition, I became aware of the presence of another
phantom. A taller figure moved slowly towards my
bed. The face was averted from me, and looking back
at the child. There was something familiar to me in

the appearance of this figure, and an anxious and irrepressible
shuddering came over me, as I gazed upon it.
Can the dead, indeed, resume the features and the habiliments
which were theirs in life-time? I gazed, like one
fascinated, upon the phantom. Slowly the head turned
towards me. My heart stood stock still. It was my
uncle! But Heavens, what a change! The eye was
sunken,—the cheek livid and ghastly. The features
wore a forbidding frown. He opened his lips as if to reproach
me; when suddenly something seemed to be interposed
between us, and in an instant the appearance
had faded away.

I turned away. I felt terrified and sick. I tried to
persuade myself that all I had seen was but the creation
of a heated fancy.

A low voice whispered in my ear. I started at its familiar
sound.

“You shall see more,” it said.

I turned to the side whence the voice proceeded.

A female figure sat close to my bed-side. She was clad
in white, and seemed to be working upon a linen robe.

She looked up at me. It was Mayflower Vane!

“It is my winding-sheet,” she said. “It should have
been my wedding robe.”

I stretched my arms towards my early love, but the
illusive phantom had already vanished.

A mocking laugh rang in my ears. It seemed to
bring to my soul a host of harrowing recollections. I
seemed to start to my feet. I was suddenly clutched
with tremendous force. I turned round. I saw Minna's
beautiful but indignant face; and her threatening poniard
gleamed before my eyes. A moment, and then the
weapon seemed buried in my heart. I felt a sharp pang
and fainted.

10. CHAPTER X.
THE NUN.

I lay ten days in a raging fever. During the whole
time I was delirious; my youth and vigorous constitution,
however, carried me through. In a fortnight I
was well enough to walk out. The physician's advice
now accorded with my intentions; and, as I was growing
rapidly stronger, I had only to regret the two or three
weeks' delay.

The day before my departure from Prague, I went
towards the church of St. —. It is close by a convent
of Ursuline sisters.

I had been making a copy during the winter from a
fine Domenichino, which hung in one of the smaller
chapels of the church. The subject of the painting was
the liberation of Rome from the dominion of the Tarquins.

I had rolled up and hidden it in a crevice of the
chapel. I took it out with the intention of destroying it.
I stood a moment comparing my feeble attempt with
the magnificent original. By degrees I sank into meditation.

The shadows deepened as I stood in the sequestered
chapel. The dim light from the painted windows became
still more obscure. The vast church, which was
thronged when I entered, was now nearly desolate. A
few nuns from the neighbouring convent were gliding
noiselessly about, and looked like spectres as they flitted
past me in their dark and solemn garments.

Presently, they were all gone out but one. I remained
still in my musing attitude. The last (who seemed too
young for the gloomy life to which she had irrevocably
doomed herself) glided by me, and sighed heavily as she
past.

I was awakened from my reverie. I took another
look at the picture, for its subject had a powerful interest
for me. It was getting so dark that I could scarcely
distinguish the colours—I heard a footstep—the nun approached
me.

“Yes, you paint a deed of heroism and of devotion,
and while you have painted others have done!”

I started at the deep tones of the voice which addressed
me. I turned hastily to the speaker—the nun was
Minna!

I sprang towards her. It was too late—she had
vanished through an iron-grated door, which communicated
with the neighbouring convent.