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LIPPINCOTT'S MAGAZINE

OF

_POPULAR LITERATURE AND SCIENCE_.


Vol. XII, No. 33.

DECEMBER, 1873.




TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE NEW HYPERION [Illustrated] By EDWARD STRAHAN.
VI. - Shall Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot?
AUTUMN LEAVES. By W.
SKETCHES OF EASTERN TRAVEL [Illustrated] By FANNIE R. FEUDGE.
III. - Bangkok.
LIFE AT THE NATIONAL CAPITAL.
A DAY'S SPORT IN EAST FLORIDA By S.C. CLARKE.
THE LIVELIES By SARAH WINTER KELLOGG.
In Two Parts - II.
HISTORY OF THE CRISIS By K. CORNWALLIS.
SAINT MARTIN'S TEMPTATION by MARGARET J. PRESTON.
THE LONG FELLOW OF TI By J.T. McKAY.
THE PROBLEM By CHARLOTTE F. BATES.
MONACO By R. DAVEY.
A PRINCESS OF THULE By WILLIAM BLACK.
Chapter XXII - "Like Hadrianus And Augustus."
Chapter XXIII - In Exile.
Chapter XXIV - "Hame Fain Would I Be."
OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP
Mr. E. Lytton Bulwer By L. GAYLORD CLARK.
Salvini's Othello By A.F.
A Letter From New York By MARGARET CLAYSON.
NOTES.
LITERATURE OF THE DAY.
Books Received.




ILLUSTRATIONS
THE REGISTER.
A VIRTUOSO.
DELIGHTS OF THE VERLOBTEN.
THE CHURCHYARD LOVER.
ON THE FIRST STEP.
THE LEGAL PROFESSION AND PROFESSION OF FRIENDSHIP.
EFFUSION.
SELF-CONTROL.
LOSING TIME
GRAND DUKE'S PALACE, BADEN.
THE WOOD-PATH.
SCENE OF MATTHISSON'S POEM IMITATING GRAY'S "ELEGY."
"WINE OR BEER!"
ENTRANCE TO THE ALT-SCHLOSS.
"KELLNER!"
TYROLEAN.
THE KING OF SIAM RETURNING TO HIS PALACE.
ELEPHANT ARMED FOR WAR.
THE GREAT GILDED BOODDH.
FUNERAL PILE FOR THE SECOND KING.
SEVENTY-SECOND CHILD OF THE KING OF SIAM.
ENTRANCE TO THE ROYAL HAREM.




THE NEW HYPERION.

FROM PARIS TO MARLY BY WAY OF THE RHINE.

VI. - SHALL AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT?


My first dinner in the avenue of Ettlingen followed upon the
twelve-barreled bath, but was far from being so glacial a,
refreshment. As I descended, quite pink and glowing, I found eight or
ten individuals in the dining-room. They were French and Belgians, and
exchanged a lively conversation in half a dozen provincial accents.
The servants too talked French in levying on the cook for provisions:
for this, as I have since learned, the domestics of my snug little
boarding-house were deemed somewhat pretentious by the serving-people
of the vicinity, who considered the tongue of Paris a sort of court
language, for circulation among aristocrats only, and supposed that
even in France the hired folk all talked German. My reception at the
cheerful board was as cordial as possible.

[Illustration: THE REGISTER.]

Placed opposite me, our young hostess was looking in my direction with
an intentness that struck me as singular. My passport was uppermost in
my mind. I was not, however, very uneasy, for the reply of Sylvester
Berkley would soon arrive and put an official seal upon my standing.
It occurred to me, however, that I was a traveler accompanied by no
other baggage than a tin box and an umbrella, and introduced by a
coachman who had no reason whatever for forming lofty notions of my
respectability. The landlady, whom I had scarcely seen on my arrival,
was pretty, neat and quick, and an argument suggested itself that
seemed adapted to her station and habits. I was base enough to take
out my watch, a very fine Poitevin, and make an advertisement of that
pledge under pretence of comparing time with the mantel-clock. This
precious manoeuvre appeared quite successful.

Very soon my ideas of apprehension and defiance were followed by other
thoughts of a very different kind. The expression of the youthful
housekeeper was not only softened in continuing to watch me, but
it took on a look of great kindness and good-humor - a look that the
finest watch in the world would never have inspired. On my own side
I furtively examined this gentle yet scrutinizing physiognomy.
Surely those gentle glances and my own faded old eyes were not entire
strangers.

When Winckelmann was filling the villa Albani with antiques, it
often happened to him to clasp a fair Greek head in his arms and go
pottering along from torso to torso till he could find a shoulder fit
to support his lovely burden. Such was my exercise with this pleasant
head in its neat cambric cap; but in place of consulting my memory
with the proper coolness, I am afraid I questioned my heart.

Immediately after the coffee my pretty hostess, passing my chair, with
a quick motion in going out made me a slight gesture. I followed her
into a small office or ante-chamber adjoining. The furniture was very
simple; the indicator, with a figure for every bell, decorated the
wall in its cherry-wood frame; the keys, hanging aslant in rows,
like points of interrogation in a letter of Sévigné's, formed a
corresponding ornament; and a row of registers on the desk completed
the furniture. One of these books she drew forward, opened and
presented for my signature, still flashing over my face that intent
but benevolent glance.

"Monsieur, have the goodness to inscribe your name, the place you came
from, and that of your destination."

I took the pen, and, with the air of complying exactly and courteously
with her demand, folded the quill into three or four lengths, and
placed it weltering in ink within my waistcoat pocket. I was looking
intently into my hostess's face.

I think no American can observe without peculiar complacency the neat
artisanne's cap on the brows of a respectable young Frenchwoman. This
cap is made of some opaque white substance, tender yet solid, and the
theory of its existence is that it should be stainless and incapable
of disturbance. It is the badge of an order, the sign of unpretending
industry. The personage who wears it does not propose to look like
a "dame:" she contentedly crowns herself with the tiara of her rank.
Long generations of unaspiring humility have bequeathed her this
soft and candid sign of distinction: as her turn comes in the line
of inheritance she spends her life in keeping unsullied its difficult
purity, and she will leave to her daughters the critical task of its
equipoise. If she soils or rumples or tears it, she descends in her
little scale of dignities and becomes an ouvrière. If she loses it,
she is unclassed entirely, and enters the half-world. The porter's
wife with her dubious mob-cap, and the hard, flaunting grisette with
her melancholy feathers and determined chapeau, are equally removed
from the white cap of the "young person." To maintain it in its vestal
candor and proud sincerity is not always an easy task in a land where
every careless student and idle nobleman is eager to tumble it
with his fingers or to pin among its frills the blossom named
love-in-idleness: Mimi Pinson has to wear her cap very close to her
wise little head. To herself and to those among whom she moves nothing
perhaps seems more natural than the successful carriage of this white
emblem, triumphantly borne from age to age above the dust of labor
and in the face of all kinds of temptation; but to the republican from
beyond the seas it is a kind of sacred relic. The Yankee who knows
only the forlorn aureoles of wire and greased gauze surrounding the
sainted heads of Lowell factory-girls, and the frowsy ones of New
York bookbinders, is struck by the artisanne cap as by something
exquisitely fresh, proud and truthful.

My landlady's cap was as far removed from pretence as from vulgarity.
Her hair was brown, smooth, old-fashioned and nun-like. I looked
at her hand, which, having replaced the pen, was inviting me with a
gesture of its handsome squared fingers to contribute my autograph,
I made my note, pausing often to look up at my beautiful
writing-mistress: "PAUL FLEMMING, American: from Paris to Marly - by
way of the Rhine."

I had not finished, when, lowering her pretty head to scrutinize
my crabbed handwriting, she cried, "It is certainly he, the
américain-flamand! I was certain I could not be mistaken."

"Do you know me then, madame?'

"Do I know you? And you, do you not recognize me?"

"I protest, madame, my memory for faces is shocking; and, though there
are few in the world comparable with yours - "

She interrupted me with a gesture too familiar to be mistaken. A
tumbler was on the desk filled with goose-quills. Taking this up
like a bouquet, and stretching it out at arm's length to an imaginary
passer-by, she sang, with a mischievous professional _brio_, "Fresh
roses to-day, all fresh! White lilacs for the bride, and lilies for
the holy altar! pinks for the button of the young man who thinks
himself handsome. Who buys my bluets, my paquerettes, my marguerites,
my penseés?"

It was strangely like something I well knew, yet my mind, confused
with the baggage of unexpected travel, refused to throw a clear light
over this fascinating rencounter.

The little landlady threw her head back to laugh, and I saw a small
rose-colored tongue surrounded with two strings of pearls: "Very well,
Monsieur Flemming! Have you forgotten the two chickens?"

It was the exclamation by which, in his neat tavern, I had recognized
my brave old friend Joliet: it was impossible, by the same shibboleth,
to refuse longer an acquaintance with his daughter.

My entertainer, in fact, was no other than Francine Joliet, grown
from a little female stripling into a distracting pattern of a woman.
Twelve years had never thrown more fortunate changes over a growing
human flower.

[Illustration: A VIRTUOSO.]

The acquaintance being thus renewed, I could not but remember my last
conversation with Joliet - his way of acquainting me with her absence
from home, his mention of her godmother in Brussels, and his strange
reticence as I pressed the subject. A slight chill, owing perhaps to
the undue warmth of my admiration for this delicate creature, fell
over my first cordiality. I asked a question or two, assuming a kind,
elderly type of interest: "How do you find yourself here in Carlsruhe?
Are you satisfactorily placed?"

"As well as possible, dear M. Flemming. I am a bird in its nest."

"Mated, no doubt, my dear?"

"No."

"You are not a widow, I hope, my poor little Francine?"

"No." She blushed, as if she had not been pretty enough before.

"They call you madame, you see."

"A mistress of a hotel, that is the usual title. Is it not the custom
among the Indians of America?"

"The godmother who took care of you - you perceive how well I know your
biography, my child - is she dead, then?"

"No, thank Heaven! She is quite well."

"She is doubtless now living in Carlsruhe?"

"No, at Brussels."

"Then why are you here? why have you quitted so kind a friend?"

My catechism, growing thus more and more brutal, might have been
prolonged until bedtime, but on the arrival of a new traveler she left
me there, with a pen in my hand and a quantity of delicious cobwebs in
my head, saying gently, "I will see you this evening, kind friend."

The same evening, after a botanizing stroll in the adjoining wood - a
treat that my tin box and I had promised each other - I found myself
again with Francine. Full of curiosity as I was concerning her
adventures, I determined that she should direct the conversation
herself, and take her own pretty time to tell the more personal parts
of the story.

The stage grisette is perpetually exploring the pockets of her apron.
Francine, who wore a roundabout apron of a white and crackling nature,
adorned her conversation by attending to the hem of hers. When she
asked about my last interview with her father, she ironed that
hem with the nail of her rosy little thumb; when she fell into
reminiscences of her mother, she smoothed the apron respectfully and
sadly; when she proposed a question or a doubt, she extracted little
threads from the seam: at last, perfectly satisfied with the apron,
she laid her two small hands in each other on its dainty snow-bank,
and resigned herself to a perfect torrent of remarks about the horse,
the van, the little cabin among the roses, the small one-eyed dog and
the two chickens. Conversation, a thing which is manufactured by an
American girl, is a thing which takes possession of a French girl.

All the while I remained uninstructed as to why my little Francine had
left her protectress, why she was keeping house at Carlsruhe, and on
what understanding her customers called her madame.

I was obliged to take next day a long alterative excursion among the
trees of the Haardtwald: in fact, her gentle warmth, her freshness,
her nattiness, the very protection she shed over me, were working sad
mischief to my peace of mind. I came upon an old shepherd, who, with
his music-book thrown into a bush in front of him, was leaning back
against a tree and drawing sweet sounds out of a cornet-à-piston.

"Even so," I said, "did Stark the Viking hear the notes of the
enchanted horn teaching every tree he came to the echo of his
true-love's name."

But the churlish shepherd, the moment he caught sight of me, put
up his pipe, whistled to his dogs and rejoined the flock. I was
dissatisfied with his unsocial retreat. I felt, with renewed force,
that a note was lacking to the full harmony of my life, and I threw
myself upon a bank. I tried not to see the artificial roads of
the forest, alive with city carriages. I believed myself lost in a
primeval wood, and I examined the state of my heart. I perceived with
concern that that organ was still lacerated. The languid, musical
pageant of my youth streamed toward me again through the leafy aisles,
and I remembered my high aspirings, my poems, my ideals: the floating
vision of a Dark Ladye passed or looked up at me through the broken
waves of Oblivion; she listened to my rhapsodies with the old puzzling
silence; she confided to me certain Sibylline leaves out of her diary;
then she receded, cold and unresponsive, a statue cut out of a shadow.
I was obliged to untie my cravat. Finally, I fell asleep and dreamed
of Mary Ashburton crowned with the neat workwoman's cap of Francine
Joliet. I returned to dinner considerably exalted, and just touched
with rheumatism.

The soup was glacial, the roast was steaming, the conversation was
geographical. "Pray, M. Flemming," said my neighbor (he had been
stealing a look at the register of visitors' names), "can cattle be
wintered out of doors as far north as Pennsylvania, or only up to
Virginia?"

"Pray," said another, "is not New York situated between the North
River and the Hudson?"

The prayer of a third made itself audible: "Ought we to say
'Delightful _Wy_oming,' after Campbell, or Wy_o_ming?"

"We ought to eat with thankfulness the good things set before us," I
replied, with some presence of mind. "Excuse me, gentlemen," I added,
to carry off my vivacity, "but I think informing conversation is a
bore until after the nuts and raisins. A Danish proverb says that he
who knows what he is saying at a feast has but poor comprehension
of what he is eating. On my way hither, breakfasting at Strasburg, I
enjoyed a lesson in geography, and I aver that though the lesson was
elementary, I breakfasted very badly."

[Illustration: DELIGHTS OF THE VERLOBTEN.]

"Who was the teacher?" asked the explorer of Wyoming, a German, in the
tone of a man to whom no professor of Geography could properly be a
stranger.

"The teacher," I answered with a smile, "was one Fortnoye - "

I did not finish my sentence. At that name, Fortnoye, a kind of
electric movement was communicated around the board. Every eye sought
the face of Francine, who, troubled and confused, fell upon the cutlet
placed before her and cut it feverishly into flinders. Evidently there
was a secret thereabouts. When coffee was on, I applied myself to
satisfying the topographic doubts of my neighbors, but the name of the
geographical professor was approached no more.

When dinner was over, and only two stranded Belgians remained at
table, discussing whether the Falls of Niagara plunge from the United
States into Canada, or from Canada into the United States, I stole
into the narrow office, believing I should see Francine.

She was not there, but the register was lying on the desk. I fell to
turning the leaves over furiously: I felt that I was on the trail of
Fortnoye. I was not long in amassing a quantity of discoveries. Going
back to the previous year, I found the signature of Fortnoye in March
and April; in July and September, Fortnoye bound up and down the
Rhine; in the depth of the winter, Monsieur Tonson-Fortnoye come
again! Evidently one of the most frequent guests of my delicate
Francine was the interpreter of _Cosmos_ in Strasburg, the
white-bearded mystifier of the champagne-cellar, the finest
singing-voice in Épernay.

[Illustration: THE CHURCHYARD LOVER.]

Toward ten o'clock, as I paced the little grove called the Oak Wood,
I saw at the miniature lake four persons, who were regaining the bank
after trying to detach the little boat moored by the shore. They were
just the four from our social table with whom I best agreed. I joined
the party, and, hooking now a friendly arm to the elbow of one, now
to that of another, I soon obtained all they had to communicate on
the subject which occupied my mind. Each knew Fortnoye intimately: the
result of my quadratic amounted to the following:

_First_. Fortnoye, educated at the Polytechnic School in Paris, is a
man of grave character and profound learning.

_Second_. Fortnoye is a roysterer, latterly occupied in extending the
connection of a champagne-house at Épernay. He is a Bohemian, even
a poet: he can rhyme, but strictly in the interests of commerce - he
composes only drinking-songs.

_Third_. Fortnoye is an exploded speculator, dismissed from the French
Board: obliged to beat a retreat to Belgium, he soon found himself in
Baden, where he had good luck at the green table shortly before the
war.

_Fourth, and last_. (This was from the man of Wyoming.) Fortnoye
only retreated to Belgium as a refuge for his demagogic opinions. He
belongs to the innermost circle of the Commune and to all the French
and Italian secret associations. He is represented in the background
of several of Courbet's pictures. He has been everywhere: in Italy
he joined the society of the Mary Anne, where he met the celebrated
Lothair. This order has a branch called the Society of Pure
Illumination. If he has liberty to return into France, it is because
he is connected with the detective police.

The information, extensive as it was, did not altogether satisfy me. I
made little of the inconsistencies betrayed by the various counsels
of the Areopagus, but I closed the whole solemnity with one crucial
interrogatory: "What the dickens does Fortnoye come prowling around
Francine Joliet's house for?"

The answer was not calculated to please me: "She is young and
attractive: Fortnoye advanced the funds to set her up in the house."

But my morose thoughts were distracted by the scene around us. The
moon burst up above the trees of the Oak Wood - a fine ample German
moon, like a Diana of Rubens. Close to our sides passed numerous young
couples, holding hands, clasping waists, chattering gayly, or walking
in silence with a blonde head laid on a burly shoulder. One of
my companions pointed out a specially stalwart and graceful young
apprentice, whose elbow, supported on a rustic bench, was bent around
a mass of beautiful golden hair.

"An eligible _verlobter_," said he.

I thought of Perrette and the tall young man who had helped pull her
milk-cart. My friend continued: "Betrothal hereabouts is a serious
institution. The girl who loses her _verlobter_ becomes a widow. Woe
betide her if she dreams of replacing him too early! She will find
herself followed by ill looks and contemptuous tongues: she even runs
the risk of having nobody to marry better than a dead man, if we may
believe the history of Bettina of Ettlingen."

"The history of Bettina of Ettlingen? That sounds like the title to a
ballad."

"It is a recent history, which you would take for a legend of the
twelfth century."

[Illustration: ON THE FIRST STEP.]

I cannot help it. In face of that word _legend_ my mind stops and
stares rigidly like a pointer dog. The moment was favorable for a good
story: the sky was covered with flocked clouds, behind which the ample
German moon, shorn of half its brightness, took suddenly the pale
gilded tint of sauerkraut. The wandering lovers, half effaced in the
gloom, looked like straying shades in an Elysium.

"Ettlingen is between Carlsruhe and Rastadt, an hour's walking as you
go to Kehl. The flowers grow there without thinking about it, and sow
their own seed. It is therefore a simple thing to be a gardener, and
Bettina's father, the florist, attended entirely to his pipe, leaving
the cares of business to his apprentice, whose name was Nature.
Bettina, as became the daughter of a gardener, was a kind of rose:
Wilhelm, the baker's young man, would have thrown himself into the
furnace for her. But there came along Fritz, the dyer, who had been
in France and who wore gloves. She continued a while to promenade with
Wilhelm under the chestnut trees which surround the fortifications
of Ettlingen, but one night she suddenly withdrew her hand: 'You had
better find a nicer girl than I am: I do not feel that I could make
you happy.' Wilhelm disappeared from the country. His departure, which
was the talk of Ettlingen, caused Bettina more remorse than regret.
For six months she shut herself up: then, hearing nothing of her
lover, she reappeared shyly on the promenade, divested of rings,
ear-drops and ornaments. The beautiful Fritz, in his loveliest gloves,
intercepted her beneath the chestnuts, and, armed with her father's
consent, proposed himself for her _verlobter_.

"'Not yet,' she answered: 'wait till I wear my flowers again.'

"In Germany, as in Switzerland and Italy, natural flowers are
indispensable to a young girl's toilet. To appear at an assembly
without a blooming tuft at the corsage or in the hair is to indicate
that the family is in mourning, the mother sick or the lover
conscripted.

[Illustration: THE LEGAL PROFESSION AND PROFESSION OF FRIENDSHIP.]

"With an exquisite natural sense, Bettina, daughter of a gardener,
would never wear any flowers but wild ones. About this time there was
a grand fair at Durlach: almost all Ettlingen went there, and Bettina
too, but as spectatress only, and without her flowers.

"The dances which animated the others made her sad. She left the ball
and wandered on the hillside. There, beneath the hedge of a sunken
road, she recognized her beauteous Fritz. Poor Fritz! he was refusing
himself the pleasure of the dance which he might not partake with her.
Ah, the time for temporizing is over! Bettina determines that to-day,
in the eyes of every one, they shall dance together, and he shall be
recognized as her _verlobter_. She looks hastily around for flowers.
The hill is bare, the road is stony: an enclosure at the left offers
some promise, and Bettina enters.

"It was a cemetery. Animated with her new resolve, she thought little
of the profanation, and crowned herself with flowers from the nearest
grave. In an hour the villagers from Ettlingen saw her leaning on
Fritz's shoulder in the waltz. That night the shade of Wilhelm stood
at her bed-head: 'You have accepted the flowers growing on my grave
and nourished from my heart. I am once more your _verlobter_.'

"Next day Fritz came, radiant, with a silver engagement-ring, which he
was to exchange for that on Bettina's finger, returned by Wilhelm at
his departure. But the ring was gone. At night Wilhelm reappeared, and
showed the ring on his finger. Some time passed, and Bettina lost a
good part of her beauty, distracted as she was between the laughing
Fritz in the daytime and the pale Wilhelm at night. She was a sensible
girl, however, and persuaded herself, with Fritz's assistance, that
the vision was created by a disordered fancy. But she caused inquiry
to be made about the grave in the cemetery at Durlach: the answer
came: 'Under the first stone in the line at the right of the gate
lies the body of Wilhelm Haussbach of Ettlingen, where he followed the
trade of baker.'

"Then she knew that she had robbed her lover's grave to adorn herself
for a new _verlobter_. After this the ghost of Wilhelm began to
invade her promenades with Fritz, and she walked evening after evening
beneath the chestnuts between her two lovers.

"The gardener's daughter never looked fairer than on her wedding-day.


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