University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

It was a pleasant night. The air was still and
clear without being cold, and very refreshing and
agreeable. The moon was in the wane, and had
just risen, casting a singular radiance over the earth
and heaven. Having supped heartily, and, with

several new and interesting topics of reflection, being
too fully awake to think of sleep, he determined
to prolong his stroll around the town. The streets
were silent and lonely. Here and there the night-watch
went slowly by, with his long, shrill whistle,
as if ingeniously contrived to disturb the sick, to
awaken the sleeping, and to do service to none except
thieves and robbers, who, thus warned, get to
their hiding-places till he is out of the way. Before
the palaces of princes and military officers of
high standing, and the public edifices, the guards
paced slowly to and fro, in their simple gray cloaks
and leathern caps, their muskets glittering in the
moonbeams; and once during his ramble he was
crossed by a company of fifteen or twenty soldiers,
on their rounds to relieve guard, their measured
tramp echoing on the pavement, and reminding him
that he was in the metropolis of one of the greatest
military governments of Europe.

Claude went on, now indulging in his own reveries,
now watching the broad, level streets, so beautiful
in the moonlight, and the sculptured palaces,
with their shadowy courts and half-unearthly company
of statues; now listening to the whistle of the
watch, as it retreated and died away in the distance.
At length he found himself before the Brandenburg
gate, and paused to admire the tall columns, the
stately outline, and the bronze group upon the top.
The guard at the gate made no question as he
passed out to extend a ramble so delightful into the
wood. It was the hour for calm thought, and he
had many subjects of reflection. The principal one
was the young girl with whom he had become acquainted
in so curious a manner, and who seemed
the imbodying of his fairest visions of woman. He
had been struck with her character as described by
Madame Wharton—an authority the best that could
exist on such a subject. That of a mother would
have been partial; that of a friend might have been

drawn from imperfect sources. His own experience
he could have placed but little confidence in,
for he knew how different a thing woman often is
in her real mind from what she appears when invested
with the charm of beauty and seen in the
walks of pleasure. It is probable that, without the
previous eulogies of Madame Wharton, the grace
and loveliness of Ida would not have succeeded in
impressing him so seriously. Every one will not
sympathize with a young man who cannot fall in
love till assured by better authority than his own
observations of the merit of the object. But this
was Claude's character; imbued with thought, his
feelings, or at least his actions, were subservient to
his reason. His lonely life had rendered contemplation
almost too habitual to him. He had dwelt
too long and too much on the valuelessness of the
earthly objects so ardently sought by his fellow-creatures.
For, after all, the everlasting homilies
on the evanescence of existence, while they rarely
arrest the thoughtless in their pursuit of pleasure or
the wicked in their career of guilt, often render the
contemplative unnecessarily sad, and deprive the
unhappy of sources of distraction from solemn realities
which a benevolent Providence did not intend
should appal or overshadow us. To Claude most
of the objects of life were phantoms—most of its
joys illusions. He wanted the development of his
affections to balance and perfect his character, and
to counteract the results of a too exclusive development
of his intellectual faculties. He had lived in
a world of thought. He wanted to descend into the
warmer one of feeling. His mind had occupied
itself with subjects vast, high, and eternal. He
had not studied society and common life with sufficient
attention. Such a mind may be great if occasion
presents, but cannot be contented in the
world where we are destined to live. Some author
observes with a true philosophy, “Bad as men may
be, Providence intends that we shall love them.”
The uncompromising energy of Claude's character,
and the independence of an original thinker, made
the path of youth one of danger, and caused him, in
many things, to stand aloof from other men.

As he wandered on, Elkington, his singular insolence—Lady
Beverly, her unaccountable curiosity,
which seemed to watch his actions and search into
his soul—recurred to his memory. The former he
resolved to avoid if possible, and he determined
never to deviate from the cold courtesy which
should avert a quarrel. The anger with which he
had received his rudeness passed away under the
fields of heaven. He reflected that it was not in the
power of such a man to insult him.

He paused at these thoughts and gazed upward.
The air was strangely clear; for nature, as if seeking
higher praise than man's, seems to put on more
wonderful beauty when his eye no longer gazes on
it. An indescribable peace and lustre reigned everywhere:
upon the piles of motionless and silver
clouds, the steady-beaming planets, and the far
off, ever-burning groups of stars. He gazed long
and intently with a fervid wonder. There flowed
the Milky Way, rolling its snowy and noiseless
waves through the track of blue. He gazed almost
breathless into its eternal depths. There was Orion,
mounting heavenward with his glittering belt; and
there—at rest amid this revolving multitude—the
point on which seemed to hang all this infinite
sphere of worlds—half seen, and undistinguished
by the common eye—the wanderer's guide—the
lover's hope—the type, in its constancy, of how few
hearts!—lay the polar star.

As he lost himself in the contemplation of this
sublime scene and the thoughts to which it gave
rise, a dog, not far behind him, howled. It caused
him to turn, and, with considerable surprise, he beheld
a figure by his side. The apparition was so

sudden and unexpected, in that complete solitude
and in the dead of night, that it almost wore the
character of a supernatural visitation. The stranger
was a stout, rough-looking man, with a bold, bad
face, and a deformed, club nose. He was dressed
in a kind of frock or gabardine, open in front, and
bound with fur. The cuffs were bound with the
same material. He had on a low-crowned, broad-brimmed
hat. His cheeks were sallow and sunken,
and a long beard descended to his breast. By his
costume Claude recognised one of those Polish
Jews who are not unfrequently seen in the streets
of Berlin.

The stranger regarded him for a moment with a
fixedness which increased his astonishment.

“Who are you, and what do you want with me?”
demanded Claude, in German.

“It is a mistake, sir; I looked for another person,”
said the Jew, in English.

“How! You speak English! You know me for
an Englishman!” said Claude, more and more surprised.

The stranger, without answering, regarded him
again from head to foot, and, suddenly turning away,
disappeared in the shadows of the forest. Claude
was at a loss to conjecture whether this incident
was accidental, or whether it had any serious meaning.
The man's demeanour was not that of a robber,
but of one who had a desire to examine his
features. There was something insidious in his
manner; and his harsh and ugly face had an expression
singular and discomposed. As his approach
had been sudden and noiseless, so his retreat
was abrupt. Was he a robber or an assassin?
Had it been his design only to attack the careless
passenger for the risk of such booty as he might
chance to have about him? or had he intended to
strike down some particular individual from a motive
of revenge? and had he luckily discovered his

mistake in time to withhold the blow? These were
serious questions; but, long ere he reached home,
they were forgotten in the new thoughts and fears
—for hopes there were none—of the fair young girl
whose presence already made Berlin the hallowed
spot of all the world to him.