University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

Hour after hour of the night rolled on, and found
our new acquaintances nodding and bobbing to each
other in the dark, not greatly disturbed by the frequent
change of horses, the sounding horn, and the
various other noises which one might suppose sufficient
to drive “tired nature's sweet restorer” from
any eyelids. Sometimes, on being awakened by
the crack of the postillion's whip, or the sudden
stopping of the coach, Madame Wharton would fall
into a train of reflection of which her young fellow-traveller
formed the subject. She had not yet fairly
seen him, and her curiosity was stimulated by
such a conversation with one of whose personal appearance
she had so vague an idea. For she remembered
nothing more of him than that he had
put on a very comfortable-looking nightcap. She
liked him more and more every instant. There
was a frankness about him which, while it bestowed,
also at once elicited confidence. She had been
in the habit for years of seeing many young men in
the circles in which the Carolans lived. She had
never dreamed of exchanging confidence with any
of them, and here she had been betrayed into allusion
to topics of a private nature by a feeling of congeniality
with one whom, in fact, she had never even
seen. There was something pleasing, and even
commanding, in his air and voice, which struck her
as uncommon.

Claude also sometimes, refreshed by a sound
nap, would turn himself into a new position, and
suffer his mind to run on in advance to the Prussian
metropolis; to the scenes hallowed by the eccentricities
and genius of the great Frederic, then recently
deceased, and to the gay saloons where, ere
long, he was to behold the young person whom a
lady of such intelligence had pronounced so superior
in character and so lovely in person. Like many
a sanguine young man of his age, his heart acknowledged
a great interest in female beauty, and the
sportive warnings of Madame Wharton had not
been without effect, although different from that intended.

At length the darkness of night began to grow
less black, and the stars, by their “ineffectual fires,”
showed the matin to be near. The endless plains
which form the principal scenery between Hamburg
and Berlin became more visible. A gray light fell
coldly in through the carriage windows, promising
to reveal a more satisfactory view of each other than
Madame Wharton and Claude had yet been able to
obtain. In the houses of the black, dilapidated stone
villages through which the vehicle was whirled with
the noise of thunder, lights appeared, and sometimes
sleepy heads obtruded themselves, cased in
nightcaps, from the windows. Then the early
peasants were seen on the road, going cheerfully to
their toil, till at length the dusky shadows were
fairly put to flight from the sombre earth and now
brightening heavens; shafts of fire shot up from the
east through the clouds, which, aroused by these
heralds, seemed to awake and bestir themselves at
the appearance of the sun. The cold night-mists
rose from their resting-places in the wide heaths
and dark hollows, uncurtaining the silent and almost
desert plains, which, monotonous as they were,
had, in the eyes of Claude, a certain inexpressible
beauty, stretching off into azure distance like the

ocean. As length, reddening and brightening as he
advanced, the sun rose above the sombre circle
which had so long hailed his coming, and shed a
rosy radiance over the scene.

While Claude watched the magnificent changes
going on over the heaven and earth, and lifted his
soul in humble adoration of Him before whose
brightness the sun himself is dim, the other occupants
of the diligence remained locked in profound
slumber.

Madame Wharton's veil had fallen aside and revealed
her features. She was a fine-looking woman
of about two or three-and-forty. Her countenance
was regular and handsome. Her dress was that of
one belonging to the higher classes of society, although
modest and unpretending. Besides Claude
and herself, there were three other persons in the diligence.
The gentleman was a red-faced little man
with large black whiskers. His countenance, heavy
in sleep, had fallen into an expression of grotesque
inanity. The wife was a lady of goodly proportions,
who looked as if she had passed her life in breaking
“John” into the traces. Upon turning his eyes to
the third person (although we do not vouch for the
fact that she was the last object of his examination),
Claude beheld a really very pretty girl, extremely
well dressed, round and graceful in her
form, her countenance feminine, soft, and even lovely,
and her whole air, though fast asleep, so much
superior to what our young traveller had anticipated,
that he somewhat hastily took off his cotton
nightcap, brushed back his hair, arranged it around
his forehead, and made as many other reformations
in his toilet as time and space permitted.

“I am sure,” thought he, as he indulged himself
with another gaze at this innocent face, on which
sleep, if it rendered it less charming, seemed to bestow
a peculiar grace of its own, “I'm sure this
wonderful young countess is not half so pretty.”

The coach soon drew up at a dirty-looking inn,
out of which a dirty-looking man, with a long dirty
pipe, stepped to open the carriage door, as the conducteur,
in his usual bad French, put his head in to
awaken his charge with,

“Allons, messieurs, voulez-vous déjeuner ici un
peu?”

On meeting at breakfast-table, for which a period
of twenty minutes was allowed, the party were
drawn more familiarly together, particularly after a
cup of excellent coffee had driven away all traces
of fatigue and sleep. The renewal of an acquaintance,
which had been so auspiciously commenced
in the dark, was, by day, all that either of the parties
could wish, and, to say the truth, more than
they expected. Sober daylight dispels so many
agreeable visions which fancy raises in the shadow,
that both our lively fellow-travellers were relieved
by the result of, at length, a fair view of each other.
Madame Wharton appeared advantageously in a
room; her figure was tall and dignified, her face by
far handsomer than Claude had hitherto thought it,
and her manners full of elegance and ease. He
could not but again secretly congratulate himself
upon the acquisition of such a valuable companion.
Nor was Madame Wharton less pleased with his
appearance. His figure was taller than she had
supposed, and, when he threw off his old travelling
cloak, it appeared easy and noble. His countenance
was extremely prepossessing even in repose,
and, when he spoke, lighted up with mind and soul;
and his manners had that indefinite charm which
sometimes attaches us to a stranger with a feeling
of admiration and even friendship.

The rest of the party were presently found to be
a Mr. and a Mrs. Digby, with their daughter. The
first two were pleased to address some friendly remarks
to Madame Wharton and Claude, for whom
they appeared to entertain a profound respect, while

the latter could not avoid proffering to Miss Digby
those attentions which youth loves to bestow, and
which it seems but natural for beauty to receive.
She was a pretty girl, with a very fair complexion,
cheeks tinged with a hue which princesses might
envy, and which, when she spoke or was spoken
to, heightened into a blush. The reader might also
like to know that her eyes, when opened, turned
out to be of the softest blue. It hardly seemed
possible that so fair and delicate a girl could be the
daughter of the two ordinary-looking people who
accompanied her.

Our travellers were soon interrupted in their
breakfast and their observations of each other by
the imperative cry of the conducteur, “Allons, messieurs,
en route!” and in a few moments they found
themselves once more in the coach, much refreshed
by the breakfast and the pause in their journey.

When they were reseated the conversation was
commenced by Mrs. Digby, who addressed herself
to Madame Wharton.

“Have you ever been in London, mem? It is a
very different place from any of those towns that one
sees on the Continent.”

“Why, you haven't seen any towns to enable you
—to—to—a — a — any comparison between them
and London,” said Mr. Digby.

Mrs. Digby pressed her lips a little more closely
together, and, after a quiet look of compassion upon
her better-half, said,

“I'm told Berlin is a beautiful town. Pray,
mem, what hotel do you advise us to put up at?”

“Why, although I reside in Berlin,” replied Madame
Wharton, “I know less of the hotels than a
stranger. `The King of Prussia' is at least in a good
part of the town.”

“Thank you, mem. That is the very one which
our guide-book mentions; but as the guide-book
mentions also, in very strong terms of praise, the

`Golden Swan' at Hamburg, which we were at;
and as we found that one of the most abominable
places—a perfect den of thieves—and without so
much as a carpet on the floor, and such a nauseous,
filthy place, we didn't know how far the book might
be trusted. What do you think of the German
beds, mem?”

“I sleep in them very comfortably.”

“Well, mem, I can't say I've been half so lucky.
Do you know, mem, I would not believe the gar
çong when he told me it was a bed, although I
have seen the world, un poo, too. I thought it was
a settee. I did, upon my honour, mem, and so,
indeed, I found it, for I was in a sitting posture the
whole night long. I could not lie down at all, and,
besides that, I had a very handsome feather bed on
top of me. The fem-di-chambre insisted on it.
Ah, mem, if you want to see beds, you should come
to England. If you want to see comfort at all, you
must come there; cleanliness—doors to the houses
—civil servants, coal fires, and Brussels carpets—
England for ever, mem.”

“Well, there, for a wonder,” said Mr. D., “you
are right, my dear. Why, I have neither—a—a
—a-eaten—nor—a—a slept since I—I—from London.
I never saw such a set of—of—of fools as
we've met with; and as for carpets, I don't believe
they know what they are.”

“That's true enough, John,” said Mrs. D.

“Why, how should they?” resumed Mr. Digby,
“where, in half the inns, all the pigs and old hens
in the town are—are—are—all the time—eh—eh
—through the hall and kitchen.”

“You should not be quite so severe upon us
poor Continentals,” said Madame Wharton, smiling,
“because your hotel in Hamburg was not a good
one; and as for carpets, you must not forget that the
very ones which you boast of so much in England
are made in Brussels!”

“Brussels, mem?”

“Certainly!”

“Oh, Brussels carpets! ah, that's a place, then.
Is it, indeed?”

Madame Wharton looked rather surprised at this
unsophisticated observation.

“Pray, mem, have you ever seen those relics of
Frederic the Great, about which so much is said in
the guide-book?”

“Yes; they are very interesting.”

“They must be, mem.”

“I am truly sorry,” said Claude, “to have lost the
opportunity of being presented to that great man.
His genius will endear him to posterity, and the
metropolis, which he so much aggrandized, will
long be hallowed by associations of him. It will be
many centuries before the world will see another
sovereign so good.”

“I am not so sure of that,” said Madame Wharton.
“His striking character unquestionably commands,
and will long continue to command, attention,
but I do not know that the true attributes of a sovereign
are not of a yet higher and calmer order.
Truth is not always conspicuous, nor wisdom dazzling.
A sovereign should not so much seek to distinguish
himself, as to protect his people. I believe
the nation would be happier under a monarch
more conscious of the blessings of peace, and the
tranquil, but lasting benefits of justice and moderation.”

“Frederic the Great built Berlin himself, I'm
told, on poles, mem.”

“On Poles!” said Madame Wharton.

“On poles!” echoed Claude.

“Perhaps you mean, figuratively speaking, on
the inhabitants of Poland!” suggested Madame
Wharton.

“Not in the least, I assure you, mem. I mean
on regular poles of wood.”

“I never heard that before,” said Claude, amused
by the oddities of the honest dame.

“Didn't you, sir? Why, Lord! it's mentioned in
our guide-book positively—built Berlin on Poles!—
within a large wall—and then ordered the people to
go and live there. They talk a great deal about
this Frederic the Great; but I must say, that if he
ordered his subjects to do any such thing, he must
have been a very curious sort of a king, and they
must have been very obedient people. Why, do
you think, mem, that I would be ordered about in
that way by our old king, God bless him, or any
one else? No, no. If he should command anything
of that kind to us Londoners, I can just tell
you, and him too, that if he did not have St. James
about his ears pretty quick, it would not be our
fault.”

“I think,” said Digby, “you have made some
mistake; I don't see how a city could be—eh—
eh—on poles, I'm sure.”

“No mistake at all, I tell you, isn't it in the
book? on black and white, as plain as a pipe stem?
and I aint such a fool, I take it, but that I can read.”

“Well, I think you've made a mistake,” said
Digby, boldly.

“John, how can you be such a fool?”

“Well, just refer to the book, and see who's the
fool then.”

“You do injustice to our great Frederic,” said
Madame Wharton. “I believe some attempt has
been made to raise a building on some piles, in a
certain part of the town, where the ground is marshy;
but the order of the king was only that a certain
space of ground should be enclosed within walls
for the future city.”

“There,” said Mr. Digby, triumphantly, “who's
the fool now, my dear?”

“Ah, maybe so, mem!” said Mrs. Digby, rather
tartly. “I was never there myself; I only know
what I see printed, and our guide-book is called
one of the very best, mem!”