 | Morton's Hope, or, The memoirs of a provincial. |  |
2. BOOK II.
“Langen wir doch nach den längsten verzögerlichen Einreden
und Vexirzügen endlich zu Hause und am Ende an, wo die
Kehrausleser hausen; so haben wir unterweges alles, jede Zollund
Warn-Tafel und jedes Gasthofschild gelesen und jene
Nichts, und wir lachen herzlich über sie.”
Jean Paul—Dr. Katzenberger's Bade-Reise.
And how oft did you say his beard was not well
cut?
“Touchstone.—
I durst go no further than the lie circumstantial,
nor he durst not give me the lie direct; and so we measured
swords, and parted.
“Jaques.—
Can you nominate in order, now, the degrees of
the lie?
“Touchstone.—
O, Sir, we quarrel in print by the book; as
you have books for good manners, I will name you the degrees.”
As you like it.
1. CHAPTER I.
AUERBACH'S CELLAR.
“Hip—hip—hurrah! Three glasses all round!”
They were drunk rapidly.
“Trump, my boy, I drink you three glasses.”
“Drink, old fellow—I take them, and three
more”
“Drink.”
“Lackland,—I drink you a third of this bocale
of Liebfrauen-milch,” said Trump
“All d—d humbug,” said the Englishman.
“However, it is your custom. Drink, in God's
name.”
“Dummberg, I drink you this whole bocale,”
shouted Rabenmark.
“Fox—fox!” growled Dummberg, a student of
at least forty-five. “You forget yourself. A fox
must never presume to challenge an old bursch like
me. The crass fox may aspire to the `burnt fox,'
but there his ambition must stop. Wait till I drink
to you, Rabenmark, and be wiser in future,” concluded
the veteran, with a pull at a very seedy pair
of moustachios.
“I deny it,” said Rabenmark, “I deny it; I assert
bocale.
“Listen, young man,” said Dummberg, drawing
a little greasy book, printed on very brown paper,
from his pocket; “Listen to the text of the `Universal
Beer Drinker's Code.' The code for drinking
beer applies equally to wine; and as I had myself
a hand in preparing this volume for the press,
you may have no doubt of the accuracy of every
one of its precepts. Let me see—let me see. Ah,
here it is—Section IV.—division 8. `Foxes among
foxes enjoy the same rights as burschen among
themselves; they may drink to each other any
number of glasses. No fox, however, is allowed to
challenge to drink either a young bursch or an old
one.' So, you, who are yet in your first semester,
at the University, and, consequently, a raw `crasser'
fox, will hardly now maintain your right to
challenge me, who was a `bursch' before you were
born.”
Rabenmark accordingly sat down abashed; and
before he gets up again, I may as well describe, in
a word or two, the scene in which I found myself
engaged.
Auerbach's cellar was celebrated as the scene of
one of the most singular events in the notorious Dr.
Faust's biography. At the time when I first visited
Leipzig—and I dare say it remains much the same
at the present day—Auerbach's “Haus and Hof”
was a house of tolerable dimensions, communicating
cross-streets of the great bookseller's paradise.
Göthe had not yet written Faust; but the wild
fable which was the foundation of that wonderful
drama, was as well known as now. The cellar
proper, in which my companions and myself were
seated, was a small wine-vault, rather more commodiously
furnished than cellars usually are. It
had white-washed walls, a little the worse for wear,
a boarded and sanded floor, and sundry antique and
particularly uncomfortable chairs and settles. On
opposite sides of the wall were two pictures, in marvellously
shabby fresco; the one represented the interview
of Dr. Faust and Mephistopheles with Messieurs
Frosch, Siebel, and other worthy plebeians of
Leipzig: the other, the conclusion of the debauch
instituted by Mephistopheles, with the bewilderment
of the same confederacy, and the abrupt elopement of
Mephistopheles and his learned pupil, who, commodiously
seated astride the same wine cask, are represented
as flying out of the cellar-window, to the
great edification of their late boon companions.
We had got through the story of both pictures,
which the garrulous waiter and cicerone would tell
every stranger, as his ancestors before him had
done, (all offices are hereditary in Germany, from
an emperor to an executioner,) and were now diligently
investigating the comparative merits of the
Rhenish of the previous century, and of our own.
With one exception, my companions were inti-o
mate friends of a day's growth. The exceptin
made at the country-seat of a Pomeranian gentleman,
where we had both been spending some
weeks.
As this person became very intimately connected
with me, and took a prominent part in the events
which I have preserved of this portion of my biography,
it will be as well to describe him in a few
words.
Sansterre Lackland was about ten years older
than myself, and, consequently, a little nearer thirty
than twenty; he was of high descent, and small
property—the youngest son of the youngest brother
of the Earl of Agincourt. The features of Antinous
were not more accurately moulded, nor more beautiful
than his; and his tall figure and distinguished
address were worthy of his nation and his race.
With him I was sitting a little apart from the
rest of the company, with most of whom he was
tolerably well acquainted. There were six students
from Göttingen, and half-a-dozen others of Leipzig
who had been making what is technically called
a “beer journey,” during the Pentecost holidays,
and as the ostensible and only object of such a
pilgrimage (which usually conducts the party from
one university to another) is to drink as great a
quantity of beer and Rhenish at each stopping place,
as human beings are capable of, they had not unwisely
made Leipzig the last stage of their journey,
where they had been revelling in the most glorious
These journeys are always made on foot. A
knapsack contains a change of linen; and as at
each university town they are accustomed, according
to universal usage, to quarter themselves upon
their respective friends among the students there,
the only use to which their scanty supply of Fredericks-d'or
is applied, is to pay for the wine and
beer which form the objects of the journey.
As their Fredericks had nearly all flown, they
were to take their departure next day; and as both
Lackland and myself were idle men, without aim
or object, we had agreed to study a phenomenon of
human nature that was new to us, and had determined
to return with this party to Göttingen.
Among these students, there were two who are
connected with certain adventures, which I propose
to relate. These were Otto Von Rabenmark, and
Hermann Leopold Caspar Bernard Adolph Ulrich
Count Trump Von Toggenburg-Hohenstaufer.
Rabenmark was the “fox” (the slang term for a
student in his first year) who had just been challenging
the veteran student to drink. He was very
young, even for a fox; for at the time I write of,
he was not yet quite seventeen; but in precocity of
character, in every respect, he went immeasurably
beyond any person I have ever known. As to his
figure, I certainly have seldom seen a more unprepossessing
person at first sight, though on better acquaintance,
after I had become warmly attached to
had coarse scrubby hair, of a mixed colour, something
between a red and a whity-brown. His face
was peppered all over with freckles, and his eyes
were colourless in the centre, and looked as if edged
with red tape. An enormous scar, the relic of a
recent duel, in which like a thorough fox, he was
constantly engaged, extended from the tip of his
nose to the edge of his right ear, and had been sewed
up with fourteen stitches, every one of which (as
the “Pauk Doctor” had been a botcher at his trade)
was distinctly and grotesquely visible. As every
one of the students present was tatooed and scarified
in the same way, like so many New Zealand chiefs,
his decoration of itself hardly excited attention; but
as, to heighten the charms of his physiognomy, he
had recently shaved off one of his eyebrows, his face
certainly might lay claim to a bizarre and very
unique character. His figure was slender, and not
yet mature, but already of a tolerable height. His
dress was in the extreme of the then Göttingen
fashion. He wore a chaotic coat, without collar or
buttons, and as destitute of colour as of shape; enormously
wide trowsers, and boots with iron heels and
portentous spurs. His shirt-collar, unconscious of cravat,
was doubled over his shoulders, and his hair
hung down about his ears and neck. A faint attempt
at moustachios, of an indefinite colour, completed
the equipment of his face, and a huge sabre,
strapped round his waist, that of his habiliments.
As he wrote Von before his name, and was descended
baronized before Charlemagne's time, he wore an
enormous seal ring on his fore-finger, with his armorial
bearing. Such was Otto Von Rabenmark, a
youth, who, in a more fortunate sphere, would have
won himself name and fame. He was gifted with
talents and acquirements immeasurably beyond his
years. He spoke half a dozen languages — Heaven
knows when he had picked them up — was an
excellent classical scholar, and well read in history;
played well on the violin and piano; and if not
a dexterous was at least a desperate and daring
swordsman. He was of undoubted courage, and a
little of a renomist, (or swaggerer,) a defect which
his extreme youth excused, and from which he very
soon recovered.
As for Count Trump Von Toggenburg, there was
hardly a crowned head in Europe with whom he
was not allied, excepting perhaps some two or three
parvenu sovereigns, whom he thought unworthy of
his relationship. He traced his family, with great
accuracy, up to the Deluge; but that catastrophe
seemed, among other injuries to the human race, to
have obliterated most of the land-marks of the Toggenburg
genealogy. He contented himself accordingly
with declaring, that the direct line of his
family was lost among the antediluvians, and he
kept himself conversant with all the geological researches
that were made, in the hope, I am convinced,
of discovering some fossil remain of a mammoth
Toggenburg among the newly-discovered
main object of his thoughts. He noted down as carefully
as a parish clerk every new addition to any of
its numerous branches. As there were no less than
twelve distinct branches of the Toggenburg family
in North Germany, and as each branch was very
poor, and consequently very prolific, this single occupation
employed most of his time. He carried
with him always a little book, which was written
by a Count Toggenburg in the 10th century, and
which purported to be an essay on the rise and
progress of the Toggenburg family. This he asserted
was a very rare work, and to prove it, he
affirmed that he had inquired of almost every bookseller
in Germany for a copy, and could never find
one who had ever heard either of the book, the
author, or the author's family. His father, who had
only his salary of privy councillor to support him,
—for although he wrote himself on all occasions Ritterguts-Besitzer,
(proprietor of a knight's estate,)
no one could ever discover the exact location of his
manor, — was only able to allow him five hundred
rix dollars for his wechsel, or annual allowance.
This was not brilliant; but he, nevertheless, contrived
to play a very tolerable fiddle with it; for five
hundred rix dollars go farther in a German university
than any where else; and allowed him to keep,
if not a pair of horses, at least a pair of spurs, of
very respectable dimensions, which he sported on
all occasions, and which, whether he rode or not,
he considered to be an indispensable article of dress
Trump was a good-natured, amiable, young man,
a good deal of a bore, when on his favourite topic,
that is, for four-fifths of the time; but in other respects
an agreeable companion. He was pale, and
thin, with fair hair, and an aquiline nose; wore a
magnificent bag-cap of red velvet, with a broad
band of purple, green, and gold round the brim,
and a dress of a less republican and more worldly
cut than the rest of his companions. He was smoking
a porcelain pipe, on which were printed sixteen
quarterings of the Toggenburg arms, and from
whose long cherry stick there dangled a pair of
tassels of the same colours as the band around his
cap. These colours were the badge of his club
— the most aristocratic one, he assured me, in Göttingen,
in which there was not a single member
who had not a Von to his name.
Dummberg was the student of five and forty, a-fat,
and shabby-looking individual, with a shock
head of hair, and beer-colour mustachios. He
was short, with an enormous paunch, and was
often known to drink thirty-five bottles of beer, or a
dozen of hock, at a single sitting. He was one of
that nondescript class which are always hanging
round a German university — a superannuated
student, living from Semester to Semester, making
his appearance regularly at the Kneipe and the
Fechtboden, (the drinking-room and the duelling
hall,) without occupation, and without visible means
of support. He was a constant gambler in a small
Zwicken or Landsknecht with an empty pocket, he
was sure to lose nothing, and usually contrived to
win a few guldens. This was the only natural
way of accounting for his subsistence, and it was
winked at by many, out of regard to his age and
venerable appearance.
Affenstein, the last of the Göttingen gentry, was
a junior Bursch, (junger Bursch,) or student in his
third Semester. He was a dark-complexioned
youth, with very black hair, and a beard of formal
cut. His mouth was enormous; but as it was
nearly concealed by his moustachios, he would have
been very well looking, if he had not, unfortunately,
wanted a nose;—this had been shorn off in a duel,
so closely, as to leave his face as smooth as his palm,
and the deficiency, combined with his other attractions,
reduced his personal pretensions, it must be
confessed, to a very low mark.
Besides these, were a number of the aboriginal
students of Leipzig, all with moustachios, club caps,
polonaise coats, pipes, tassels, and poodles.
It was getting very late; a great many bottles
had been uncorked, and the old cellar-vault rang
with their uproar and their songs.
So sind wir reiche Leute
Und haben Geld wie Heu
Doch morgen ist's vorbei—”
Bei uns gehts immer so—oo—”
“Psha!” said the veteran Dummberg; “why
waste your time in singing such unnecessary songs?
If you will sing, sing at least a song that has a
drinking part to it. Listen; we will sing the round
songs to our sweethearts. I will begin.” And so
he sang, in a grumbling base, the first stave of the
well known song—
An unserm Tisch herum—um—um
Drei mal drei ist neune—weisst du wie ich meine
Es geht ein Sauf Comment
An unserm Tisch herum—um—um.”
“Rabenmark! dein Liebchen heisst?”
“Gretchen!” shouted the fox, in reply.
And so went the song round the table. The
uproar and drunkenness increasing at every step,
till all the Gretchens, and Mariechens, and Justinas,
and Minnas, all the sweethearts of the company,
had been duly toasted in bumpers of Liebfraunmilch.
“You students are most potent at potting,” said
I, to Trump Von Toggenburg, who sat next me,—
for Lackland and I had accepted an invitation to
join the table.
“Pretty well!” said he; “but perhaps the greatest
wine drinker that ever was in Germany, was
my great-grandfather, Count Ullrich Trump Von
Toggenburg, who was a colonel in the Austrian
service, in the year of our Lord 16—. You are
probably acquainted with his name.”
“Oh! most intimately,” said I, wishing to avoid
a memoir by his descendant.
“Well,” said my neighbour, “my great-grandfather
was so noted for his drinking capacity, that
hardly any of his brother officers ventured to compete
with him. If they did, they were sure to be
comfortably laid under the table before he had fairly
begun to drink. One evening,—it was shortly
after the seige of —, in which the colonel
particularly distinguished himself, as you doubtless
recollect—”
“Perfectly,” said I.
“One evening,—it must have been, I think, late
in February, or it might have been in the beginning
of March.—the siege I know began in January,
and was not raised till the 20th of February, by
the appearance of Donnerberg with 20,000 troops,
from beyond the Elbe. One evening, a party of
officers,—my great-grandfather, then about thirty
years of age, among the number,—were making a
night of it at the `Golden Stag' in Munich. They
had drunk a good deal of champagne in compliment
to the French officers who were present, and
were now busily engaged in discussing Bochsbeutel
and other potent wines of the Palatinate. They
in the morning, they began, one by one to drop off,
and before two, they were all snoring in their chairs,
or on the floor, excepting my respectable ancestor,
and an officer in a foreign-looking uniform, whom
he had never before seen.
“`I hear you are as celebrated at the banquet of
Bacchus, as in the camp of Mars,' said the stranger,
very classically, at the same time bowing politely
to my ancestor. The latter always described
him as a pale, gentleman-like looking man, of
middle age, with a Roman nose, a satirical expression
about the mouth, and a just discernible
limp in his gait.
“`If that be the case,' continued he, `I suppose
you are willing to prolong our symposium a little
longer than these milksops have been disposed
to; and if you have no objection, we will order
another bottle.'
“The colonel assented; a fresh bottle was
brought, together with a plate of caviare. The
officer, who appeared to be a man of various information,
and agreeable manners, entered into an
interesting conversation, during which, bottle after
bottle was drained, till my ancestor began to find
his head growing a little dizzy.
“Perceiving, however, no corresponding indication
on the part of his companion, he bore up manfully
against his weakness, and again, bottle after
bottle disappeared. Towards four o'clock, however,
he became convinced that he must give in very
and glasses staggered about the table; the
chairs and sofas danced round the room. He could
not distinguish his mouth from his glass; himself
from his companion. Every thing was mixed up
in his mind in a preposterous and confused manner;
and all the time, the stranger, who had drunk twice
the quantity of wine that he had, was giving, with
a composed demeanour, and with a face whose pale
colour had not been a shade heightened by his tremendous
debauch, a detailed and minute account
of the siege of Eckendorff, by Tilly, in the thirty
years' war. Of what it was apropos, it would
have puzzled my relation to say, for his brain was
so muddled that he had long lost the thread of the
conversation; but there he sat, with his lines of circumvallation
made with little bits of biscuit, and a
puddle of Rhenish floating neatly round a citadel
of anchovy toasts; marching and counter-marching,
making breaches and repairing them—attacking
here, defending there, and talking of parapets,
palisadoes, breast works and half moons, as gravely
as if assisting at a council of general officers; and
ever and anon, swallowing whole goblets of Rhenish,
while my poor progenitor was at the last gasp,
and just sinking upon the floor.
“`Let us drink the Emperor,' said the stranger,
putting an end to his demonstration, and filling up
for his companion and himself.
“My ancestor made a last convulsive effort; seized
his beaker, drained it, and sank heavily upon the
stroke his hair placidly back from his temples,
and at the same time,—now mark the singularity
of the adventure!—he beheld a column of
pale blue smoke ascend into the air, from a hole in
the stranger's head.
“`The devil's in the fellow!' muttered my ancestor,
with his last breath, as he rolled fairly on the
ground.
“`You've hit it! you've hit it! roared the other,
springing from his chair, and applying a vial to the
colonel's nose, who, feeling suddenly refreshed, picked
himself up, and sat down again as fresh and
thirsty as if he had never seen the bottom of a
bottle.
“`You are a gentleman of penetration,' continued
the stranger, filling up the glasses, `and I
made, long ago, a determination to reward the first
man who should retain his senses long enough to
see the wine fumes escaping from my head in the
singular way you have beheld. It is not till I am
hard pushed, that I make use of my peculiar secret.
For your recompense, take this,' said he, tapping
him on the temple with his forefinger. `Now,
whenever you have finished a bottle, and you wish
to be free of its disagreeable effects, you have but to
thrust your finger through your hair, turn the
little screw you will find concealed above your
temples, and you will soon find the fumes evaporated.'
“My ancestor, wishing to thank him for his kind
behold, he had vanished! not a vestige of him
remained (though both the doors and the windows
were bolted,) excepting a slight smell of brimstone,
which was discernible in the apartment.[1]
“The events of this remarkable evening were
never disclosed by my great-grandfather during his
life-time: but were embodied into the `Essay on the
Rise and Progress of the Toggenburg family,' from
posthumous memoir on the subject, left by the celebrated
colonel himself.
“Perhaps you have read the book?” interrupted
he, thrusting his hand in his pocket.
“A thousand times,” said I; “what an instructive
work!”
“Ah! well,” said he with a sigh, “otherwise I
would have lent it to you. But to resume.—
“My ancestor, after this event, became celebrated
throughout Europe for his capacity for drinking.
I believe he made a bet once, that he would drink
the whole of the Heidelberg tun at a sitting, and
won it, and he was observed besides, to be very
fortunate in every thing he undertook; he was always
rolling in money, and married the daughter
of the Archduke Maximilian of Austria.
“He disappeared, however, one night in an awful
thunder-storm, and was never heard of. Twenty
years afterwards, however, a skull was found in the
cellar of Toggenburg Castle, in which a hole exactly
neatly stopped with a silver screw. This was all we
ever could gather on the subject.”
During this long-winded recital the company had
been growing very uproarious. Rabenmark had
jumped upon the table, where he danced about
among the bottles and glasses, mouthing and chattering
like a monkey.
“Cease buffooning, you ape!” growled the morose
Dummberg, to the fox.
“Ass! ass! yelled Rabenmark, springing to the
floor again. “I will not permit such language. I
am not an ape; and the insult can only be
washed out in wine. I challenge you to a wine-duel.
To do this, I presume you will not deny my
right?”
“Certainly not,” growled the other; “choose
your second.”
“I choose Toggenburg,” said Rabenmark.
“And I Schnappsberger,” said Dummberg.
Here the two combatants in this singular duel
(in which the object of each party is to drain his
goblet in a shorter time than his antagonist,
without drawing breath, and without spilling a
drop,) received each a tumbler of equal size, holding
about a pint, and filled to the brim with Rhenish.
“Are the weapons equal?” demanded one second.
“Equal they are,” responded the other.
“Sieze your weapons,” cried Toggenburg.
Each grasped his glass.
“One—two—”
Each glass was at the lip, and a long breath
drawn.
“Three, and away!”
The eyes were set,—the breath held,—and the
convulsive swallowing began. The event of the
conquest, however, was not a moment doubtful.
Dummberg, an old stager, drank with slow, deep,
and measured swallows; while Rabenmark,—his
eyes rolling almost out of his head,—clutched the
goblet in both hands, swallowed spasmodically, sputtered
in his glass, bit off the rim, and fell into a
coughing fit that nearly choked him, at the same
moment that Dummberg turned his glass quietly
upon his nail.
“Beaten!” cried all the company, “The fox
must pay six bottles.” So Rabenmark ordered the
half-dozen.
“No matter, little Rabenmark,” said Toggenburg,
“you have done very well for a fox. Come,
we will drink Schmollis together.”
“Very well,” said Rabenmark, and so each filled
his glass, drained it at once, and hugging each other
lovingly round the neck, kissed each other with such
a hearty smack, that the cellar resounded.
“Be my friend,” said Toggenburg.
“Be my brother,” said Rabenmark; and they
were “thou-brothers” from that moment.
The main article in this mystic bond of union is
that the parties shall always address each other as
third person plural.
The fox, being negligent, and very drunk, forgot
all this very soon; and in speaking to Toggenburg
a quarter of an hour after, he addressed him
in the third person plural.
“Fox, thou hast broken our schmollis,” said that
worthy. “Thou must pay the forfeit. I call a
wine convention. It shall consist of Affenstein,
Dummberg, and Schnappsberger.”
The three sat down together in committee. Affenstein,
to add dignity to the convention, drew from
his waistcoat pocket an artificial nose of silver, and
of brilliant hue. This, he assured me, he wore
only on state occasions, contenting himself ordinarily
with one of pasteboard.
“What have you to state to the convention?”
said he, as President, to Trump Von Toggenburg.
“Simply,” said the party addressed, “that the
fox, Von Rabenmark, has drunk schmollis with the
junior bursch, Count Trump Von Toggenburg, and
has broken it within half-an-hour.”
“What have you to say in your defence?” said
Affenstein.
“Nothing at all,” said Rabenmark, “except that
I am very drunk.”
“Crimen non minuit ebrietas,” said the President.
“In what were the schmollis drunk?” he
continued.
“In Marcobrunner,” said Trump.
“Fox Rabenmark, you must order six bottles of
Marcobrunner for the company. The convention
is dissolved.”
So here were six bottles more forfeited by the fox.
Experience is the only school-mistress.
Having such a plentiful supply of wine, in addition
to that which they had already contrived to
make away with, the uproar increased. The conversation
became animated, but they seemed always
to discuss the same eternal subjects. Duels, dogs,
drinking-matches; beer, wine and women, together
with freedom, the rights of man, and the German
republic, were jumbled promiscuously together.
Then a dozen songs were sung at once; a dozen
stories were told and nobody listened. The uproar
was furious. Glasses were broken, bottles thrown
at the waiter's head, tables kicked over, and windows
demolished, when suddenly a postillion's bugle
sounded in the street.
Rabenmark jumped up with a yell, and rushed
out of the cellar, followed by the whole pack, while
Lackland and I accompanied them to see what
they were about. It was about ten o'clock, and
bright starlight.
A diligence stood in the street, just ready to start.
It was only waiting for the conductor and the postillions,
one of whom was already there, and just
about to mount. Rabenmark rushed into the street,
jumped upon the postillion, floored him, seized his
bugle, and then scrambled, like a monkey, into the
saddle. Another student mounted one of the three
into the vehicle, and the self-elected postillions spurred
the horses into a gallop. Away rumbled the
diligence through the silent streets of Leipzig, Rabenmark
playing on the postillion's purloined bugle
like mad, till the night-caps of the quiet burghers
of Leipzig popped out of every window in the town.
2. CHAPTER II.
THE CONDUCTOR.
Presently the conductor came out of the posthouse,
with his chronometer round his neck, and
his hands full of butterbrod, (bread and butter,)
while, directly afterwards, the whole set of passengers,
in dressing-gowns and cotton night-caps, (the
universal travelling costume of a German diligence,)
made their appearance.
“Oh the scoundrels!—Oh the Spitzbuben!”
cried the conductor.
“Spitzbuben—Spitzbuben?” echoed the miserable
travellers.
“Have you any idea who or what the scoundrels
were?” said the conductor, turning to us.
“None in the world,” said Lackland, coolly;
“probably some drunken Philistines.”[2]
“Philistines!—students most likely!” said the
indignant conductor, and then turning to the other
postillion, who having just arrived, was standing
with an untasted glass of schnapps in his hand, and
his mouth wide open in stupid astonishment.
“See, booby!—see the effects of your eternal
swilling. If you had been in your saddle, all this
would not have happened.”
“Potz—sacrament!” swore the postillion.
“Sacrament indeed!” said the conductor, kicking
him lustily.
“Donnerwetter!” swore the postillion again,
kicking the hostler.
“Thousand devils!” said the hostler, returning
the compliment.
So there was a squabble—the conductor knocked
down the postillion, and the postillion the hostler;
and several of the passengers interfering to keep the
peace, knocked down the conductor, and received
broken heads for their pains.
The battle raged—blows fell thick as rain, and
execrations rent the air. In the meantime Lackland,
seizing a moment when no one observed him,
smashed the solitary lamp that illumined the scene.
Total darkness ensued, during which the Englishman,
who had possessed himself of a whip which
hung in the court-yard, amused himself with bestowing
sundry hearty thwacks on the whole party
as they struggled together on the ground. Having
belaboured them till he was exhausted, he tossed
the whip on the ground, and then returned with me
to the cellar.
“I suppose after they have finished their battle
they will get into another diligence, and proceed on
their journey?” said I.
“Probably,” said he; “and as for those drunken
overturn the diligence; and then, if they don't break
their necks, they will sleep quietly in the ditch,
till the next day, and then proceed to Göttingen.”
“But if they are discovered?” said I.
“No matter,” said he, “the students are the
strongest party, and it is the interest of the conductor,
who belongs to Göttingen, not to offend them.
If any damage is done, the students will pay for it,
and a good drinkgeld to the conductor settles the
whole matter. Take a glass of wine.”
“This `milk of our blessed Lady,' (Liebfrauenmilch)”
said I, “is rather a thin potation; there
must be better hock in this famous cellar.”
“Oh yes,” said he; “and as we have neither of
us drunk so many tuns as the rest of the party, let
us try the virtues of the favourites before we go back
to the hotel.”
The waiter accordingly brought a bottle of Steinberger
and pledged himself that such another was
not to be found in Germany.
The cork was drawn, and an odour as from a bank
of violets, stole into the air.
“Aha!” said Lackland, smacking his lips, “this
tastes of the sunny side of the castle — taste it.”
As we were discussing our Steinberger, I asked
Lackland about the various characters who had
been in company with us. His remarks were pithy
and a sort of good-natured sarcasm seemed to pervade
his conversation.
I repeated, in a few words, the singular story that
Trump had told me.
“Ah,” said he, “I plucked you by the elbow once
or twice to get you out of the scrape. When you
know him better, you will know better than to listen
to his stories, if you can avoid it. The first
time I ever saw him was at a dinner party given at
Berlin by a certain Vicomte de Millefleurs, an attaché
of the French embassy
“After dinner, the Frenchman who was of
course an `homme aux bonnes fortunes,' told us a
story about a garter, of which he himself was the
hero. Several similar anecdotes were related by
various members of the company; and at last poor
Trump, not wishing to be outdone, and having no
personal adventures to relate, began a story about
an amour of his great-grandmother with an ancient
emperor of Austria, which lasted to such an
intolerable length, that the company one by one
dropped away, and last of all, the host himself,
leaving the count and his great-grandmother, to say
nothing of the emperor of Austria, all alone in the
dining-room.”
“What was the consequence?”
“Oh, the next day Trump sent Millefleurs a
challenge; protesting, at the same time, that he did
not feel personally hurt, as he had finished his dinner,
and was on the point of going away himself,
but that the insult to his great-grandmother could
only be washed out in blood. The affair was, however,
so ridiculous, that it was made up, and Millefleurs
to the whole story again the next day, from beginning
to end. This has now become his favourite
story, although I believe there is not one of his ancestors,
direct or collateral, of whom he has not at
least a dozen as delightful anecdotes to relate.”
We conversed together till we had finished our bottle,
and then went quietly back to our hotel. Before
we parted for the night, we agreed to take a postchaise
the next day towards Göttingen.
“Philistines” is the contemptuous expression for one who
is not a student, as “Pagan” with the Romans meant one who
was not a soldier.
3. CHAPTER III.
GÖTTINGEN.
On a bright afternoon in June, Lackland and
myself stopped at Einbeck to change horses. This is
the next post town to Göttingen.
A straggling student that happened to be lounging
about the hotel, informed us that Rabenmark
and Co., had passed through a few days before on
their way to the university.
From Einbeck to Göttingen, the road lies through
a valley enclosed by hills, which are picturesque
enough, and which from the advanced guard of the
grand chain of the Hartz, which rise on the right
hand to a considerable height, with the ghost-beloved
Brocken, towering above the whole. As we
drew near our journey's end, we passed on the left
the desolate and weather-beaten remains of Hardenberg
castle, and a little farther on the ruined and
romantic towers of Castle Plesse, which, overgrown
with weeds and briars, and embedded and entangled
in luxuriant foliage, looked down upon us from
a neighbouring hill. Half an hour afterwards, we
found ourselves at the Weender gate of Göttingen.
The corporal of the guard marched out, twirled his
in English,) put on a pair of iron spectacles, and
commenced reading them very gravely. As I observed
however that he held them upside-down in
the most unsuspecting manner, I supposed he would
find interpretation necessary. After a few moments,
however, he returned them to us, observing with a
polite bow, that they were perfectly in order. We
begged his acceptance of a gulden, which he received
with another pull at his moustachios, and another
polite bow; and then the postillion blew a shrill blast
on his bugle, and rattled us into the town as fast as
his rats of horses could carry us.
Göttingen is rather a well built and handsome
looking town, with a decided look of the Middle
Ages about it. Although the college is new, the
town is ancient, and like the rest of the German
university towns, has nothing external, with the
exception of a plain-looking building in brick for
the library, and one or two others for natural collections,
to remind you that you are at the seat of an
institution for education. The professors lecture,
each on his own account, at his own house, of
which the basement floor is generally made use of
as an auditorium. The town is walled in, like
most of the continental cities of that date, although
the ramparts, planted with linden-trees, have since
been converted into a pleasant promenade, which
reaches quite round the town, and is furnished with
a gate and guard at the end of each principal avenue.
It is this careful fortification, combined with
which imparts the compact, secure look peculiar to
all the German towns. The effect is forcibly to remind
you of the days when the inhabitants were
huddled snugly together, like sheep in a sheep-cote,
and locked up safe from the wolfish attacks of the
gentlemen highwaymen, the ruins of whose castles
frown down from the neighbouring hills.
The houses are generally tall and gaunt, consisting
of a skeleton of frame-work, filled in with brick,
with the original rafters, embrowned by time, projecting
like ribs through the yellowish stucco, which covers
the surface. They are full of little windows,
which are filled with little panes, and as they are
built to save room, one upon another, and consequently
rise generally to eight or nine stories, the
inhabitants invariably live as it were in layers.
Hence it is not uncommon, to find a professor occupying
the two lower stories or strata, a tailor above
the professor, a student upon the tailor, a beer seller
conveniently upon the student, a washerwoman
upon the beer-merchant, and perhaps a poet upon
the top; a pyramid with a poet for its apex, and a
professor for the base.
The solid and permanent look of all these edifices,
in which, from the composite and varying style
of architecture, you might read the history of half a
dozen centuries in a single house, and which looked
as if built before the memory of man, and like to
last for ever, reminded me, by the association of
contrast, of the straggling towns and villages of
out and renewed every fifty years; where the cities
seem only temporary encampments, and where,
till people learn to build for the future as well as the
present, there will be no history, except in pen and
ink, of the changing centuries in the country.
As I passed up the street, I saw on the lower
story of a sombre-looking house, the whole legend
of Samson and Delilah rudely carved in the brown
free-stone, which formed the abutments of the house
opposite; a fantastic sign over a portentous shop
with an awning ostentatiously extended over the
side walk, announced the café and ice-shop: overhead,
from the gutters of each of the red-tiled roofs,
were thrust into mid-air the grim heads of dragons
with long twisted necks, portentous teeth, and goggle
eyes, serving, as I learned the first rainy day,
the peaceful purpose of a water spout; while on the
side-walks, and at every turn, I saw enough to convince
me I was in an university town, although
there were none of the usual architectural indications.
As we passed the old gothic church of St.
Nicholas, I observed through the open windows of
the next house, a party of students smoking, and
playing billiards, and I recognized some of the faces
of my Leipzig acquaintance. In the street were
plenty of others of all varieties. Some, with plain
caps and clothes, and a meek demeanour, sneaked
quietly through the streets, with portfolios under
their arms. I observed the care with which they
turned out to the left, and avoided collision with
students” returning from lecture — others
swaggered along the side-walk, turning out for no
one, with clubs in their hands, and bull-dogs at
their heels — these were dressed in marvellously fine
caps, and polonaise coats, covered with cords and
tassels, and invariably had pipes in their mouths,
and were fitted out with the proper allowance of
spurs and moustachios. These were “Renomists,”
who were always ready for a row.
At almost every corner of the street was to be
seen a solitary individual of this latter class, in a
ferocious fencing attitude, brandishing his club in
the air, and cutting quart and tierce in the most
alarming manner, till you were reminded of the
truculent Gregory's advice to his companion; “Remember
thy swashing blow.”
All along the street, I saw, on looking up, the
heads and shoulders of students projecting from
every window. They were arrayed in tawdry
smoking caps, and heterogeneous-looking dressing
gowns with the long pipes and flash tassels depending
from their mouths. At his master's side, and
looking out of the same window, I observed, in
many instances, a grave and philosophical-looking
poodle, with equally grim moustachios, his head
reposing contemplatively on his fore-paws, and engaged
apparently, like his master, in ogling the
ponderous housemaids who were drawing water
from the street pumps.
We passed through the market square, with its
antique fountain in the midst, and filled with an
admirable collection of old women, some washing
clothes, and some selling cherries, and turned at last
into the Nagler Strasse. This was a narrow street,
with tall, rickety houses of various shapes and sizes,
arranged on each side, in irregular rows; while the
gaunt gable-ended edifices, sideling up to each other
in one place till the opposite side nearly touched,
and at another retreating awkwarly back as if
ashamed to show their faces, gave to the whole
much the appearance of a country dance by unskilful
performers. Suddenly the postillion drove into a
dark, yawning doorway, which gaped into the street
like a dragon's mouth, and drew up at the doorstep
of the “King of Prussia.” The house bell
jingled—the dogs barked—two waiters let down
the steps, a third seized us by the legs, and nearly
pulled us out of the carriage in the excess of their
officiousness; while the landlord made his appearance
cap in hand on the threshold, and after saluting
us in Latin, Polish, French, and English, at
last informed us in plain German, which was the
only language he really knew, that he was very
glad to have the honour of “recommending himself
to us.”
We paid our “brother-in-law,” as you must always
call the postillion in Germany, a magnificent
drinkgeld, and then ordered dinner.
4. CHAPTER IV.
FOX RABENMARK.
The next morning I lounged up the Weender
Strasse. The day was fine, and the streets were
thronged with more than the usual number of Students
and Philistines. As I got near the end of the
street, I saw one or two small boys, and half-a-dozen
house-maids, looking with wonder at a
strange figure, preceded by a strange dog, that was
passing along the side walk.
On looking at him at first, at a short distance, I
took him for a maniac, escaped from the lunatic
asylum. He wore a cap embroidered in crimson
and gold, shaped like a shaving-bason, and of the
sort usually denominated beer-caps,[3]
a dressing-gown
of many colours, strapped tightly about his loins
with a leathern girdle, in which were thrust two
horse-pistols, and a long basket-hilted “schläger,” or
duelling-sword, and on his feet a pair of red Turkish
slippers. His neck was open, and his legs bare
from the ankle to the knees. In one hand he
brandished an oaken cudgel, and in the other he
by a small dog of the comical breed called
“Deckel,” a kind of terrier, which considerably resembles
the English turnspit. The individual one
which now presented itself, was, like all its class, as
ugly as a dog can well be. His body was very
long, and his legs very short; his colour was a mixture
of black and a dirty red; his tail curled itself as
gracefully as a pig's, his knees were bowed parenthetically
outwards, and he turned out his toes like
a country dancing-master. In order to heighten
the effects of these personal charms, his master had
tied a wreath of artificial flowers round his neck,
and decorated his tail with fancy-coloured ribbons.
Attired in this guise, the dog and his master proceeded
gravely down the street, apparently without
heeding the laughter of the admiring spectators.
There seemed to be no students in the immediate
vicinity, and the Philistines were beneath his notice.
As I approached him, I observed something
familiar in his countenance, and, immediately afterwards,
the singular individual caught me by the
hand, and kissed me affectionately on both cheeks.
It was Rabenmark, my Leipzig acquaintance. He
invited me to accompany him to his rooms, and
smoke a pipe. I complied, and turned about with
him; and we continued our walk down the street.
I was not sufficiently intimate with him to expostulate
with, or to interrogate him with regard to the
peculiar costume in which he had thought proper to
array himself, and I accordingly took his arm as
town, in his holiday suit. We had not gone far,
before I perceived a group of students approaching.
I was curious to observe if he would treat their animadversions
with the same indifference as he had
done those of the town's-men. The terrier was
about a rod in advance of us, and on his passing
the students, there was an universal laugh. Rabenmark
hastened toward them. They were four
stout fellows, in blue-and-silver caps, and on observing
the absurd appearance of my companion, they
all began to laugh the louder.
“What the Devil are you laughing at?” said
Rabenmark, ferociously, with his arms a-kimbo;
“I see nothing to laugh at!”
“I was laughing at your dog,” said the first
student.
“I was laughing at his master,” said the second.
“And I—” “And I—” said the third and
fourth.
“Have the kindness to tell me your names?”
said Rabenmark to the second, third, and fourth.
“Pott,”—“Kopp,”—“Fizzleberg,” answered the
three, consecutively.
“Your addresses?” continued Rabenmark.
The addresses were given, and Rabenmark wrote
them all carefully down in his note-book.
“Now,” said he, “allow me to observe, Messieurs
Pott, Kopp, and Fizzleberg, that you are all
three stupid boodies (dumme Jungen)!”
This epithet, “dumme Jungen,” like the “drole,”
in French, is an insult, or a “touche,” and requires
a duel of twelve rounds (Gänge) to revenge it.
There is, however, another insult, which is a grade
beyond it, and which is about equivalent to the
pleasing epithet, in English, of “infamous scoundrel.”
This may be retorted, and the consequence
is a challenge of twenty-four “gangs,” from the
opposite party.
“Your name?” demanded the second student.
“Von Rabenmark,” answered my companion.
“You are an infamous Hundsfott!” said Pott.
“You are an infamous Hundsfott!” said Kopp.
“You are an infamous Hundsfott!” said Fizzleberg.
“Very well, gentlemen,” said Rabenmark: “very
well, indeed: all perfectly in order.—You shall hear
from me this afternoon, or to-morrow morning,”
and he politely touched his cap, as if it was the most
agreeable thing in the world to be called an infamous
Hundsfott.
“As for you, sir,” continued Rabenmark, turning
to the first student; “our quarrel is not so
easily settled. I care not much for insult to myself,
because I can defend myself: but an insult to
my dog, to little Fritz, is cowardly; for Fritz, according
to the `Comment,' cannot resent the injury.
Fritz, sir, as you perceive, bears the name of the
immortal hero of Prussia, `Frederick the only'—a
monarch for whom I have the most profound respect,
Fritz.”
The student laughed in his face.
“Your name?” said Rabenmark.
“Weissbier,” said the student.
“Well, Mr. Weissbier, I request you instantly to
repair with me to my apartment. Choose either of
your three friends for your second; here is mine,”
said he, pointing to me; “and we will settle Fritz's
quarrel with these instruments, at three paces, and
no barrier,” he concluded, touching his pistols.
Weissbier began to look serious.
“What a devil of a renommist,” said Pott, shaking
his head.
“Shocking!” said Kopp and Fizzleberg, shaking
theirs.
“I shall accept no such challenge,” said Weissbier;
“I do not feel myself bound thereto by any
code of honour. I will fight you with sabres, without
caps or duelling-breeches, if you choose. I will
accept no other challenge.”
“Ah, you are not fond of gunpowder. I am
sorry you met Fritz this morning. He is, perhaps,
foolishly strict on this point. I am not near so exacting
myself; but Fritz is inexorable. I am sorry,
sir, but I shall be obliged to post you publicly: you
will be expelled from your club;” and Rabenmark
was moving away.
“Stay—” said Weissbier, looking very pale and
very foolish, “if there is no alternative — but how
am I to apologise to your cursed dog?”
“Ah,—now you are beginning to be reasonable;
and I shall be very happy to assist you in your endeavour
to appease Fritz's wounded honour. You
will readily understand that it would be of little consequence
to apologise to him in words, because he
would not understand you. There is, however, a
very simple method. Fritz is fond of jumping—he
is fond of a companion in his sports; and if you will
have the kindness to afford him your company, his
anger will be extinguished at once.—Here, Fritz—
Fritz!” cried he, calling to the terrier.
The dog came to his whistle, and Rabenmark
held his stick, a foot's distance from the ground.
“Hopp, Hopp!” said Rabenmark, and the dog
jumped over the stick.
“Now sir,” he continued, “if you will have the
kindness to place yourself on all fours, and jump
over the stick in like manner, I pledge my honour
to you that Fritz will be perfectly satisfied.”
“Thousand Donner Wetter!” roared Mr. Weissbier,
in a rage, “what upon earth do you take me
for, Mr. Von Rabenmark?”
“A coward, sir — only a coward! If you are
willing, however, to prove I am mistaken, I shall
be very happy to show you the way to my rooms;
but really I must request you to hasten your decision,
for time presses, and I have many things to attend
to.”
I believe that Weissbier thought he had really got
hold of the devil. He had become very pale, and
his teeth began to chatter.
“In the name of God, is there no way of getting
out of this infernal scrape?” said he, looking round
in despair.
His companions turned their backs upon him.
“Well — well, I cannot have my brains blown
out for this miserable dog. Hold out your stick, Mr.
Von Rabenmark, if it be Heaven's will.”
So Mr. Von Rabenmark, as it was Heaven's
will, held out his stick — down plumped the miserable
Weissbier on his hands and knees.
“Hopp — hopp!” said Rabenmark, — over jumped
the detected bully—and, jumping up again, fled
rapidly up a narrow lane.
“Good morning, Mr. Weissbier,” said Rabenmark:
— “good morning, Messieurs Kopp, Pott,
and Fizzleberg. You shall hear from me this afternoon;”
and so saying, he gravely continued his
promenade.
5. CHAPTER V.
THE FOX'S DEN.
A few minutes' walk brought us to his lodgings.
We ascended two flights of stairs, and entered his
apartment. The sitting-room was tolerably large,
and, in its furniture and arrangements, a perfect
specimen of a regular “kneipe.” The floor was
without carpet, and sanded; and the household
furniture consisted of a table, a sofa, and half-a-dozen
chairs of the most unpretending kind. The
great expense had been, however evidently made
in providing the pipes, pictures, and other student-luxuries.
A large and well-executed engraving of
a celebrated duel, which, from the notoriety of the
combatants, and its tragical issue, had become historical,
hung on the right side as you entered. On
the left, the wall was covered with a large collection
of “silhouettes.” These are a peculiar and invariable
characteristic of a German student's room; —
they are well executed profiles, in black paper on a
white ground, of the occupant's intimate friends,
and are usually four or five inches square, and surrounded
with a narrow frame of black wood.
Rabenmark's friends seemed to be numerous, for
there were at least a hundred silhouettes, ranged in
regular rows, gradually decreasing by one from the
bottom, till the pyramid was terminated by a single
one, which was the profile of the “senior” of the
Pommeranian club. Most of the worthies represented
possessed (as it is not uncommon with profile portraits)
a singular similarity with each other. All
had variegated club-caps, moustachios, and bows of
ribbons in their button holes, and looked as if they
might have been furnished by an upholsterer in “lots
to suit purchasers.” A scarf of scarlet and gold was
suspended in graceful festoons from two nails, so as
to form a sort of triumphal wreath for the whole.
The third side of the room was decorated with a
couple of “schlägers,” or duelling swords, which
were fastened crosswise against the wall. The
schläger is a sword, I believe, of perfectly unique
formation; the blade is between three and four feet
in length, and of finely tempered steel; its breadth
is about three quarters of an inch, and the point, or
rather end, is square and blunt; its edge on both
sides, for about nine inches, from the extremity, is
as sharp as the most carefully polished razor. The
rest of the blade is comparatively dull, and the heel
is screwed securely into a basket-hilt, of large dimensions,
covered on the outside with cloth of the
owner's club. The hilts of Rabenmark's were of
blue, scarlet and gold.
On the fourth side of the room were ranged a collection
of pipes, which were the pride of his hearth.
row. The bowls were of porcelain, exquisitely
painted; some with portraits of pretty women, some
with copies from Ostade and Gerhard Dow, and
some with the arms of his intimate friends. The
stems were about three feet in length, and of a fragrant
polished cherry. The tassels were large, and
rich, and of every combination of Landsmannschaft
colour. Besides these were halfa dozen meerschaums,
of all the different kinds: there was the “milkmeerschaum”
from Vienna, exquisitely carved, and
delicate as sugar work; the “oil meerschaum” from
Hanover, carefully polished, and scientifically embrowned
towards the bottom by its own smoke; besides
the “wax meerschaum,” the “raw meerschaum,”
and various others.
Besides these articles, there were some half-dozen
engravings in frames, a fowling-piece, a sabre, and
two or three different species of caps hanging in different
parts of the room.
“There,” said Rabenmark, entering the room,
unbuckling his belt, and throwing the pistols and
schläger on the floor. “I can leave my buffoonery
for a while and be reasonable; it's rather tiresome
work, this renommiring.”
“Have the kindness to tell me,” said I, “what
particular reason you have for arraying yourself and
your dog in such particularly elegant costumes; and
for making such an exquisite exhibition of yourself
during your promenade?”
“No particular reason,” he answered; “but it
on the whole. I am a fox. When I came to the
university three months ago, I had not a single acquaintance.
I wished to introduce myself into the
best Landsmannschaft, but I saw little chance of succeeding.
I have already, however, become an influential
member. What course do you suppose I
adopted to gain my admission?”
“I suppose you made friends of the president or
senior, as you call him, and the other magnates of
the club,” said I.
“No. I insulted them all publicly, and in the
grossest manner. Look here,” he continued, taking
down one of the schlägers from the wall, and
showing me the list of the duels he had already
perpetrated, written, according to an universal custom,
on the white leathern lining of the hilt. The
number of entries was already about fourteen.
“See,” said he, “these first half-dozen are the
senior, con-senior, and some other members of the
Pommerania; they were my first six duels.”
“I suppose you got well peppered by such old
stagers,” said I; “but I hardly see how that was
to expedite your admission.”
“Oh! that was a very simple matter,” replied
Rabenmark; “for in the first place, you are wrong
in your flattering supposition. Instead of being
peppered, I was very successful; and after I had
cut off the senior's nose, sliced off the con-senior's
upper lip, moustachios and all, besides bestowing
less severe marks of affection on the others, the
to secure the services of so valorous a combatant,
voted me in by acclamation.”
“Do you find any particular satisfaction,” said I,
“in your club, and the university life?”
“Oh, it is boy's play,” said he; “but then I am
a boy, in years at least. I have a certain quantity
of time on my hands. I wish to take the university
as a school for action. I intend to lead my
companions here, as I intend to lead them in after
life. You see I am a very rational sort of person
now, and you would hardly take me for the same
crazy mountebank you met in the street half-an-hour
ago. But then, I see that this is the way to
obtain superiority. I determined at once, on arriving
at the university, that, to obtain the mastery over
my competitors, who were all extravagant, savage,
eccentric, was to be ten times as extravagant and
savage as any one else. You do not suppose I derived
any particular satisfaction from tying up Fritz's
tail with ribbons; but then it is as good a way of
bullying as any other, and besides, these student-duels
are capital exercise.”
“Suppose, however, that Mr. Weissbier had happened
to be a less tractable person than he proved
to be?”
“Why, I should have been obliged to shoot
him.”
“You forget the less agreeable alternative. He
might have done you the same favour.”
“Oh no,—impossible. I shall not die till I am
period, I shall live some twelve or thirteen years
longer; I forget the exact number; but I have it
written down in my common-place book somewhere.”
This I found afterwards to be a settled conviction.
Nothing could induce Rabenmark to admit the possibility
of his death, till that age. It was a prediction
in his family, by some gipsy, I suppose, for hewas,
as I have said, a Bohemian. His age was, at
the time of which I am writing, exactly eighteen
and a half.
“Perhaps,” said he, politely, “you would like to
see a duel or two. They are very pretty gladiatorial
exhibitions. There are always plenty going on
every day, and they are quite as amusing as the
combats des animaux at Paris.”
“I should have no objection,” said I, “as it
seems customary to admit spectators.”
Here Rabenmark threw open the window, and
called to a passing acquaintance. “Katt! do you
go `los' to-morrow afternoon?” (To go los, or
loose literally, is the cant expression for fighting.)
“Yes; with Poppendorf,” was the answer.
“Very well. Oh! by the way, have the kindness
to step to a certain Pott of the Bremen club,
and to Kopp and Fizzleberg of the Brunswick, and
challenge them each for me, on twenty-four gangs,
small caps.”
“Very well. I shall see you at the Kneipe to-night?”
“Yes. Adieu.”
“Adieu.”
“There, Mr. Morton,” continued Rabenmark,
“you see in five minutes a student's whole life. A
young man usually spends three years at the university.
As most of the German universities are in
coalition, whatever time he spends at one, is counted
for him at the next, and he consequently usually
passes a whole year at one, the next term at another,
and so on. The first two years of the three,
a student generally employs in fighting duels and
getting drunk. After he has fought his fifty or a
hundred duels, and drunk as much beer as he is
capable of, he usually, at the end of his second year,
leaves his club, and spends his third and last year
in diligent study. His examination,—and a very
strict one it is,—succeeds: and if he can pass it, he
receives his doctor's degree, whether of theology,
philosophy, law, or medicine, and retires into private
life.”
“But, I suppose, he remains a long time, a troublesome
and ferocious individual?”
“On the contrary. Nobody ever hears of him.
It is a singular anomaly,—the whole German student
existence. The German students are no more
Germans than they are Sandwich Islanders. They
have, in fact, less similarity with Germans, than
with any other nation. You see in them a distinct
and strongly characterized nation, moving in a definite,
though irregular orbit of its own, and totally
independent of the laws which regulate the rest of
phenomenon of a rude, though regularly organised
republic, existing in the heart of a despotism.
In fact, every one of the main points of the German's
character is directly the opposite of those of
the German student. The German is phlegmatic,
—the student fiery. The German is orderly and
obedient to the authorities—the student ferocious and
intractable. The German is peaceable,—the student
for ever brawling and fighting. The German
is eminently conservative in his politics,—the student
always a revolutionist. The government of all the
German states is despotić,—the student's whole existence
is republican. The German is particularly
deferent to rank and title. In the student's republic,
and there alone, the omnipotent `Von' sinks before
the dexterous schläger, or the capacious `beer
bummel.' Lastly, the German is habitually sober,
and the student invariably drunk.”
“But how, in God's name, is it, that this community
of desperadoes does not at last overwhelm
the whole of Germany? How is it that they do
not set the whole empire in a blaze?”
“Why, the process of evaporation seems after
all, to be very simple. A certain number leave the
university every year; and besides that they have
already been subjected to a preparatory cooling of
about a year, during which they have been preparing
themselves for their examination, it usually
appears that the number is so insignificant in comparison
with the vast population in which they are
apprehended, seems impossible. They are at once
extinguished in the ocean of mankind.”
“Then it seems that this last year's study acts
as a sort of safety-valve, and diminishes the danger?”
“Annihilates it entirely. Besides this, a great
effect is produced by the sobriety of the citizen; nay,
of the student himself, after his metempsychosis.
A man, when he is tipsy, looks at all subjects and
particularly political subjects, with much more enthusiasm
than when he is sober. When the fumes
of beer and schnapps have been dispersed, and he is
once settled in private life, he finds it much better to
pocket his wages as Referendarius, Auditer, &c.,
paid out to him by the despot's treasurer, and wait
quietly till he receives his ultimate promotion, than
to be quarrelling with the government, and losing
his money and his head for his pains.”
“Well,” said I, getting up, “I am much obliged
to you for your information, and I feel the sagacity
of all your observations; but it's getting near dinner-time,
and so I shall wish you a good morning.”
“Good morning. By the way, if you are inclined
to drink beer to-night, I shall be happy to take
you with me to the Kneipe. I will call for you at
six this evening if you choose.”
“Very well. Adieu.”
6. CHAPTER VI.
THE LIBRARIAN POPP.
At dinner I met Lackland, of course, and told
him of my visit in the morning, and my intentions
in the evening. He agreed to accompany me in
the evening to the Pommeranian Kneipe, and in
the meantime we strolled to the library. As we
had both of us matriculated ourselves at the university,
we possessed the right of using the books, as
well as of attending any course of lectures for which
we chose to pay a Frederick-d'or.
The library is a tolerably large, but wholly unpretending
building, in the heart of the town, and
is open at almost all hours. There are always one
or two sub-librarians in attendance, and many students
of the “camel denomination” are usually
found, immersed chin deep in their lucubrations.
The principle that has been adopted in the construction
and collection of the German libraries,
is a good one. They buy the cheapest editions
that are to be had of every thing; but they buy
every thing. Perhaps one of the main original
reasons was, the shabby style of printing and publishing,
of the systematic and international piracy
practised by the different states upon each other.
The consequence is, that you find in all the university
towns and in all the capitals, libraries, varying
in number from 150,000 to 400,000 volumes, and it
is very difficult for a man of any science, or any
profession, to find himself in a situation, where he
has not within his reach all the assistance that a
library could afford him for his labours.
The principal-Librarian's-Sub-Librarian's-Deputy-Assistant's-Secretary's
clerk, attended us from alcove
to alcove. He was a fussy little man, very civil,
but very important. He was, moreover, very proud
of the library, and very well acquainted, with, at least,
the outside of the books.
He was an odd sort of individual in appearance,
but not unpleasing. His face was round, ruddy,
and wrinkled, like a roasted apple; and his snow-white
hair was parted on his forehead, and hung
decently down over his shoulders. He wore a very
light blue surtout, reaching nearly to his heels;
and below he was immersed to his hips in an
enormous pair of boots, with still more enormous
tassels. The alertness with which he clambered
up the library ladders in search of any work
we mentioned, in spite of his age and his leather
incumbrances, and the zeal with which he would
blow the dust from the leaves, and fervently kiss
the title page when it happened to be any of his
favourite authors, were truly edifying. Hearing
Lackland mention that I was an American, he
the steps, upon whose top he was perched, at the
risk of his neck, he begged permission to embrace
me, and then toddled off in his boots to another alcove.
Presently afterwards he returned with a
couple of books.
“You have undoubtedly seen these famous productions
of the famous Professor Poodleberg?” said
he to me.
“Not I.”
He looked aghast for a moment. “However,” he
continued, “you are but recently arrived, I understand,
and have hardly had time to familiarize yourself
with the works of our great philologists. “This,
sir,” said he, opening the first book, “is a grammar
arranged on the principles, of what the professor
calls the comparative anatomy of philology, and is
intended to exhibit, in a single work, the genius,
the peculiarities of structure, with the international
resemblances, and differences of the Choctaw, Cherokee,
and other prominent North American dialects.”
“Potz sacrament!” I exclaimed, having nothing
else to say.
“You are, of course, familiar with all these
languages, being an American,” he continued;
“and it will be therefore interesting to you to criticise
and to admire the labours of our learned philologist.
Allow me to wrap it in brown paper, and to send it
with the other works you have selected, to your
lodgings.”
I was unwilling to destroy the pleasing illusions
which he was under, respecting my own philological
acquirements, and so assured him that nothing
could afford me more unmixed gratification than to
read that, and any other of Professor Poodleberg's
works.
“Perhaps you would find this treatise by Professor
Poodleberg, on the original inhabitants of America,
showing satisfactorily that they are descended from
the missing tribes of Israel, — to be also worthy of
your attention?”
“Certainly, have the kindness to send that also!”
“You will perhaps think it a little strange,” he
continued, “that I am so enthusiastic on the subject
of America. But you must know that I am on the
eve of a great journey. I have already my trunks
packed at home preparatory for my journey to Paris;
and after remaining a sufficient time there to
perfect myself in the languages, and enjoy my share
of the pleasures of that bewitching metropolis,” (and
here the little octagenarian gave me a nudge of the
elbow, and winked his eye wickedly,) “I shall proceed
to America, whither I shall take with me the
money I have been enabled to lay by in the course
of a librarian's life, buy a farm, and enjoy the rest
of my time in peace and quietness. By the way,
do you advise me to take out my cash in Frederickd'ors,
or Prussian dollars?”
I told him I must take time to reflect on this important
subject, before I presumed to advise him;
commended his plan, and begged him to lose no
colonists.
He then showed us other interesting works in different
parts of the library, and amused us particularly
by his chirping and vivacious commentaries upon
them.
“May I be allowed the favour of calling upon you
at your lodgings, and will you allow me the honour
of exchanging addresses with you?” said he,
as we were taking leave of him.
We gave him our addresses, and in return he
gave us a pompous looking card, on which was engraved:
“The Principal Librarian's Sub-Librarian's Deputy's
Assistant's Secretary, Popp,
“That's a very nice little man,” said Lackland,
as we passed from the door; but he labours under a
singular delusion. He has told you that he is on
the point of departing for Paris, and thence to America,
and so he has told all his acquaintances
every day for more than thirty-five years. The most
singular circumstance is, that his trunk is in reality,
as he tells you, already packed at home, and so it has
been during all those thirty-five years. He formed
the determination of emigrating when he was a comparatively
young man, and ever since he has found
some reason for deferring his journey from day to
day, although he has no intention of giving up his
he remains perfectly sane on every other subject.
“But here we are at your rooms, and I see Rabenmark
looking out of the window.”
8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE KNEIPE.
The weather being fine, the tables were ranged
under the linden-trees in the garden of the inn,
where the club held their meetings.
I do not recollect that there was anything peculiar
in the appearance of the company, to distinguish
them from the mass of Burschen, with whom the
reader has, I suppose, by this time become familiar.
There were some thirty or forty individuals present,
varying in age from eighteen to eight-and-thirty,
and all wearing the club cap and club favour in their
button-hole. Each had moustachios, pipes, and
embroidered tobacco-bags, and each had a great
glass of beer before him with a plated cover. They
sat together in little knots, and conversed on the
everlasting subjects — duels — drinking — dogs —
beer — Rhenish — schlägers, and painted pipes.
“By the way, Rabenmark,” said my old acquaintance,
Dummberg, whom I had just recognised
and greeted, “did you hear of the issue of Salzmaum's
Paukerei, yesterday?”
“Yes, at the first gang, he received a cut across
the chin.”
“How many stitches?”
“Nineteen, I believe, but besides that, the tip of
his tongue, which happened unluckily to have been
thrust into his cheek at the moment, was taken off
also — however, that goes for nothing, I believe.
I may as well mention for the benefit of the uninitiated,
that the number of stitches which the doctor
makes in sewing up a wound, is the usual method
of ascertaining its importance.
“Did Spoopsmann go los yesterday, with Hartzberg?”
“Oh yes, and pitch enough he had.” (Pech zu
haben — “to have pitch,” is a student's expression
for all sorts of misfortune.) “At the very second
gang, his nose was taken off in the middle. It fell
on the floor of course, and just as Doctor Jacobus
was about to snatch it up, that infernal poodle of
Finkenstein's, which as ill-luck would have it, had
contrived to remain in the room, pounced upon it
and made for the door. Jacobus followed, and a battle-royal
succeeded. After a good deal of struggling,
the doctor came off victor with half of the fragment
as his “spolia opima.” He hastened to sew it on,
in order to secure to his patient at least three quarters
of his nose, but in the confusion of the moment
and agitated I suppose by his battle with the poodle,
he patched it on upside down. The consequence
is, that poor Spoopsmann, who had a very respectable
aquiline proboscis before, will make his appearance
nose in the world.”
“Pitch, indeed!” growled old Dummberg.
“Kellner, you infernal Hundsfott, bring me another
quart of beer!”
I had not been long at the Kneipe, when my old
acquaintance Count Trump Von Toggenburg made
his appearance. He was dressed with the most elaborate
elegance. His scarlet cap with a particularly
resplendent tassel was placed jauntily on one side,
his long sleek hair was combed carefully down each
side of his face, and his moustachios were waxed and
stiffened into an imposing rigidity. He wore a new
Polonaise coat, the breast of which was covered
with an ingenious and elaborate lattice work of
cords and tassels, and he was smoking a meerschaum,
which, as he informed us, he had just
received a present from his cousin, Prince Toggenburg-Hohenstaufer.
He greeted me warmly on entering, and told the
Kellner to bring his beer and tobacco into my neighbourhood.
“I do not consider it any impeachment to my
exalted rank in the social world,” said he to me, in
a confidential tone, “to occasionally indulge myself
in my Vaterland's luxury of beer. I hold it to be
incumbent on every nobleman to encourage all
real national habits and peculiarities. I hope next
winter to induce you to spend a few weeks with
me at Toggenburg. You will find there a profusion
of Vaterland's luxuries, but few extraneous. Wildboar's
Hanover — smoked geese from Pommerania — venison
from Prussia — sausages from Brunswick —
wines from the Rhine and Neckar — beer from Bavaria
— nothing else.”
I expressed myself perfectly satisfied with such
a bill of fare, and the general conversation proceeded.
“I hear that Ulrich, the innkeeper, has procured
several casks of Cassel March beer — is it true,
Dummberg?” asked a fox of the veteran.
“Yes — but not so good as the last; and in fact,
the Cassel beer is not worth the trouble. When I
was a fox, it was held a point of honour with the
seniors of the respectable clubs, when they were on
the eve of a grand commerz, to send a deputation
to Munich, or to Wurtzburg at least, with full plenipotentiary
powers to taste and to purchase an indefinite
quantity of the best beer to be found in all
Bavaria. Yes,” he continued, while a glow of virtuous
enthusiasm lighted up his face; “yes, I have
myself, when con-senior of this very club, been
appointed to head a deputation of forty-five clubs
from Göttingen, Heidelberg, and other universities,
to proceed, at the expense of a fund expressly
provided for the purpose, to Cassel, Wurtzburg and
Munich, and to purchase fifty casks at each city for
each society — fifty casks!” he concluded, hammering
with his fist on the table.
A low murmur of generous and sympathetic admiration
ran round the assembly.
“Alas! — times are sadly altered; the tastes of
our students are degenerating. Never shall I see a
university as I recollect Göttingen twenty years
ago,” concluded Dummberg, with a sigh.
And so the conversation went on, and the beer
went off — quart after quart; and as the fumes
ascended to the head, the conversation became more
boisterous, and the drinking songs and chorusses
went gaily round.
In the course of the evening, a student, who sat
nearly opposite, requested Trump to introduce
him to me.
“You will excuse the liberty,” said he, when the
favour was accorded him, — “but I heard you were
an American, and I wish to ask after some near
acquaintances who have been there for ten years,
and of whom you, doubtless, have heard.”
“Their names?” asked I.
“Zinzindorf.”
“I hardly recollect any one of that name in my
part of the country. In what province do they happen
to reside?”
“I am not sure; but it is either Brazil or Buenos
Ayres,” was the reply.
“Ah, indeed,” said I, “I do not happen to have
met them very lately; but in my next letters, I shall
not fail to make inquiries, and have no doubt I shall
be able, when I receive the answer, to afford you the
most satisfactory information.”
“I shall be exceedingly obliged to you,” gravely
to you half a quart of beer.”
In the meantime the company had become all
more or less tipsy, and Trump among the rest. He
proposed to drink Schmollis, or Brotherhood with
me, and, of course, I was but too happy to avail myself
of so distinguished an honour.
“Few — very few are the persons,” said he, with
great dignity, “whom I am willing to admit to the
intimacy which `Du and Du' expresses. Out of
my own club, I believe there are not six persons in
the university with whom I am on these terms of
familiarity, and of the whole number, you are the
only one to whom I have proposed this mark of
friendship; all the rest have made their advances to
me. But you are a stranger — you are an American,
and I rejoice that my rank allows me, occasionally,
the privilege of extending my hand without
fear of repulse or ingratitude;” and so saying, Count
Trump Von Toggenburg drank what was left in
his glass, and then, grasping me by the hand, kissed
me fervently on either cheek.
“And now, my friend and brother,” he continued,
“let me advise you not to confine yourself exclusively
to the society of the students. Believe me, the society
of the wits and beauties even of this city, is not
wholly unworthy the attention of a stranger; and I
am very sure if you are inclined to make the experiment,
that you will not be the less favourably received
by being introduced under the auspices of Count
he placed his hand emphatically upon his breast.
“I shall be excessively obliged to you,” I replied,
“for so great a favour: are there any conversaziones
or balls at present?”
“The gay season has hardly commenced — but in
the meantime, you cannot do better than to attend
the aesthetic tea-parties of the Frau Von Rumplestern,
which take place every Wednesday evening.
By the way, there will be one to-morrow — shall I
have the pleasure of introducing you?”
“Most willingly,” said I, “I shall hold myself in
readiness.”
“You must know, mon cher amie,” continued
Trump, who always tried to talk French when he
was tipsy, “that I am not always occupied `à faire
le tapageur;' on the contrary, I have many moments
of deep feeling — many hours of pure and
strong sentiment. You are, probably, not aware
that I am in love?”
And so Trump, whom beer had rendered tender
and sentimental, began confidentially to discourse
to me about a love-affair of his, which, in its course
and termination, afforded me some amusement, and
which I shall have occasion in the course of these
pages to lay before the reader.
“You must know, mon brave, that the house of
Trump Von Toggenburg is a little reduced in its
resources; and it is a natural consequence of the
scrupulousness with which its members have followed
the rule in noble families, of breeding in-and-in.
by trade, I have at length come to the determination
that it will not be derogatory to my rank
to ally myself to some wealthy female, whose family
is not equal to mine, but who will be sufficienly
illustrious by the splendour which will be reflected
upon her by me.”
“Have you any such person in your eye?” I
inquired.
“You shall see. After due deliberation, and
commuing with myself, as well as mature consultation
with the various branches of my family, I at
last decided on a lady, and was already making
preparations for my marriage, when a new and
most unexpected obstacle presented itself.”
“And that was—” said I.
“The lady would not have me!”
“But of course you were not deterred by so
trifling a difficulty. By the way, you have not told
me the name of the lady?”
“It was a certain Miss Potiphar,” he replied,
“the only daughter of the wealthy Jew banker,
Potiphar. The father has the impertinence to oppose
himself to the match, and insists upon his
daughter marrying a damn'd fellow named Maccabæus,
a merchant of his own tribe.—Conceive the
effrontery of the fellow!” continued Trump, indignantly.
“After I had made up my own mind—
after I had resigned myself to the disgrace of contaminating
the pure ichor of the Toggenburgs with
scoundrel's not jumping at the offer! However,
the daughter is in love with me, I believe, and
I shall have her in spite of the father. By the way,
they will be to-morow at Madame de Rumplestern's,
and I shall introduce you to her.”
Soon after this, it had become late, and the company
being nearly dispersed, Lackland and I took
our way homeward. As I approached my door, I
perceived some one seated on the steps. I could not
divine the cause. On ascending the steps, I perceived
Rabenmark, who was slightly drunk.
“What the deuce are you doing here?” said I.
“Why don't you come in?”
“No, I thank you; I have business here,” was
the answer.
“Is it so important that it cannot be delayed?”
I asked.
“Yes; I am catching.”
“Catching!—What is catching?” said I.
“I will show you presently. Wait a little.”
I waited a few minutes, and then we perceived a
tall student advancing leisurely towards us on the
same side of the way. “There's another!—he
will do. You shall see me catch him;” and so
saying, Rabenmark waited till the stranger was
nearly abreast of us, and then suddenly thrusting
out his leg, tripped him over. The student
rolled in the gutter, and then sprang furiously to
his feet.
“Dummer Junge!” he roared.
“Infamous Hundsfott!” replied Rabenmark.
“You shall hear from me to-morrow,” and off
he rushed.
“Good night,” said Rabenmark, and then turning
to me, he continued: “This is what I call catching.
It is a little invention of my own. I have
caught seven this evening—very simple, you see,
and very little trouble. Good night.”
“Sleep well,” said I, and retired to my chamber.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
AN AESTHETIC TEA-PARTY.
I have carefully abstained, in this part of my memoirs,
from being the hero of my own work. It is
my purpose, for the present at least, to carry out
this plan. The events which I have detailed in
the first book of this little autobiography could not
fail to produce their effect. With time, however,
the effects were less visible, not because they had
been effaced from the surface, but because they had
sunk below it; and at the period of which I now
write, and which, as nearly as I can ascertain, was
about a year after the death of Vassal Deane, I had
attained an outward calm, very different from the
dull melancholy with which I had been previously
affected.
During this portion of my life, although personally
engaged at times in certain turbulent and (as
it will in the sequel perhaps appear to the reader)
not very commendable transactions, I was, in all
matters of the heart at least, a spectator rather than
an actor.
Would that I had remained so during the whole
period of my exile; but it is unnecessary to anticipate
record.
I wish accordingly, for the present, to interest the
reader rather in others than in myself, and I shall
therefore, while detailing whatever may seem worth
preserving of my adventures, lay an attachment, as
a lawyer would say, on all the sympathy he might
otherwise have placed at my disposal in sentimental
matters, for the benefit of others.
On the afternoon succeeding our visit to the Pommeranian
Kneipe, I had been walking in the neighbourhood
of Göttingen. I was returning about dusk
through one of the most elegant streets to keep my
appointment with Trump, when, as I passed under
the balcony of a large and respectable-looking house,
a bunch of violets dropped upon the pavement at
my feet. I looked up, and just distinguished a female
face at the window immediately over the balcony.
She placed her finger on her mouth, shook
her head playfully, and vanished.
“Donner wetter!” said I to myself.
The street was one of the most elegant in the
town, and the house particularly imposing in its appearance.
I was sadly puzzled.
I rang at the street-door. A servant in livery
presented himself.
“Who lives here?” I asked.
“The Ablic-councillor, Privy-councillor Baron
Von Poodleberg,” was the reply.
“The devil!” I muttered. “What! not Professor
Poodleberg?”
“At your service,” said the lackey.
“Does the house belong to him?”
“Certainly.”
“He has probably a large family then,” said I.
“Only one daughter.”
“But he has a wife?”
“Frau Von Poodleberg has been dead for some
years. Old Mrs. Meerschaum, who has lived in
his family some sixty years, is housekeeper and
manager.”
“Is the Professor at home?”
“He has just driven out.”
“Thank you—I will call again,” said I, and
turned away from the door.
“One thing is certain,” said I to myself, as I
thrust the violets into my button-hole, and strutted
homewards, “I have made a conquest of somebody;
but whether it is the Professor's daughter Fräulein
Poodleberg, or old mother Meerschaum, the housekeeper,
time must show. Perhaps, after all, it is
only one of the housemaids.”
I had, however, no time to speculate further on
the subject, for it was necessary to get ready for
Frau Von Rumplestern's conversazione. So, with
a determination to investigate the subject thoroughly
as soon as an opportunity offered, I dismissed all
thoughts of it for the present.
It was late when Trump and I made our appearance
at the party. A small boy took our cloaks in
the passage, and went forward to announce us.
“His Excellency Count Trump Von Toggenburg,
Morton!” bawled the errand-boy at the bottom of
the stairs, to the man-servant in livery at the top.
“Count Trump Von Toggenburg, and Baron
Von Morton!” echoed the servant in livery, and a
dead silence succeeded the buzzing and humming
which we had heard from the saloon, in the midst
of which we marched into the room.
It was a saloon of tolerable dimensions and neat
appearance. The floor was, of course, without a
carpet, and well polished. The curtains were of
red taffeta. The chairs and sofas were covered
with a sort of striped woolen material, and the rest
of the furniture was of dark polished oak. An Albert
Dürer, and two or three of Lucas Cranach's
portraits garnished the walls, and a plaster cast or
two from the ancient models stood in the different
corners; a knot of men and women of all ages,
with tea-cups in their hands, surrounded a chair
placed on an elevated platform. The chair was at
the moment without an occupant, but seemed to
have been just vacated.
Frau Von Rumplestern moved out from the little
crowd on our announcement to receive our
obeisance. She was a short, pursy little body of
fifty, with a red face, a brocaded gown, and a remarkably
ugly cap.
“Allow me to recommend to you, gracious Madame
de Rumplestern, my particular and distinguished
friend, Baron Von Morton!” said Trump,
with a great flourish.
“Delighted to make the acquaintance of any one
who has the honour to be a friend of Count Trump
Von Toggenburg!” said Frau Von Rumplestern.
“Have you heard lately from your gracious father,
Count Trump Von Toggenburg?”
“He is at present in Silesia, on a visit to our relation,
Prince Hohenstaufer! Have you had much
literature this evening?”
“Professor Funk has done us the favour to read
us a passage from his new tragedy, but as it was
only ten lines in length, of course there was not
much time consumed.”
“He has been some time engaged upon this tragedy,
has he not?” I inquired.
“Twenty-five years of intense labour have been
employed upon it, and he has as yet completed but
two acts and a half. He, however, hopes to complete
the remaining two and a half in ten years.
And after all,” said the lady, enthusiastically, “thirty-five
years is but little time to spend on so vast,
and so immortal a work!”
“I have heard that it was in the classical taste,
but I must beg to be informed of the subject and the
plan.”
“Ah! you have a great pleasure to come,” said
the Frau, “but yonder is Professor Funk, let us
walk forward, and I will introduce you to him.”
“The great dramatist was standing near the
reciting chair, which he had recently vacated.
He was a thin, pleuretical looking man, upwards
of fifty in appearance, with a pallid, unhealthy
on the forehead and hanging wildly down over
his shoulders. I observed that his coat was both
rusty and dusty, and his black worsted stockings
were full of holes. It seemed to be doubtful
whether he had any linen; but he wore a very ample
shirt-bosom of black silk which answered the
purpose of a shirt, and saved washing. He was
altogether what is called a very interesting man, and
was surrounded by half a dozen admiring old ladies.
As we approached, I observed that he was descanting
to his respectable audience on the superiority
of his tragedy to any other, modern or ancient.
I could not have selected a more favourable moment,
and accordingly after Frau Von Rumplestern had
carried me through the form of an introduction, I
remained a silent listener.
“I first conceived the plan,” said the Professor,
“of, what my modesty forbids me to call, my immortal
work, when only ten years of age. I, however,
did not put pen to paper till I was twenty, and
since then, I have been diligently employed upon
it. It will be a grand jubilee, when the remaining
portion is finished, and the labours of a life crowned
with success.”
“Great indeed!” said the six old women, enthusiastically.
“You must excuse the ignorance of a stranger,”
said I, “but I have but lately arrived in these regions,
and have not had the advantage of becoming
acquainted with the name and design of your work.
find that I had missed hearing the passage you
have done us the honour to read.”
“In compassion for your loss, which it must be
confessed was excessive,” modestly rejoined Funk,
“I will in a few words state the design of my tragedy,
or rather, to speak more correctly, my dramatic
poem; for although, I have no doubt that the
various theatres in Germany will be most anxious
to represent it, yet it can hardly be called a tragedy
in the modern sense of the term.
“My tragedy of `Vulcan Degraded,' is an attempt
to revive the Grecian drama. Vulcan, you
may probably be aware, if your education has not
been neglected, (but you come from a barbarous
country, and excuses are to be made for you,)” continued
Funk, who considered an habitual impertinence
to be a privilege either of his genius or of his
imbecile physical conformation—“Vulcan, according
to the most received accounts, endeavoured to
liberate his mother, who had been chained to a post
in heaven by Jupiter, her husband, as a punishment
for her obstinacy. The father of gods, seeing
the attempt, kicked Vulcan down from heaven He
fell for nine days, and at last alighted in Lemnos,
where the inhabitants, seeing him in the air, caught
him in their arms. Now, the only liberty I have
taken with the history, is to shorten the duration of
his fall from nine days to one; and you see at once
the sublime simplicity of the whole plan. The action
is the kicking of Jupiter, and the consequent
only parts of the same proposition, may be naturally
compressed into one and the same act. The
unities are, as you may see, admirably preserved.
In the first place, the unity of time—exactly one
day;—the unity of place—you will observe that the
scene is intended to represent only heaven, earth,
and the intermediate space. Above is Olympus,—
personages, Jupiter, Juno, Vulcan, and a chorus of
gods and goddesses. Jupiter, and the chorus are
naturally stationary from choice, so that they give
me no trouble. Juno, who might be inclined to
change her position, is carefully chained to a post.
Vulcan, of course, in falling from heaven all the
way to earth, may be supposed to violate this second
unity; but as he is to represent the third unity, or
the unity of action, he may be excused for the little
impropriety towards the second. The devil is in it,
if in making a man fall all the way from heaven
to earth, (a journey of nine days according to the
usual calculation,) I may not allow him to change
his position?” said he, appealing to his audience.
“Quite right, quite right, Mr. Professor!” said
the old women.
“Thus you see,” he continued, “the whole state
of the scene. Above is Olympus—Juno sitting—
Jupiter kicking—Vulcan falling. In the centre,
Vulcan falling—falling—falling. At the bottom,
the inhabitants of Lemnos looking up with outstretched
arms, all waiting to catch the god, and be instructed
in horse-shoeing. This brings me to the
perfect, and might at pleasure be compressed into
an instant. It is simply—Jupiter kicks—Vulcan
falls—the Lemnians catch—and all is over.”
“It seems astonishing that a plot so simple in appearance,
should require such intense labour, and so
many years?” said I.
“Astonishing only to the ignorant,” said the Professor,
politely; “but on the least reflection the ten
thousand difficulties will present themselves. For
instance, I have been ten years writing the soliloquy
of Vulcan which he utters in falling, and which in
itself will occupy one act; as he is the principal personage
in the drama, he ought certainly to speak
more than any; but as the drama opens with his
departure from Olympus, and closes with his arrival
at Lemnos, no one of the other dramatis personæ
could hear a word he said. It would of course, then,
be superfluous, and a violation of the rules to make
him utter any thing worth hearing. How do you
think I get over this difficulty?” said he to me in a
triumphant manner.
“I suppose you make him talk nonsense!” said I.
“Psha—psha!” resumed Funk impatiently, “I
make him talk nothing but Interjections! Five
years was I employed in devising this solution of my
difficulty, and five more in carrying it into effect;
and now, that it is done, it seems simple enough on
looking back upon it. In effect, what could be more
natural than for a person in Vulcan's disagreeable
situation to vent his various emotions of hatred, rage,
But I assure you, it was a great difficulty to
find all the interjections necessary to show the various
shades, deepening at first from rage to despair,
and then gradually and faintly heightening as he perceives
assistance awaiting him on earth. I, in the
first place, collected all the interjections of all the
Grecian poets—
The pedantry of the Professor became at last (as
Dogberry says) “most tolerable and not to be endured,”
so I turned away and sought amusement
elsewhere.
The aesthetic party had become more numerous.
From drinking and talking literature, they had
taken to quadrilles and waltzing, and the company
had been reinforced by a number of young and
pretty women.
“Who is that old gentleman with the star on his
breast, and half a dozen orders in his button-hole?”
asked I of Trump.
“He, with his hair so nicely powdered, and so respectable
a paunch?”
“Yes, talking in an authoritative kind of tone to
that pretty girl?”
“That is the celebrated Professor Von Poodleberg!”
said Trump.
“And the pretty girl?” said I eagerly.
“Is his daughter!”
“Ho ho!” said I to myself, “I am on the scent
already:” so I lounged towards them, cast a most
Trump to introduce me to her father.
He agreed to do so presently, but left me for a few
minutes, during which I continued to cast sundry
mysterious and passionate glances at Fräulein Von
Poodleberg. The young lady took no notice of
them, however, but looked at me as carelessly, as if
she had never heard of my existence.
I determined I would sift the mystery, in one way
or another, and so determined to gain admission to
the house. Trump soon made his appearance, and
we approached the famous Professor.
“Allow me to recommend to you, Baron Von
Poodleberg, a young American, who has already
commenced studying your famous work, and is so
impatient for an introduction to you?” said Trump
Von Toggenburg.
The great man nodded his head with all the dignity
of Jupiter, and asked me how long I had been
in Germany. We engaged in a most interesting
conversation, and in the mean time Trump disappeared.
I expressed my inclination to attend his
course of lectures, assured him of my intense admiration
for his great works, and talked a whole string
of unmeaning gibberish, which I told him was the
Narragansett language. He professed to understand
it, although imperfectly, as his attention had been
confined to the Choctaw, the Chicasaw and the
other dialects connected with his work. In the
end the Professor was so much pleased with my
apparent admiration, that he concluded the conversation
afterwards. This was what I wanted, and that
business concluded, I turned to look around the
room.
9. CHAPTER IX.
THREE HEROINES.
I remarked at once three pretty creatures of very
different styles of beauty.
“Who is that tall dark girl, Trump?”
“Who? She that is waltzing with a little sneaking,
bald-headed man?” he replied.
“Yes: a fat vulgar looking man is just whispering
to her!”
“She! why, who you think she is?”
“How should I know?”
“Why, my dear fellow, that is Miss Potiphar, and
in one glance, you have here my whole family party.
The lady is my Judith, my Jewish Juno. The
little blackguard that is dancing with her is Maccabäus,
a money lender, and a friend of her father; and
the large greasy looking plebeian whom you just saw
speaking to her is old Potiphar himself.
“But you seem to be paying your court very
negligently?” said I.
“Oh, I have had a quarrel with her father, and
our courtship is carried on for the present in secret.
It is for this reason that I feel certain of success.
Now that there is a mystery thrown over the whole
course of proceedings, her romance is awakened,
of the whole synagogue. Go and waltz with her,
and talk to her of me!”
Miss Potiphar was tall. Her features, although
very Jewish, were very handsome. Her eyes were
long and black as death; her nose was of the handsomest
Hebrew cut, slightly aquiline, but thin and
expressive; her mouth was a thought too large, and
the lips might have been a trifle thinner; but as the
teeth were snow, and the lips coral, it was a beautiful
mouth after all. The dark shading on the upper
lip was rather too decided; but you forgave it
when you saw how it harmonized with her long
lashes, and her glossy hair. Her figure was certainly
superb, and the rounded luxuriance of the
outlines, and the majestic fullness of the whole development,
accorded well with her Eastern origin.
Her feet, like her hands, might have been smaller,
but they were well shaped, and she danced like a
Miriam.
I was, on the whole, not astonished, that the
prospect of inheriting fifty thousand rix dollars per
annum, in addition to the personal charms of the
fair Judith, was a sufficient inducement to Trump
to mix his pure Gothic blood with that which formerly
flowed in the veins of the Maccabæan kings.
I was curious to find if the charms of her mind
were equal to those of her person, and accordingly,
in the pauses of the waltz, I entered into conversation
with her. I soon discovered that she was a
fool.
The little Fräulein Poodleberg was a very different
kind of beauty. She had dark chestnut hair,
which in the sun, was almost golden; hazel eyes,
with a bewitching wickedness of expression, and
very delicate and expressive features. The style of
her face, joined to the fanciful and and antique character
of her dress, gave her the look of an old-fashioned
German picture. She wore a dark velvet
boddice, nicely fitted to her plump and symmetrical
little figure, with a dress of tawny satin. A veil of
black lace was fastened to a high tortoise-shell comb
at the crown of her head, and hung gracefully
down about her neck and shoulders. The sleeves
of her jacket reached to her elbow, and a fold of exquisite
lace embellished the roundest and whitest
arms in the world. I soon discovered that she was
no fool. She was very sprightly, very poetical, and
very coquettish; but, I was informed, was desperately,
though secretly, attached to a young gentleman
named Pappenheim, who was not present, and
whom I had never seen. Why the deuce she should
also make love to me in secret, and how she could
manage to preserve her composure so perfectly in
my presence, I could not imagine—I was more puzzled
than ever.
But by far the loveliest woman in the room, and
one of the handsomest I ever saw in the world, was
the young Countess Bertha Wallenstein.
She was leaning on her father's arm, as I finished
my conversation with the little Poodleberg, and
air of father and daughter.
Count Wallenstein was a colonel, who had served
in the wars of the immortal Frederick. He was
a middle-aged man, of a tall, portly, and commanding
figure; and one empty sleeve pinned to the breast
of his military coat, showed that he had not escaped
unharmed from the many campaigns he had been
engaged in. He was military commandant of the
town, and of a stern and unyielding character.
His daughter was, as I have said, eminently beautiful;
perhaps, if there was any one charm which
characterised her at first sight, it was her look of
blood. You could no more mistake her thoroughbred
air, than you could that of an Arabian filly.
Every movement, every feature, every limb proclaimed
it. She was tall and lithe, and though not
at all deficient in en bon point, her motions were as
light and graceful as an antelope's. Her face was
of the highest Saxon beauty, and the features all exquisitely
regular. Her complexion was of the most
Teutonic purity, and the colour came, vanished, and
changed at a thought, beneath the smooth and wonderful
whiteness of her skin. Her hair was of the
palest golden hue, and of the most delicate texture.
She had large grey eyes, whose colour might have
been too light for expression had they not been relieved
by very long and very dark lashes.
Altogether Bertha Von Wallenstein was worthy
of her name, for her father was, I believe, collaterally
descended from the great Duke of Friedland.
The evening was drawing to a close. The seven
baronesses Puffendorf, had indulged us with songs
and music of all kinds. Professor Funk had been
prevailed upon to recite again the last ten lines of
his tragedy. Trump Von Toggenburg had nearly
finished his stolen flirtation with Judith, and I was
thinking seriously of retiring.
As I approached the door of the saloon, I heard a
soft and gentle voice utter the words, “You will not
forget, dearest Otto?” — and a voice that sounded
familiarly to me, replied, — “In ten days — only
ten days, my own Bertha.” I turned to look at
the lovers, and saw Bertha Wallenstein and Otto
Von Rabenmark!
I never saw such a transformation in a human
being, and for an instant could not believe my eyes.
It was, indeed, fox Rabenmark, but instead of the
savage, uncouth student, I saw an elegantly dressed
young nobleman, of peculiarly graceful manners,
and distinguished address. His hair was curled
and arranged in a becoming manner, and his graceful
and very handsome figure was displayed to the
greatest advantage in a rich and well-fashioned suit.
He wore lace ruffles, and a magnificent solitaire;
a chapeau, in the prevailing mode, was under his
arm, and a small court-sword was at his side.
Suddenly I perceived the father of the lady approaching,
and his face wore an aspect of unusual
severity. The pair clasped each other's hands, and
exchanged a passionate look, and then the daughter
left the room on the arm of her father.
“Frau Von Funkendorff's lantern stops the way!”
bawled the servant, opening the door.
“Madame Poppenstein's lantern just arrived!”
repeated he, renewing the operation.
The party was evidently breaking up. — Trump
joined me, and together we made our obeisance.
On coming down stairs, I observed a whole string
of men-servants and housemaids, with lanterns in
their hands, and so discovered the meaning of the
servants' announcing in the saloon. I watched party
after party of ladies wrapping themselves in their
cloaks, and then, preceded by their servants with the
lantern, marching homeward through the gloom of
the dimly-lighted streets.
In returning home, I felt myself interested in
these episodes, as it were, of the epic of my own
life.
Here was Trump's amour with the Jewess; Rabenmark's
suddenly discovered and very singular
connection with Bertha Wallenstein; and this extraordinary
passion which Miss Poodleberg secretly
entertained for the unknown Pappenheim and myself.
I determined, if I could, to discover and observe
the progress of all. As for Trump, he had already
made me his confidant, and I expected the same of
Rabenmark, for he had taken occasion to request
me to be at home the next day for an hour preceding
the time appointed for the Paukerei.
10. CHAPTER X.
A PAUKEREI.[4]
“What upon earth occasioned your singular transformation
yesterday?” said I to Rabenmark, as he
entered my room the next afternoon.
“There was nothing very surprising in it,” he replied;
“I tell you I am as well aware as any one of
the absurdity of my usual dress, conduct, and habits,
and I have told you my reasons for continuing
them; but there is something I have not told you,
and which I hardly understand why I should tell
you now, except that I feel we are more than common
friends, although acquainted so short a time.
You saw the Countess Bertha Wallenstein last
night?”
“The beautiful blonde you were speaking to just
before I left the saloon?” — Yes.
“She is my betrothed.”
“I thought as much; but what an extraordinary
circumstance — you, a boy of seventeen, a fox.
Who ever heard of a fox betrothed?”
“That is exactly what her father, old Wallenstein,
martinet, and if he takes it into his head to oppose
our union, he will continue to do so out of pure obstinacy;
and yet what can be more unreasonable.
My family is as ancient and noble as his own. A
descendant of the great Friedland need not feel himself
degraded by an alliance with a house whose
ancestors once entertained Charlemagne with regal
pomp at his own castle. My worldly expectations
are also very good — quite equal to Bertha's, and
in fact, there is no reason why we should not be
united.”
“I should, however, I own, be greatly surprised,”
I replied, “if you did not find the opposition from
the father which you seem to expect. Your very
commendable style of life — the impartial division
of your time between drinking and duelling, your
strict attention, in short, to the two great duties of a
student's life, must render you particularly acceptable
to the father of any marriageable daughter!”
“The fact is, my dear Morton,” he replied, “I
have given way to my natural impulses in these
particulars, — the more willingly, because we wish
for the present to conceal our mutual engagements
from Count Wallenstein. It is impossible, under
any circumstances, that we should be united for
three or four years — a very short probation for us
faithful Germans. Such however, is the resolute
and unyielding character of Bertha's father, that
nothing would induce him to consent to our union
if he once opposed it. It is also highly improbable
with a favourable eye; at present we
desire, consequently, to give him no cause to suspect
that such a thing exists.”
“But what is to be the issue of the adventure?”
“In two years and a half I shall have completed my
diplomatic studies, and shall have gone through with
my examination; after which, through the influence
of my uncle, Count Pappenheim, I hope very soon
to be provided with a diplomatic situation at some
of the foreign courts. I shall by that time, also,
have completed my twenty-first year, and have
come into the possession of a landed estate, worth at
least 5000 rix-dollars a-year. I hope, in the mean
time, with the assistance of Bertha, to overcome the
resistance of old Wallenstein, and to convince him
that I am, in reality, something better than the
good-for-nothing desperado which he at present, in
common with the rest of my acquaintance, takes
me for.”
“A very feasible plan; and in the mean time you
enjoy yourself and your studenten-leben (student's
life.) But does Bertha approve of all these doings?”
“Why, perhaps not exactly; but then, you know,
there are certain subjects on which women cannot
be expected to form so correct opinions as men. As
long as she knows that I am faithful to her, and in
all things do nothing unworthy of my honour as a
man and a nobleman, all will be well. Besides, she
is not altogether so squeamish as many other women
on many subjects; and as she knows that I despise
at present see fit to assume, she feels safe; and in
my scrupulous and honourable fidelity to her, in
body and soul, she feels she can confide.”
“Well, she is a very sensible woman, and I see
no obstacle to your eventual success.”
“None in the world,” he replied. “So now for
old Kopp and Fizzleberg.”
As we walked towards the inn, in the hall of
which the duels almost universally take place, we
continued our conversation.
“I think you said something of an uncle Pappenheim,”
said I. “By the way, is there not some one
of that name at present in Göttingen.”
“Certainly—my cousin Leopold—the son of that
Count Pappenheim.”
“Is he a student?”
“No; he made his examination last year, and
is already attached en attendant to the `foreign
affairs' office in Vienna.”
“Then why is he not at his post?”
“Because he is exactly in the same scrape as
myself—he is in love.”
“Well, I thought I heard something of the kind.
Is not the little Poodleberg the object of his affections?”
“Yes; and old Poodleberg opposes, because he
has become so puffed up with his own success, that
he expects to marry his daughter to an arch-duke
at least.”
“And does the gentle Ida return your cousin's
devotion?”
“Yes; but here we are, at Keiser's; and I must
be thinking of more ferocious matters.”
I could not help being somewhat puzzled by the
whole business of the Fräulein Poodleberg, but hoped
still that time would unravel the mystery; and
in the mean time, we entered the duelling-room.
The house where I now found myself was an inn
of rather large size, and situated not more than a
quarter of a mile from one of the gates of Göttingen.
It had nothing in particular to distinguish it
from other inns of the same class, and the room where
we had arrived, after ascending the principal stair-case,
was simply the hall which was used as a dancing-room
on Sunday afternoons by the maid-servants
and peasants from the town and its environs,
although on week-days it was the scene of blood
and devastation.
It was a hall of very considerable dimensions,
tolerably lofty, and lighted by two windows at each
end. On each side, towards one extremity of the
hall, was a small chamber.
As we entered, there were already some fifty or
sixty students present, of all ages, sizes, and denominations.
There had already been several duels
that afternoon; but nothing of importance had taken
place.
“Do you go los this afternoon, Rabenmark?”
said Schnappsberger.
“Yes, if any of my men are here.”
“Whom do you expect?” said Schnappsberger.
“Kopp and Fizzelberg are the two first on the
list.”
“What! Kopp the Westphalian?”
“Exactly.”
“Thousand donnerwetters! why, he is senior of
the Westphalian club, and the best schläger in all
Göttingen.”
“Sausage!”
This word sausage is a student's expression for
indifference, and is one of the most frequent of their
slang phrases. To say such a thing is sausage to
me, means, I care nothing at all for it—it's all one—
“Je m'en moque.” By the way, I may as well remark,
that the German student's slang is almost as
copious as the language itself, and is so totally distinct
from it, that a very ample dictionary of it has
been published.
“So you are going los with Kopp the Westphalian,”
grunted Dummberg, who was always present
on these occasions.
“Yes; at your service,” said Rabenmark.
“Why, he is senior of the Westphalians, and the
best schläger in Göttingen. You will certainly get
your nose cut off,” returned Dummberg.
“Sausage!” repeated Rabenmark.
“Who else shall you fight this afternoon, if you
get off from Kopp?” asked Trump Von Toggenburg.
“Fizzelberg.”
“Fizzelberg! why he is consenior of the Westphalians,
said Trump, in dismay.
“Sausage!”
In the midst of these encouraging pieces of information,
Rabenmark, nodding to me to accompany
him, marched into the chamber belonging to the
club.
There were some dozen students there belonging
to the Pommerania. Three stood at a table, on
which lay a box of sword-blades, with hammers,
screw-drivers, and other accompaniments of the armourer's
trade. One of them fussed up to Rabenmark
with an important face, and held out to him
a schläger.
“There,” said he, “I have just picked out the
best blade in the whole box of new ones, which we
have just received from Solingen. I have screwed
it in on purpose for you. Try it.”
Rabenmark took the schläger, threw himself into
a posture of defence, and cut a few slashes in the
air.
“This will do for Fizzelberg; but old Kopp seems
such a redoubtable customer, that I must have a
look myself at the box.”
The three opened the chest, and displayed their
collection. Rabenmark poked among them for a
few minutes, feeling the edge of one, the weight of
another, and at last selected one, which the fussy
personage with the important face immediately
screwed into the hilt.
Rabenmark took off his coat and prepared to undress,
three other students, who appeared to have recently
finished an affair of honour of the same kind, were
resuming their usual habiliments.
“Got any thing to-day, Plattenheim?” asked
Rabenmark of one of them.
“No cuts:—but that devil, Manlius, has beaten
me with the flat most infernally.—He is a splendid
schläger; but he cannot cut sharp,” was the answer.
“Swine for you,” said Rabenmark.
Swine (Schwein) is the reverse of Pitch (Pech)
in the student's dialect, and is the elegant expression
for all kinds of good luck.
“And you, Zinzendorf,” said the fox, continuing
to undress, “what was the result of your Paukerei
with Stott?—It came off to-day, I believe?”
“Pitch enough,” was the reply; “look here, under
my arm:” and Zinzendorff showed a small
cut, about an inch long, and hardly skin-deep,
which had, however, been found exactly of sufficient
dimensions to answer the requisitions of the “Comment,”
and consequently entailed the disgrace of
discomfiture on him who received it.
Rabenmark had now divested himself of all clothing
but his shirt and trowsers. The defensive armour,
used in these student's duels was now brought
him.
He first put around his neck a stock of silk, wadded
very tightly, and nearly an inch in thickness.
This effectually protected the throat, and its vital
duelling-breeches. This elegant article of dress resembles
an apron divided into two compartments,
and perhaps it is a hyperbole to dignify it with the
appellation of breeches. It is made of strong leather,
padded to a great thickness, is strapped and buckled
round the body and the legs, and reaches from the
waist to the knees. His right arm, from the shoulder
to the wrist, was then swathed with a kind of
rope of old black cravats; and upon his head was
placed a large and wadded club cap, with a large
leather front-piece.
Thus it will be seen that the only parts of the
combatant left exposed are the face and breast; and
it is consequently these alone that are invariably
found covered and tattooed with scars.
Affenstein, with his sinister and noseless visage,
and Schnappsberger, who were to be Rabenmark's
two seconds, had already assumed a sort of costume,
less defensive than the principal's, which is always
worn by the seconds. Affenstein looked into the
room, and observed that the opposite parties were
entering—upon which we made no delay, but hastened
to the scene of action.
Rabenmark and his seconds marched stoutly into
the centre of the hall, at the exact moment that
Kopp and his friends appeared from the opposite
door. Old Dummberg, who was to be umpire, was
already there, smoking his pipe with perfect composure,
and holding a bit of chalk between his
thumb and finger. As soon as the combatants appeared,
chalk the proper places and distances. A ring was
formed, and the five were left in the centre of a circle
of some forty or fifty spectators.
“Join your blades,” said Dummberg, in a sonorous
tone.
The two principals threw themselves on guard,
and crossed their weapons. The two seconds standing
at opposite corners, did the same, and laid their
blunt iron swords across the bright blades of the
combatants.
“The blades are joined,” said Affenstein.
There was a moment's pause.
The whole picture was peculiar, and would have
been a fit subject for Caravaggio.—The costume of
the students, (particularly the duelling-costume,)
though wild-looking and bizarre enough, as may be
supposed, is rather picturesque in its effect.
Both the combatants, and both the seconds, were
tall, well-formed young men. The two Pommeranians
wore bright red caps, with broad gold bands,
and their scarfs and sword-hilts were of the same
colours. The Westphalians wore dark green and
silver. The four had thrown themselves into warlike
postures of offence and defence, and the word
was just to be given for the commencement of the
contest.
It was after all a gladiatorial exhibition worthy
the arena of a Roman amphitheatre; and the aspect
of the spectators, with their bearded faces, singular
good accordance with the rest of the show.
“Join your blades,” repeated Dummberg.
“Joined they are,” responded Affenstein.
“Los!” roared the umpire.
In a twinkling of an eye the seconds withdrew
their swords from the conjunction, and backed to
the verge of the “mensura.”
The principals were left alone, with their swords
crossed.
For an instant they remained motionless, and
eyed each other warily, but undauntedly. Suddenly
Rabenmark raised his weapon, and making a feint
at the head of his antagonist, directed a violent
blow at his breast. It was skilfully parried by the
opposite party, who retorted with a savage “quart,”
which, if successful, would have nearly severed him
in two. The fox caught it on his sword, with a
skill which I hardly believed him capable of, and
then becoming animated, rained a succession of
violent and rapid blows, now quart, and now tierce,
upon his adversary. They were all parried with
wonderful precision and coolness, till the last, when
a tremendous “deep tierce” evidently took effect.
The seconds sprung in, and struck up the swords
of the combatants.
“A hit, — I swear it was a hit!” roared Affenstein.
“No hit, — no hit, —” cried the opposite second.
“Umpire, — umpire, — I appeal to you!” vociferated
both parties, equally inflamed.
“I think it was a hit; but am not sure where.—
You may examine,” said Dummberg, very calmly,
without taking his pipe from his mouth.
Kopp's second now advanced, opened the bosom of
Rabenmark's shirt, and searched carefully for any
scratch or sign of the conflict. — There were none
visible. — Affenstein did the same to Kopp. It was
then discovered that the blow had really not been
parried, but had alighted, however, on the padded
leather, just below the breast. — It was of course
harmless, and passed for nothing.
“Join your blades!” said Dummberg, chalking
down one gang on the stem of the pipe he was smoking.
“Joined they are,” said the seconds.
“Los!”
Away went the seconds, and furiously the antagonists
renewed the conflict. Kopp, who, as we have
already heard, was a celebrated champion, rendered
furious at having been already so nearly wounded
by a fox, now threw himself on the offensive. I
trembled for Rabenmark, for I knew that he was
bad at parrying, and that his only chance of success
with his present adversary was in a desperate and
furious attack. He was, however, now obliged to
act on the defensive, and he stood his ground at first
very well.
Kopp followed him up with tremendous ferocity.
Now he struck half-a-dozen quarts in rapid succession,
— then an unexpected tierce would nearly
throw the fox off his guard, — and then he alternated
manner.
I perceived that the dexterity of my friend was
nearly exhausted, and expected every instant to
see him stretched upon the floor. At last, Kopp
aimed a prodigious blow at Rabenmark's head. It
came within a quarter of an inch of the frontlet of the
cap, before Rabenmark succeeded in beating it off
with a desperate and successful back-handed stroke.
The fox, now throwing himself entirely off his guard,
rushed wildly upon his adversary. He beat down
his sword before he had time to recover his posture
of defence, and with one last, violent and tremendous
effort, he struck at his adversary's head. It was unexpected,
and too late to parry; the blow alighted
full upon the cheek of the enemy. Its force was prodigious;
the Westphalian, stunned and blinded, staggered
a few paces forwards, and then his feet slipped
up, and he fell upon the floor.
The seconds sprang in.
“I suppose you will allow that to be a hit?” said
the fox, to his adversary's second.
“Little doubt of it, I am afraid,” replied he, turning
to his principal. He was bleeding profusely, and
was already quite insensible.
As it is very seldom that the wounds received in
these duels are so severe as to prevent the parties from
walking home very soon after, it will be seen at once
that this blow inflicted by Rabenmark was of more
than usual magnitude. It is very rare indeed, to see
either of the parties fall at all; but here was Kopp,
university, struck to the earth, and lying in a state
of total insensibility.
I went up, and took a look at him. The Pauk
doctor was busily sponging away the blood, and an
assistant was applying restoratives to awaken him
from his swoon. The side of the cap had been cut
through by the violence of the blow, and a deep
and ghastly wound extended from the top of the
head across the temple and the cheek. The whole
side of the face was laid open.
“He has enough for the next six weeks,” said
Rabenmark, coolly turning towards the dressing-room.
“Verfluchter Fuchs!” (cursed fox) murmured the
wounded man, reviving at the sound of his adversary's
voice for an instant, and then relapsing into
his swoon.
“I suppose you are too fatigued for Fizzelberg
now?” inquired I.
“Not a bit,” he replied. “I shall finish old Fizzelberg
at once. I have evidently swine to-day, and
don't know how it may be to-morrow. Affenstein,
go and ask him to get ready; in the meantime, I
will rest myself a little.”
He sat down by an open window to cool himself,
and in the meantime Trump Von Toggenburg and
others discussed the “paukerei” which had just
taken place.
“That's a devilish good deep tierce of yours, fox,”
favourite blow.”
“I always put myself on guard in this manner,”
said Trump, seizing and brandishing one of the
schlägers; “and I always strike this quart,”' continued
he, making what he considered a very scientific
stroke in the air. That deep tierce of Rabenmark's
is dexterous, but my `quart' is irresistible. I
learned it of my grandfather. When my grandfather
was a student at —”
“Rabenmark! Fizzelberg is waiting for you!”
cried Affenstein, fortunately interrupting Trump's
biographical anecdotes.
“Very well,” answered the fox; “here goes.” And
he again entered the arena.
It was a great exaggeration of Trump's to say
that Rabenmark's present adversary was the second
best schläger in Göttingen. In fact, Trump knew
nothing about the matter; but as he was one of
that sort of people who are always for knowing
more than any one else upon every subject, he was
in the habit of venturing assertions at haphazard,
without knowing whether they were right or wrong.
In the present instance, he was totally mistaken.
Fizzelberg was neither con-senior of the Westphalians,
nor a good schläger. He was, in fact, but a
beginner in the science of defence. He was, moreover,
I perceived, considerably fluttered by the tremendous
discomfiture of his friend Kopp. He came
put the best face he could on the matter.
“Join your blades!”
“Joined they are.”
“Los!”
Whack! — whack! — whack!
“Hold! hold!” cried the seconds, striking up the
swords, after half-a-dozen blows and parries had
been exchanged.
“A hit!”
“No, — no.”
“Umpire?” appealed the seconds.
“Nichts,” said Dummberg, and so they went at
it again.
Whack! — whack! — whack!
Rabenmark had, on first commencing the conflict,
conducted himself rather warily. He had heard
falsely, as we know, of the high reputation of his
new antagonist, and determined that his previous
triumph over Kopp should not be thrown into the
shade by a present overthrow. He, however, soon
perceived how much he had been mistaken in the
character of Fizzelberg, and felt himself secure of
an easy victory. He accordingly contented himself
for the present with parrying his adversary's blows,
till he was roused to exertion by being nearly cut
across the face by a successful quart from his opponent.
“Tausend Teufel!” he cried, as he barely contrived
to parry it. “Take care of yourself now, Mr.
Fizzelberg!” and forthwith began to make play in
held his own pretty well, and parried the strokes
with tolerable success, till a back-handed tierce,
something similar in its character to the tierce
which had settled Kopp's business, although far less
violent, took him inside his guard, and hit him just
above the leather breeches.
The swords were struck up.
“A hit!”
“Yes,” said Dummberg, marking the third gang
on his pipe-stem. “Let the seconds examine.”
Rabenmark was examined by his adversary's
second, and found unscathed; while, at the same
time, Affenstein clawed up the shirt of Fizzelberg.
“Bah!” said he, “what a trifle—but sufficient to
decide the duel. It is a —, at least,” said he,
using the usual student's expression for a wound of
the requisite size and depth, but which is too coarse
to be mentioned either in German or English.
“No, it is not,” cried Fizzelberg's second.
“Umpire!”
“Let it be measured,” pronounced Dummberg.
I must here mention, for the benefit of the uninitiated,
that the simple duel of twelve “gangs,” or the
more important one of twenty-four gangs, without
any wound given or received, or before the completion
of the exact number, by the reception on either
side of a wound of a certain length and depth, and
from which the blood flows within a given time. It
is only, however, simple duels — that is to say,
duels to revenge a simple insult, such as that which
— which are settled in so simple and trivial a manner.
Quarrels of a serious nature are settled in a
more important manner; as, for instance, a meeting
without defensive armour, and for an indefinite number
of rounds, that is, as long as the parties can
stand on their legs. It was my lot to see, and it is
my intention to describe, a very desperate encounter
which took place some time subsequent to these
proceedings, between Rabenmark and another,
which was more serious in its nature and its effects;
but at present it is necessary for me to return to the
thread of my story.
“Let it be measured,” said Dummberg.
“Have you a measure?” asked Affenstein of the
adverse second.
“Yes; here is one,” he replied, producing a little
silver rule graduated in the minutest manner.
“Have the kindness to measure the wound, and
satisfy yourself, then,” said Affenstein. “Umpire,
look at your watch.”
Accordingly Fizzelberg's second advanced towards
his principal, and looked on while Affenstein
laid bare his breast. A ridiculous little scratch presented
itself, from which the blood had hardly begun
to flow. The second took the silver rule, and
gravely adjusted it to the wound. It was discovered
to be exactly one inch and one-tenth in length;
and as the “Comment” only required one and onetwentieth,
its size was declared sufficient.
“But the blood — the blood, my dear Sir,” said the
second. “Mr. Dummberg, please to approach with
your watch.”
Mr. Dummberg, plucked from his fob an antediluvian
time-piece, and the seconds, the doctor, and the
spectators crowded around, with anxious and important
faces.
The scratch looked very dubious, and seemed
hardly determined whether it would bleed or not.
Just, however, as the umpire was about to declare
the time expired, a few drops rolled slowly down
from the wound.
“It suffices,” said Dummberg solemnly, and returned
the antediluvian repeater to his pocket.
“Gentlemen, the duel is at an end!”
“Psha!” said Rabenmark. “What stuff!”
“Yes,” said Fizzelberg, “what stuff.”
“Swine for you, my dear fellow,” said his second,
“that you got off so well from that ferocious fox. I
am sure I shall see him cut off some one's head
one of these days. What a tremendous `deep
tierce!”'
“What a tremendous `deep tierce,' indeed!” said
the principal, kicking off the breeches; and from
that day Fox Rabenmark was the most renowned
schläger in Göttingen.
I bade adieu to Rabenmark and the others, who
intended making a night of it at the inn, and returned
by myself to the town.
11. CHAPTER XI.
A MYSTERY.
It was nearly dusk when I entered the city, and
quite accidentally I passed up the same street in which
Baron Von Poodleberg lived. As I approached the
house, I remembered the occurrence of the former
evening, and began to walk slowly. Just as I reached
the door-way, exactly as on the previous occasion,
another bunch of violets fell on the pavement at my
feet.
I looked up, and at the same window I saw the
same smiling face. I was almost sure that I recognized
the features of the little Ida, but in the gathering
twilight I could not feel positive. She held her
finger to her lip for an instant, and then made a succession
of rapid gestures. It was some time before
I could perceive what she intended; but after a little
while I was certain that she was beckoning me
to ascend. “The plot thickens,” thought I; “however,
it is a very agreeable mistake after all. I hope
that infernal door is not locked. I have no inclination
to make a confidant of that booby of a servant.
To think of the little Ida nourishing a fatal passion for
me, and then rumour ascribing it all to this Mr. Von
Pappenheim.” So saying, I tried at the door; it
was not fastened, but opened to my hand. A cursed
fashion, was fastened over the entrance, gave a
jingle, and directly afterwards a puppy began to bark
in the porter's room. I had got in, however, and it
was too late to retreat; so I made myself as small
as possible, and stuck myself in the darkest corner of
the passage at the left side of the door.
“Run, Diedrich,” said a female voice from the
porter's room, “run to the door. I heard the bell
ring—the master has come in, I suppose.”
“Nonsense, Gretel,” answered a voice, which I
recognized as that of the servant who had opened
the door for me; “the master has not been gone ten
minutes, and he was to sup at the commandant's.
He will not return before ten. Let me smoke my
pipe in peace and quietness.”
“Lazy fellow!” answered the wife. “How do
you know that it is not some visitor, or even some
robber? Well, I shall go and look into the business.”
The door of the lodge opened. Luckily there was
no light in the porter's room, or I must inevitably
have been discovered. It was, however, now pitch
dark in the passage. The porter's wife came out,
and called towards the door.
“Is there any one there?” she demanded.
I nearly threw myself into convulsions by my
efforts to resist a provoking inclination to sneeze and
cough at the same moment; which inclinations, I
have always observed, are sure to come upon one
just when they are particularly inopportune. I continued,
however, to make no noise, and the old woman
mistaken, and returned towards the room. As ill-luck
would have it, however, the confounded cur,
whose voice I had heard on first entering, now
thought proper to turn his attention to the subject,
and jumping out into the passage, commenced sniffling,
and whining, and poking his nose into every
corner, with an evident intention of thoroughly investigating
the whole matter.
“Come here, Blitz,—come here, little dog,” cried
the old woman.
But Blitz would not hear of such a thing. He
had already got up in the corner, and commenced
hostilities, by catching me by the leg. I could stand
it no longer; but making up my mind to be discovered,
and abide the consequences, I indulged the infernal
little beast with a kick, which sent him most
rapidly into the impenetrable darkness of the other
end of the passage.
“Hollo!—hollo!—hollo!” cried the porter.
“Ach! Herr Jesus!” cried the porter's wife.
“Blitz,—Blitz;—what the devil are you about?”
asked the porter, of his four-footed ally. Blitz made
no answer but by a deplorable whine.
The porter came out, with a lantern.
“Here's the devil to pay, to be sure,” thought I;
and as I supposed it impossible to escape, I prepared
to bluster. Luckily, however, the first thought of
the porter's wife had been to snatch up the much-injured
little Blitz, and lug him into her room,—so I
deal with one antagonist.
Very fortunately, as the porter came along with
the lantern, he directed his attention to the right
side of the door, instead of the left, where I continued
to occupy my original position.—As he got close to
the entrance, his back was towards me.—Watching
my opportunity, I sprang upon him from behind,
knocked the lantern out of his hand, which, of
course, was extinguished in the fall, and then rolled
him over on the ground. I then, by a sudden and
lucky thought, threw the door hastily open, and
slammed it violently to, making it appear as if I
had evacuated the premises, and left them masters
of the field of battle. In the mean time, I fled rapidly
up the stair-case, which I was enabled, almost
by a miracle, to find.—As soon as I reached the first
landing, I crouched down into the obscurity, in order
to find out what would be the issue of this last
manœuvre.
“Thieves!—fire!—murder!—robbers!—rape!”
roared the porter.
“Robbers!—rape!” screamed the porter's wife,
hastening to the assistance of her husband.
As soon as she had assisted him to his legs, she
received the information, that a whole gang of robbers
had suddenly assaulted him, thrown him on the
ground, picked his pockets, and then all fled out of
the street-door. They magnanimously resolved to
follow them, and so rushed together out of the house
in pursuit of the fugitives.
These events occupied not more than five minutes.
As soon as the coast was clear, I resolved to
ascend to the presence of my inamorata.
I ascended two flights of stairs, and found myself
in a tolerably spacious passage, lighted dimly by a
single lamp.—Presently a door was thrown slightly
ajar, and a female figure, which I knew to be Ida's,
presented itself.
“Hush!” she said, in a very low tone, as I was
preparing a speech; “Hush!—I know what you
are going to say.”
“Then you know a great deal more than I do!”
thought I, but said nothing.
As she spoke, she came forward a little way out
of the room, and caught me by the hand.—I squeezed
it affectionately, and thereupon she made no
more ado, but threw herself into my arms, and began
to weep for joy.
“Dearest,—dearest,—” she murmured, “it is so
long, that I have been dying to see you.”
“Very long, indeed,” thought I, “as I was never
within three hundred miles of you in my life, till a
week ago.”
“You must not speak a single word,” she repeated,
playfully laying her pretty little fingers on
my lips, as I prepared again to speak; “I am afraid
to trust you a moment.—I heard all the noise below,
and understood it perfectly,—that shocking little
dog of Diedrich's,—he is so annoying—One
thing is certain:—my father has gone out, and will
not return for two hours.—It is, however, so provoking,
Meerschaum, in any way. There she is, snoring
away in the next room, till supper is ready.—My
voice does not interrupt her in the least, but if she
hears a strange one, she is wide awake in an instant.
So come in:—I will sit and sing to you for
an hour, and then you must be gone.—I will drop
you another bunch of violets, the next chance we
have of meeting.—How cruel of you not to come the
other day.—Ah! I forgot:—the door was locked,
and you were obliged to meet the porter!—so come
in:” and so saying, she extended me her hand, to
pilot me through the twilight into her room.
It was so evident that she was making a mistake,
and the perfect and confiding innocence of her appearance,
made it so certain to me, that she thought
herself admitting to these terms of intimacy only
one to whom she was connected by the closest bonds,
that I determined to explain myself, at all events,
and tell her who I was.
“I see that —” I began.
“Hush! — hush! — hush!—” said she, peremptorily;
“my dearest Wolf, you must really not
speak: it might cause us much embarrassment.”
“Why then the devil is in it,” thought I; “if
you will not let me speak, I certainly cannot explain.
— Well, you certainly have a talent for making
acquaintances!”—and with these thoughts in my
mind I gave her my hand, and she led me into
the room.
“I feel the troth-ring on your finger,” she whispered;
never leave their places till they are exchanged for
the only ones which are more sacred.”
The room was not lighted except by the expiring
embers of the fire, for she informed me that she was
afraid to have candles there, as it was only under
pretext of keeping Mrs. Meerschaum company, that
she had been allowed to remain at home. I could
accordingly only distinguish that the room was a
little boudoir, evidently Ida's own peculiar sanctuary;
and that it contained, among other things, a
harp, a piano, and a table or two covered with books
and music.
“There, Sir, you are to sit down there, and promise
not to come any nearer,” said she, placing me
on a sofa, and then throwing herself at some distance
on a low seat by the window. “And now I will
sing to you the song you begged me to learn the
other day.”
Hereupon she took up her guitar, and began to sing
a pretty German ballad. During this performance
I reflected on the singular position in which I
found myself. If I spoke, old mother Meerschaum
would awake, and little Ida be exposed; and not
only be exposed in the innocent intrigue which
she was carrying on, but be discovered in intimate
connexion with an entire stranger. It was
evident that the mistake, whatever it was, had
been made by my having been seen by Ida only in
the twilight, and by the uncertain glimmering
of a single lamp; and if I were once placed in
full light, I should be recognized at once for the
reconcile it to my conscience to take advantage of
the mistake of an unsuspecting little creature.
Moreover, it was disagreeable to me to reflect, that I
might at any moment be discovered, before I had
time to discover myself, and so be upbraided for an
impostor and deceiver. On the whole, I concluded
to remain quiet for the present, and retire as soon as
she was willing to release me; and determined to
convey to her next morning a letter explaining the
mistake she had made, and my innocent imposture.
When she had concluded her ballad, she said, “I
know the song you are going to ask for, so don't say
a word, and you shall have it; but stay, I must first
look into the next room, and see what Mrs. Meerschaum
is doing. Wait one instant, I shall return
directly.” And with this she slipped into the adjoining
chamber.
When she was gone, I began to look about me.
I suddenly seized the determination to disappear
before she returned. I got up, and walked about the
room. I hesitated a little, for I was anxious in spite
of myself, to enjoy a little more of her charming
society. In the mean time I walked up, as I thought,
to a full-length mirror, and surveyed myself in the
dim twilight with complacency. I began to fondle
and arrange my moustachios, (at that period the
objects of my tenderest solicitude,) and thinking the
mirror rather dim, I reached out my hand to brush
off the dust. In so doing, I found myself unexpectedly
pulling the nose of a gentleman who stood in
myself in air, height, figure, and costume, was so
striking, that I had actually taken the open door-way,
with his figure in the centre, for a large mirror
with my own reflection.
“Well,” thought I, hurriedly, “if the resemblance
is strong enough to deceive me, no wonder that poor
little Ida should have made this mistake in the twilight.”
It was no time, however, for deliberation.
A rapid reflection passed through my mind that I
had got into a scrape, and that I had better get out of it
in a most summary manner. I felt how unable I was
to account satisfactorily for my presence, and that my
staying would not help to clear up the inevitable quarrel
between Ida and her lover. Right or wrong, it was
necessary to act promptly; so I determined to knock
down my new acquaintance, and make the best of
my way out of the house. These thoughts passed
like lightning through my mind, and the execution
was almost as rapid. I floored the gentleman without
the least difficulty, for taken altogether by surprise,
he offered hardly any resistance, and then
jumping over his prostrate body, I rushed down the
stairs like a whirlwind.
I reached the street-door in an instant. Judge of
my dismay when I found it locked, and no key in
the door.
“Damnation!” I muttered in excellent English.
“What am I to do now?” I shall inevitably be
discovered, and thrown into a common jail as a thief
and a housebreaker. Very delightful prospect certainly!
into what a devil of a scrape have you got yourself
and me!”
In the first ebullition of my rage, I resolved to
rush into the porter's lodge, where I could still distinguish
the voices of my late antagonists, strangle
Diedrich, his wife, and the poodle —find the key to
the door, or, if I was unsuccessful, set fire to the
house, and make my escape in the general confusion.
Luckily, however, I hesitated a little to put these
desperate measures into execution, and presently
after a carriage drove up to the door.
“Run, Diedrich, man—run and open the door;
I hear the Professor's carriage,” said the portress;
and presently the porter made his appearance again
with a lantern. I gnashed my teeth in utter despair,
and gave vent to my mingled feeling of rage, disappointment,
and withal my sense of the ridiculous
absurdity of the whole affair, in a horrid and unearthly
sort of laugh.
“Ach—Herr Jesus!” shrieked the appalled porter,
letting both lantern and house-key drop from his
hand, and rushing back to his room as fast as possible.
I hastened to take advantage of this lucky catastrophe,
groped for the key, found it, fortunately, in
an instant, opened the door, and danced out, half
beside myself with joy at my final liberation.
I left old Poodleberg waiting patiently in the carriage,
and fled hastily towards my own lodgings.
12. CHAPTER XII.
MY FRIEND THE EXECUTIONER.
A day or two after this, I went with Lackland to
buy a dog. He informed me that he had recently
seen one of a particularly fine Danish breed, which
he wished to purchase, and had been told that there
was a litter of puppies of the same sort at a dogmerchant's
not far from the town. After passing a
village about half a mile off, we came upon a comparatively
solitary and deserted path. We proceeded
along this road for about half a mile farther,
without seeing a single habitation of any kind; but
at last descried, at a few yards' distance from the
road, a solitary house.
It was a long, low, scrambling kind of building,
filled in with brick, and covered with a dingy plaster,
with a large stork's nest placed majestically upon
the red-tiled roof.
There were no trees or plantations of any kind in
the neighborhood, and the whole household had a
careless, untidy look.
As we came to a wicker gate by which the path
leading up to the house was separated from the road,
we were saluted by the baying of innumerable dogs.
As we advanced, we discovered that there were a
series of kennels placed at about a hundred yards
from the house, and extending in a circle entirely
was filled with skeletons of horses, skulls of cows,
and a miscellaneous and grotesque collection of
thigh bones, ribs, and shin pieces.
The dogs were all carefully secured in their
kennels, which was, as Dummberg would have
expressed himself, “devilish swine for us;” for to
judge by their savage looks, and ominous growling,
we should otherwise have been made dog's meat of
with great celerity.
A rough, red-headed, scarecrow of a boy, with
half a pair of breeches, and no shirt, was seated on
the ground, amusing himself with shying pebbles at
a savage-looking dog, confined in one of the kennels.
“Where's the skinner?” demanded Lackland of
this worthy.
“Who knows?” answered the ragamuffin, with
a stupid stare.
“You know or ought to know, you black-guard,”
replied Lackland.
The boy sulked and said nothing. Lackland
gave him a four groschen-piece, and repeated his
inquiry.
“Well; the father told me to say he was gone
out; but he is in the house I know, — he is tired,
and is now refreshing himself with a game of cards
with Crooked Skamp, the undertaker.”
“Why is he tired so particularly to-day, that he
cannot receive visitors?”
“O! he has been hard at work to day,” answered
the boy.
“Whose cow is dead?—whose donkey has been
skinned?— whose cart-horse has foundered?” asked
Lackland.
“Oh! none of such every-day work. But Teufel
and Hanswurst, were executed to day.”
“And who are Teufel and Hanswurst?”
“Why, don't you know?” The fellows who
killed the old gentlewoman in the Hartz, and stole
her fifty rix-dollars. To-day they were executed.”
And hereupon the boy began to cry bitterly.
“What are you blubbering about? Were these
gentlemen relations of yours?”
“O no,—not that,—not that.”
“What are you howling for then? Out of general
benevolence, I suppose?”
“What did your excellency observe?” asked the
urchin, evidently not comprehending the meaning
of general benevolence.
“I say, I suppose you are crying because these
criminals were your fellow-creatures? But no matter;
remember that they deserved their fate.”
“No; but the father said last year, that if I was
diligent, and practised sufficiently, I should have a
go at Hanswurst and Teufel myself. I worked as
hard as I could, and cut off the strawman's head
sometimes a dozen times in a morning, and yesterday
I was all expectation that my father would say,
`Gottlob, thou hast been a good youth, — thou shalt
be rewarded, — take my sword, go out and cut off
Hanswurst's head, and be an honour to your family.'
But instead of that, he only said, `Gottlob, you lazy
two oxen that died this morning.' To think
that I am sixteen years old, and have cut off nobody's
head yet.” And here the boy wept and
roared again wofully.
“Hold your tongue, you lubber, and go in and tell
your father that Mr. Lackland is here about the dog
he spoke of yesterday,” said my companion.
“In God's name, Lackland,” said I, as the boy
went into the house, “into whose respectable dwelling
have you introduced me?”
“This—why this is my particular friend, the
skinner, or executioner, or dog-merchant, which ever
suits you the best, for he combines these three interesting
professions. I had forgotten there was an
execution to-day, or I should not have intruded upon
him; but as we are here, we may as well settle our
business.”
“Why do you call him the skinner?” I asked.
“Because he is a skinner. If the cow, or the ox,
or the ass of a peasant die on his farm, he would
sooner die than flay him himself. He considers it
as great a sacrilege as if he were to skin his own
father. He sends him off at once to the executioner,
and consequently the flaying of dead cattle has
become almost as great a branch of his business, as
chopping off criminals' heads.”
“Is the disrepute of the executioner as great as it
was in the middle ages?”
“No; it has become rather a joke than any thing
else. It is seldom, however, that a peasant visits
It is very seldom that he will ring glasses
with him in drinking; but this is pretty much all
that remains of the old superstition.”
“The office is still hereditary?”
“Oh, yes. The interesting young gentleman
whom you have just seen, is the first born and eldest
hope of the present executioner, and you saw yourself
how anxious he is to tread in the footsteps of
his father.”
“Here Gottlob appeared, and told us we might
walk in. We walked through the kitchen, and came
into a long low room, which seemed to be the principal
if not the only sitting apartment in the house.
It was decent enough in appearance, and less untidy
than I expected. A glazed stove covered with blue
tiles, was at one end, and an old-fashioned clock at
the other. The floor was sanded, of course, and a
long unpainted table was in the centre, upon which
were a jug of beer, and two or three long glasses of
some kind of “schnapps.” Half-a-dozen crockery
pipes, very dirty, and of the most ordinary description,
stood in one corner of the room, and a fowling-piece,
and a two-handed sword, were in another. Two
men were seated at a table, earnestly engaged at the
game of Landsknecht. One was dealing from a
particularly dirty pack of cards, while the other was
raking together, and counting a pile of small silver
coin.
“Knave and lady!—knave and lady!—knave
and lady!” cried the skinner, who was dealing.
He was a tall stout man, with a red head, like
his son's, and a broad, jolly, good-humoured face.
He was decently dressed, in a brown hollands blouse,
fastened round his waist with a leathern girdle, and
on his legs was a pair of leather spatterdashes.
“Knave and lady—knave and lady!” continued
he, telling out the cards, one after another,—“Knave
for you—lady for me. Come, madam—come dear
little lady—lady! Psha—a cursed knave! Skamp,
you win—deal the cards,” he concluded, pushing
over his money, and skimming the cards towards
his antagonist.
“How d'ye do, Skinner?—how d'ye do, Skamp,
old fellow?” cried Lackland, advancing.
“Ah, Count Lackland,” said the excutioner, rising
politely. “This is an unexpected honour;”
and so saying, he dusted a chair for each of us, and
begged us to be seated.
“I am afraid I have intruded upon you rather
unseasonably,” said Sansterre. “I was not aware,
till Gottlob told me, that you had been engaged this
morning.”
“Oh, a trifle, your excellency—a perfect trifle.
The two subjects I had this morning the pleasure of
operating upon, gave me no manner of trouble.
They were as gentle as lambs—quiet as kittens.
They sat down, side by side in the execution chairs,
with such docility, that it was a perfect pleasure to
behold them. They conducted themselves with
such perfect propriety, that I really felt proud of them.
I am not the least fatigued. But as I always make
who was, of course, present in his official capacity,
to accompany me home, and talk over the whole
business over a pipe of good Kanaster.”
Hereupon “crooked Skamp, the coffin-maker,”
as Gottlob had denominated him, arose, and with a
bland smile, “hoped that his presence would not
interfere with our business; if so, he would immediately
withdraw.”
He was a singular-looking individual, this Mr.
Skamp, and I suspected immediately what the reader
will soon find to be the case, that his vocation had
not always been the grave and peaceable one of village
undertaker.
He was a square-shouldered, broad-chested, powerful-looking
man, with a head and bust resembling
those of the Farnese Hercules. His hair and beard
were jet-black, luxuriant and curling. His ready
smile exposed a set of teeth, as strong and white as
the tusks of a blood-hound. The great blemish, however,
to his personal appearance were his legs, which
were short and stumpy, and were, moreover, bowed
outwards to such a preposterous extent, that they
had not unjustly obtained for him the appellation of
“crooked,” which we have noted. Altogether,
however, his figure was remarkably strong and athletic,
and together with his pleasant smile, and the
merry leer of his little black eyes, consorted but oddly
with the melancholy habiliments in which, conformably
to the customs of his profession, he had arrayed
himself.
He wore, namely, a long black fustian tunic,
reaching to his knees, and fastened round his loins
with a scarf of black crape; while black woollen
small-clothes, and black worsted stockings, set off the
peculiar beauties of his nether limbs. Shoes, with
with large black buckles, were on his feet, and a
small three-cornered hat of black beaver, with a broad
crape banner waving and weeping from one of the
ends, decorated his head. On his neck, lastly, he
made an ostentatious display of a coarse linen neck-cloth,
which he evidently mistook for white.
“Never like to intrude,” continued this worthy;
“it ill becomes a man of my cloth. I have but little
concern with the secular affairs of this life. My
thoughts are always bent on grave subjects,” said
he, draining off one of the glasses of Schnapps, and
bagging the proceeds of his game by way of demonstration.
“Have you all your life been in this reverend and
cheerful line of business?” asked I, of Skamp, who,
during an earnest conversation which had commenced
between my friend and the executioner, had
very courteously seated himself near me, with an
evident intention of doing me the honours of the
house.
“Ever since I retired from the vanities of this
world, which has not been long, by the way,” replied
the coffin-maker. “My biography, however,
is rather too long and complicated a subject to begin
upon just now; but if you will allow me to bring
you next week a particularly fine haunch of venison,
price than any butcher, I will relate to you some
passages in my life, which, perhaps, may prove to
you amusing and instructive. You need not be
surprised that I have conceived this sudden friendship
for you. I have long known you by reputation,
and, moreover, I have the greatest respect and
admiration for all Englishmen.”
“But pray inform me, if it is usual for undertakers
in Germany to unite the trade of butcher to their
own respectable professions?” I asked.
“Oh, no, sir. Do not suppose it is I who will
provide your venison. I have a son, sir, who is the
pride of my heart, and he is as sure, though I say it,
with his rifle, as any lad in the Electorate. He has
rendered himself such a favourite with several of the
neighbouring noblemen, by his dexterous shooting,
and his pleasant and respectful deportment, that he
is allowed the privilege of shooting over their manors
as much as he chooses.”
“Hum—allows himself,” thought I. “I have
heard of a fellow called poaching Skamp, who has
been punished half-a-dozen times for deer-stealing.
It must be the hopeful son of my friend here.—Any
time,” said I, aloud, “that you have a spare haunch
at your disposal, I shall be glad of it. I am very
glad that your son is such a favourite.”
“You have a taste in lace,” continued Skamp,
looking at my ruffles. “If you are willing to provide
yourself with as nice an article as can be had
in Germany, it is fortunately in my power to supply
undertaker plucked from his bosom a small roll of
the most exquisite Flemish lace.
“Your son is a lace-maker too, I suppose?” said I.
“Pardon me, your excellency. Although my second
son is serviceable in the way of peddling my
lace when it is made, yet neither Hermann nor
Adolph is employed in the manufacture. No, sir,
that lace is the fruit of the industry of my amiable
wife and three dutiful daughters,” said the coffin-maker,
sentimentally.
“It looks as beautiful as any that ever came from
Brussels,” said I, buying enough for a pair of ruffles.
“The price?”
“Ten Louis d'ors a-yard. It has, indeed, a resemblance
to the Brussels; but my wife and daughters
are careful to collect and copy from the best
Flemish models.”
“Yes: and to copy the best Flemish prices,” said
I, unwillingly forking out the money.
In the meantime Lackland and the executioner
had gone out into the yard to discuss the subject of
dogs more at their ease, and I proposed to follow
them. We were preparing to go out, when a slight
tap was heard at a door, that was almost concealed
in an obscure part of the room. Presently afterwards,
an individual, in a slouched hat and cloak,
presented himself, crying out, eagerly:—
“Skamp!—my best Skamp!—sweet Skamp!—
angel Skamp!—the jewelry is all safe and snug,
and we—Holy father Abraham! whom have we
in his cloak, and pulling his hat over his face.
It was too late, however, for I had recognized
both the features and the accents of the Jew banker,
Potiphar, the father of Trump's Judith. I forbore,
however, of course, to manifest any signs of recognition,
and the Jew evidently flattered himself that
he had not been discovered. A moment after, Skamp
begged me, in the most confidential manner, to
withdraw for a moment, as he had particular business
with this gentleman.
“I will join you, presently, in the yard,” he
added.
As I entered the yard, the skinner came up to
me, leaving Lackland and Gottlob engaged with the
dogs.
“The horse-skull, and the two skeletons, will be
quite ready for you at the time you bespoke them
for,” said he to me.
“Horse-skull!—skeletons!” said I, in amazement;
“what upon earth do you mean, Mr. Skinner?”
“You know you wanted them for your uncle, in
Prague,” he replied.
“My uncle in Prague!—I have no uncle in
Prague.—I have but one uncle in the world, and
he is in America!”
“Why, sir, you do not mean seriously to deny
that you were here last Friday, and begged me to
select the best horse-skull, and the two best skeletons
of asses, I could find, as you wished to send them a
naturalist in Bohemia.—I don't care so much
for the trouble I have been put to; but I don't care
to be made game of in this sort of way.”
But here the impending quarrel with my formidable
antagonist was averted by the appearance of a
new personage on the scene.
This stranger brought with him a solution of the
little mystery which had occupied me for the last
few days, and that in the simplest manner.
As he advanced, the skinner looked surprised,
puzzled, and then half-frightened; and I rubbed
my eyes in absolute bewilderment, not knowing
whether or no I was to believe the evidence of my
senses.
It was, however, after all, only a natural phenomenon:
a person, namely, who was the exact and
perfect counterpart of myself, in face, figure, gait,
and address. It was probably the suggestion of my
vanity, but I remember I could not help thinking,
at the time, that he was a particularly well-looking
young man; and I have half a mind to describe
him minutely, that the reader may likewise be of
my opinion. On the whole, however, I believe all
my friends must take my word for it, both with regard
to Pappenheim, (for it was he,) and myself.
Although it created much wonder, and sometimes
much merriment, it was not a very remarkable phenomenon.
When it is recollected, that the only
persons who were ever entirely deceived, were Ida
Von Poodleberg, and the executioner, it will lessen
created by the occurrence.
The executioner had seen Pappenheim but once,
and was consequently not likely to note the appearance
of his guest so accurately, but that he might
have been easily deceived by a much less striking
resemblance. As for Ida, it must be borne in mind,
that she had been only deceived by my appearance at
a distance, in the street, and at dusk; and that
when we were in the house together, we were almost
in total darkness. The reader may remember, that
at Frau Von Rumplestern's conversazione, she had
merely been struck by the singular resemblance,
and with a passing comment had dismissed the subject;
and that at both our memorable interviews in
the street, it happened to be exactly that sort of incipient
twilight, which is more deceiving than any
other kind of light. Besides this, it was only our
walking-dresses that corresponded so exactly,—the
evening costume was different.
Pappenheim, as he advanced, seemed also bewildered
by my appearance. Various emotions
were visible in his countenance, as he advanced,
and at last anger seemed to predominate.
He advanced rapidly, and prepared to address me.
“Stop, sir!” said I, “there has been a mistake;
but no harm done. Let me tell you every thing in
three words, and if you are not satisfied, then, it is
for you to decide upon any other mode of satisfaction
you choose.”
I then took him aside, and told him the whole
I had been to explain to Ida her mistake, and how
I had been prevented; and assured him I had been
on the point of flying from my dangerous position,
on that adventurous evening, at the very moment
when I had encountered, and been obliged to assault
him.
He seemed convinced, at last, and after a little
hesitation, made up his mind to laugh at the whole
affair. He held out his hand:—
“It is certainly a ridiculous affair altogether,”
said he, “and the best way for me to avoid being
laughed at, is for me to keep my own secret, in
which I am sure you will assist me. The honourable
manner in which you have acted, throughout
this affair, makes me think we shall be excellent
friends, and I dare say we shall neither of us regret
our singular acquaintance.”
With this, my new acquaintance made me a polite
bow, and begged to know my address. I gave
it him, assuring him of my reciprocal and ardent desire
of doing the same thing, and he gave me in return
his own, on which was engraved, “Oscar Von
Pappenheim.” He then observed that he was somewhat
hurried at present and must beg me to excuse
him, but that he should have the pleasure of meeting
me at Baron Poodleberg's supper that evening.
With that he hastened off, and began his conference
with the executioner, touching his uncle's skeletons.
As Lackland had completed his purchase, and as
with the coffin-maker, we returned to town.
As we went along, I mentioned to Lackland this
singular conversation with Skamp, and particularly
the industrious and productive habits of his wife and
family.
“He is certainly an extraordinary fellow, that
Skamp,” said Lackland, “and I should like to be
acquainted with the whole of his real history. Besides
being a coffin-maker and undertaker, he is the
most desperate smuggler and poacher in all Germany;
and yet so cunning a rascal, that he is
never discovered. You have heard that he offers to
supply you with venison and lace?”
“Yes,” said I; “but his son is to shoot the one,
and his wife and daughters to work the other.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Lackland, “what a
lying rascal! He certainly is the most extraordinary
fellow. His wife! he never had a wife in his
life. Sons and daughters he may have in plenty,
I dare say, but none that he knows any thing of, or
who acknowledge, or who are acknowledged by him.
The venison he steals himself, and the lace he smuggles,
with a thousand other things, from all countries
in the world.”
“What do you think this Jew Potiphar, (for I
am sure it was he that came into the room in a cloak
and slouched hat,) was in search of?”
“Excellent! capital!” shouted Lackland. “I
am glad you saw him. We shall have sport out of
this yet. Why, Morton, I know enough of that old
us keep it to ourselves for the present. We shall
have rare sport, and by the way, I think we may
devise a plan to assist Trump Von Toggenburg,
`Count of the Holy Roman Empire,' (as he calls
himself,) in his wooing.”
“But here we are at our rooms,—au revoir. We
meet, I believe, at Poodleberg's.”
| Morton's Hope, or, The memoirs of a provincial. | |