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such great attractions in the Imperial Guardsman; leaves her
nosegays, - throws his Napoleon, which he had asked her to change, in his
face, - and makes her indignant exit. Our sentimental friend finds out her
home, and half her history; - renews his flattering tales - piques her
pride, - rouses her jealousy; - and makes her love him, bon gré - mal gré,
better than either fruit or flowers.

"Fritz swears eternal constancy, and keeps it, as I have already told you,
with the actress and the sandy haired widow."

Leichtberg told this story inimitably, and Fritz laughed as much as I did.
At length we rose to wish him good night, and saw him turn to his bedroom
door, followed by a Swiss dog, which always slept under his bed. The rest
of the story we heard from his dying lips.

It was as near as he could guess, between two and three in the morning,
that he awoke with the impression that some one was near him. For a time
he lay restless and ill at ease; with the vague helpless feeling, that
often attacks one, after a good supper.

Fritz had just made up his mind to ascribe to this cause, all his
nervousness; when something seemed to drop in the adjoining room; and his
dog, starting to its feet, commenced barking furiously.

Again all was still.

He got up for a moment, but fancying he heard a footstep on the stair,
concluded that the noise proceeded from one of the inmates of the house,
who was come home later than usual.

But Fritz could not sleep; and his dog seemed to share his feelings;
for he turned on his side restlessly, and occasionally gave a quick
solitary bark.

Suddenly a conviction flashed across Hartmann, that there was indeed some
one in the chamber.

His curtain stirred.

He sprang from his bed, and reached his tinder box. As the steel struck
sparks from the flint, these revealed the face of the intruder.

It was the young Polish girl.

A fur cloak was closely folded around her; - her face was deadly
pale; - with one hand she drew back her long dark hair, while she silently
uplifted the other.

Our friend's last impression was his falling back, at the moment his dog
made a spring at the girl.

The inmates of the house were alarmed. His friends were all sent for.

I arrived among the earliest. What a sight met me!

The members of the household were so stupefied that they had done nothing.
Fritz Hartmann lay on the floor insensible: - his night shirt steeped in
blood, still flowing from a mortal wound in his breast.

At his feet, moaning bitterly, its fangs and mouth filled with mingled fur
and gore, lay the Swiss dog, with two or three deep gashes across the
throat. In the adjoining room, thrown near the door, was the instrument of
Fritz's death - one of the knives we had used the evening before.

Beside it, lay a woman's cloak, the fur literally dripping with blood.

Fritz lingered for five hours. Before death, he was sensible, and told us
what I have stated: - and acknowledged that he had loved the girl, more
than her station in life might seem to warrant.

Of course, the young Pole had been concealed in the closet, and heard
Leichtberg's sallies. Love and jealousy effected the rest.

We never caught her, although we had all the Vienna police at our beck;
and accurate descriptions of her person were forwarded to the frontiers.

We were not quite certain as to her fate, but we rather suppose her to
have escaped by a back garden; in which case she must have made a most
dangerous leap; and then to have passed as a courier, riding as such
into Livonia.

Where she obtained the money or means to effect this, God knows. She must
have been a heroine in her way, for this dog is not easily overpowered,
and yet - look here! these scars were given him by that young girl.

The student whistled to a dog at his feet, which came and licked his hand,
while he showed the wounds in his throat.

"I call him Hartmann," continued he, "after my old friend. His father sent
him to me just after the funeral, and Leichtberg has got his meershaum."

* * * * *

The students listened attentively to the story, refilling their pipes
during its progress, with becoming gravity. Carl turned towards his right
hand neighbour. "Wilhelm! I call on you!"

The student, whom he addressed, passed his hand through his long heard,
and thus commenced.

The Second Story.

My father's brother married at Lausanne, in the Canton de Vaud, and
resided there. He died early, and left one son; who, as you may suppose,
was half a Frenchman. In spite of that, I thought Caspar von Hazenfeldt a
very handsome fellow. His chestnut hair knotted in curls over his
shoulders. His eyes, the veins of his temples, and I would almost say, his
very teeth, had a blueish tint, that I have noticed in few men; and which
must, I think, be the peculiar characteristic of his complexion. When
engaged in pleasure parties, either pic-nicing at the signal, or
promenading in the evening on Mont Benon, or sitting tête-à-tête at
Languedoc, he had no eyes or ears but for Caroline de Werner.

He waltzed with her - he talked with her - and he walked with her - until he
had fairly talked, walked, and waltzed himself into love.

She was the daughter of a rich old colonel of the Empire: - he was the
poor son of a poorer widow. What could he do? Caspar von Hazenfeldt could
gaze on the house of the old soldier; but the avenue of elms, the waving
corn-fields, and the luxuriant gardens, told him that the heiress of
Beau-Séjour could never be his.

He was one evening sitting on a stone, in a little ruined chapel, near the
house of his beloved; ruminating as usual on his ill fate, and considering
which would be the better plan, to mend his fortunes by travel, or mar
them by suicide; - when an elderly gentleman, dressed in a plain suit of
black, appeared hat in hand before him.

After the usual compliments, they entered into conversation, and at last,
having walked for some distance, towards Hazenfeldt's house, agreed to
meet again at the chapel on the next evening.

Suffice it to say that they often met, and as often parted, on the margin
of the little stream, that ran before the door of Caspar's mother's
house: - that they became great friends; - and that the young man confided
the tale of his love, hopes, and miseries, to the sympathising senior.

At last _the old gentleman_, for such he really was, told Caspar that he
would help him in a trice, through all his difficulties.

"There is one condition, Caspar!" said he, "but that is a mere trifle. You
are young, and would be quite happy, were it not for this love affair of
yours: - you sleep soundly, you seek and quit your bed early, and you care
not for night-roving. Henceforth, lend me your body from ten at night,
until two in the morning, and I promise that Caroline de Werner shall be
yours. Here she is!" continued he, as he opened his snuff box, and showed
the lid to Caspar, "here she is!"

And sure enough, there she was on the inside of the lid, apparently
reading to the gouty old colonel, as he sat in his easy chair in the petit
salon of Beau-Sejour.

One evening, the old gentleman delighted Caspar, by telling him that he
had authority from Colonel de Werner, to bring a guest to a ball at
Beau-Séjour, and by begging Caspar to be his shade - to use our
Continental expression - on the occasion.

Caspar von Hazenfeldt and he became greater friends than ever, since their
singular contract had been made; for made it was in a thoughtless
unguarded moment.

Hazenfeldt was introduced to Caroline in due form, and engaged her for the
first dance.

Before the quadrille began, his friend in black came to present his
compliments, and to say that he had never seen a more beautiful pair.

"Caspar!" continued he, "when your dance is over, give me a few minutes in
the next room. We will chat together, and sip our negus."

Caspar _did_ so, and _did_ sip his negus. The little gentleman in black,
was very facetious, and very affable.

"Are you not going to dance again, Caspar? Look at all those pretty girls,
waiting for partners! Why do you not lead one to the country dance?"

As he ended speaking, a sylph-like figure, with long golden ringlets,
floated past them.

"I can, and I will," replied Caspar, laughing, as he took the fair-haired
girl by the hand, and led her to the dance.

He turned to address his friend in triumph, but he had disappeared.

The dance was over, and Caspar led the stranger towards a silken ottoman.

"Will you not try one waltz?" said the beautiful girl, as she shook
her ringlets, over his flushed cheek; "but I must not ask you, if you
are tired."

"How can I refuse?" rejoined Caspar.

Caroline was forgotten, as his partner's golden hair floated on his
shoulders, and her soft white arms were twined around him, as they danced
the mazy coquettish waltz, which was then the fashion in Lausanne.

"How warm these rooms are!" she exclaimed at last. "The moon is up: let us
walk in the avenue."

Caspar assented; for he grew fonder of his new partner, and more forgetful
of Caroline. She pressed closer and closer to his side. A distant clock
struck ten. Entwined in her tresses, encircled in her arms, he sunk
senseless to the ground.

When Caspar recovered from the trance, into which he had fallen, the cold
morning breeze, that precedes the dawn, was freshening his cheek; a few
faint streaks on the horizon, reflected the colours of the coming sun; and
the night birds were returning tired to the woods, as the day birds were
merrily preparing for their flight. He was not where he had fallen: he was
sitting on a rustic bench, beneath a moss-grown rock.

Caroline de Werner was beside him.

Her white frock was torn; her hair was hanging in Bacchante curls, twined
with the ivy that had wreathed it; her eyes glared wildly, and blood
bubbled from her mouth. Her hand was fast locked in that of Hazenfeldt.

"Caroline!" he exclaimed, in a tone of wonderment, as one who awakes from
a deep sleep, "Caroline! why are we here? what means this disorder?"

"You now speak," said she, "as did my Caspar,"

Caroline de Werner is in a mad-house near Vevay: - the man in black has not
been seen since he disappeared from the ball room of Beau-Séjour: - my
cousin, Caspar von Hazenfeldt, took to wandering alone over the Swiss
mountains; and before three months had elapsed, from the time he met _the
old gentleman_, was buried in the fall of an avalanche, near the pass of
the Gemmi.

* * * * *

Supper was not ready as the student finished this story; and George
proposed a stroll. The change from the heated room to the margin of the
lake, was a most refreshing one. As the brothers silently gazed upwards, a
young lad approached, and accosted them.

"Gentlemen! I have seen the horses fed, and they are now lying down."

"Have you?" said Delmé, drily.

"A very fine night! gentlemen! Perhaps you have heard of the famous echo,
on the other side of the lake. It will be a good hour, I am sure, before
your supper is ready. My boat lies under that old tree. If you like it, I
will loose the chain, and row you over."

The brothers acquiesced. They were just in the frame of mind for an
unforeseen excursion. The motion of the boat, too, would be easy for
George, and he might there unrestrainedly give way to his excited
feelings, or commune ungazed on, with the current of his thoughts.

A thin crescent of a moon had risen. It was silvering the tops of the
overhanging boughs, and was quiveringly mirrored on the light ripple.
George leant against the side of the boat, and listened to the liquid
music, as the broad paddle threw back the resisting waters.

How soothing is the hour of night to the wounded spirit!

The obscurity which shrouds nature, seems to veil even man's woes - the
harsh outline of his sufferings is discerned no more. Grief takes the
place of despair - pensive melancholy of sorrow.

As we gaze around, and feel the chill air damp each ringlet on the pallid
brow; know that _that_ hour hath cast a shade on each inanimate thing
around us; we feel resigned to our bereavements, and confess, in our
heart's humility, that no changes _should_ overwhelm, and that no grief
_should_ awaken repinings.

To many a bruised and stricken spirit, night imparts a grateful balm.

In the morning, the feelings are too fresh; - oblivion is exchanged for
conscious suffering; - the merriment of the feathered songsters seems to us
as a taunt; - our sympathies are not with waking nature. The glare and
splendour of noon, bid us recal _our_ hopes, and their signal overthrow.
The zenith of day's lustre meets us as a wilful mockery.

Eve may bring rest, but on her breast is memory. But at night! when the
mental and bodily energies are alike worn out by the internal
struggle; - when hushed is each sound - softened each feature - dimmed each
glaring hue; - a calm which is not deceptive, steals over us, and we regard
our woes as the exacted penalty of our erring humanity.

Calumniated night! to one revelling in the full noon-tide of hope and
gladness: - to the one, to whom a guilty conscience incessantly whispers,
"Think! but sleep not!" - to such as these, horrors may appear to bound thy
reign! - but to him who hath loved, and who hath lost, - to many a gentle
but tried spirit, thou comest in the guise of a sober, and true friend.

The boat for some time, kept by the steep bank, under the shadows of the
trees. As it emerged from this, towards where the moon-beams cast their
light on the water, the night breeze rustled through the foliage, and
swept a yet green leaf from one of the drooping boughs.

It fell on the surface of the lake, and George's eye quickly followed it.

"Look at that unfaded leaf! Henry. What a gentle breeze it was, that
parted it from its fellows! To me it resembles a youthful soul, cut off in
its prime, and wandering mateless in eternity."

Sir Henry only sighed.

The young rower silently pursued his course across the lake; running his
boat aground, on a small pebbly strand near a white cottage.

Jumping nimbly from his seat, and fastening the boat to a large stone, the
guide, followed by the brothers, shouted to the inmates of the cottage,
and violently kicked at its frail door.

An upper window was opened, and the guardian of the echo - a valorous
divine in a black night-cap - demanded their business. This was soon told.
The priest descended - struck a light - unbarred the door - and with the
prospect of gain before him, fairly forgot that he had been aroused from a
deep slumber.

They were soon ushered into the kitchen. An aged crone descended, and
raking the charcoal embers, kindled a flame, by which the rower was
enabled to light his pipe.

The young gentleman threw himself into an arm chair, and puffed away with
true German phlegm. The old man bustled about, in order to obtain the
necessary materials for loading an ancient cannon; and occupied himself
for some minutes, in driving the charge into the barrel.

This business arranged, he led the way towards the beach; and aided by the
old woman, pointed his warlike weapon. A short pause - it was fired!
Rebounding from hill to hill, the echo took its course, startling the
peasant from his couch, and the wolf from his lair.

Again all was still; - then came its distant reverberation - a tone deep and
subdued - dying away mournfully on the ear.

"How wonderfully fine!" said George, "but let us embark, for I feel
quite chilled."

"I will run for the youngster," replied his brother. As he moved towards
the cottage, the priest seized him by the collar of the coat, and held up
the torch, by which he had fired the cannon.

"This echo is indeed a wonderful one! It has nineteen distinct
repetitions; the first twelve being heard from _this_ side of a valley,
which, were it day, I would point out; the other seven, on the opposite
side. Tradition tells us, that nineteen castles in ancient times, stood
near the spot; that each of these laid claim to the echo; and that, as it
passes the ruin, where once dwelt Sigismund of the Bloody Hand, the chief
springs from the round ivied tower - waves his sword thrice, the drops of
blood falling from its hilt as he does so - and proclaims aloud, that
whosoever dare gainsay" -

"I am sorry to leave you," interrupted Sir Henry, as he shook him off,
"particularly at this interesting part of the story; but it is late,
and my brother feels unwell, and I wish to go to the cottage to call
our guide."

Delmé was pursued by the echo's elucidator, who being duly remunerated,
allowed Sir Henry to accompany the guide towards the boat. George was not
standing where he had left him. Delmé stepped forward, and nearly fell
over a prostrate body.

It was the motionless one of his brother.

He gave a shriek of anguish; flew towards the house, and in a moment, was
again on the spot, bearing the priest's torch. He raised his brother's
head. One hand was extended over the body, and fell to the earth like a
clod of clay as it was.

He gazed on that loved face. In that gaze, how much was there to arrest
his attention.

On those features, death had stamped his seal.

But there was a thought, which bore the ascendancy over this in Delmé's
mind. It was a thought which rose involuntarily, - one for which he could
not _then_ account, and cannot now. For some seconds, it swayed his every
emotion. He felt the conviction - deep, undefinable - that there was indeed
a soul, to "shame the doctrine of the Sadducee."

He deemed that on those lineaments, this was the language forcibly
engraven! The features were still and fixed: - the brow alone revealed a
dying sense of pain.

The lips! how purple were they! and the eye, that erst flashed so
freely: - the yellow film of death had dimmed its lustre.

The legs were apart, and one of the feet was in the lake. Henry tried to
chafe his brother's forehead.

In vain! in vain! he knew it was in vain!

He let the head fall, and buried his face in his hands.

He turned reproachfully, to gaze on that cloudless Heaven, where the moon,
and the brilliant stars, and the falling meteor, seemed to hold a bright
and giddy festival.

He clasped his hands in mute agony. For a brief moment - his dark eye
seeming to invite His wrath - he dared to arraign the mercy of God, who had
taken what he had made.

It was but for a moment he thus thought.

He had watched that light of life, until its existence was almost
identified with his own. He had seen it flicker - had viewed it
reillumed - blaze with increased brilliancy - fade - glimmer - and fade. Now!
where was it?

A bitter cry escaped! his limbs trembled convulsively, and could no longer
support him.

He fell senseless beside his brother.

Chapter XI

The Student

"What is my being? _thou_ hast ceased to be."

Carl Obers was as enthusiastic a being as ever Germany sent forth. Brought
up in a lone recess in the Hartz mountains, with neither superiors nor
equals to commune with, he first entered the miniature world, as a student
at Heidelberg.

His education had been miserably neglected. He had read much; but his
reading had been without order and without system.

The deepest metaphysics, and the wildest romances had been devoured in
succession; until the young man hardly knew which was the real, or which
was the visionary world: - the one he actually lived in, or the one he was
always brooding over: - where souls are bound together by mysterious and
hidden links, and where men sell themselves to Satan; - the penalty merely
being: - to walk through life, and throw no shadow.

Enrolled amongst a select corps of brüschen, warm and true; his ear was
caught by the imposing jargon of patriotism; and his imagination dwelt on
those high sounding words, "the rights of man;" - until he became the
staunch advocate and unflinching votary of a state of things, which, for
aught we know, _may_ exist in one of the planets, but which never can, and
which never will exist on this earth of ours.

"What!" would exclaim our enthusiast, "have we not all our bodily and our
mental, energies? Doth not dame Nature, in our birth, as in our death,
deal out impartial justice? She may endow me with stronger limbs, than
another: - our feelings as we grow up, may not be chained down to one
servile monotony; - the lip of the precocious cynic" - this was addressed to
a young matter of fact Englishman - "who sneers at my present animation,
may not curl with a smile as often as my own; but let our powers of
acting be equal, - our prerogatives the same."

Carl Obers, with his youth and his vivacity, carried his auditors - a
little knot of beer drinking liberty-mongers - _with_ him, and _for_ him,
in all he said; and the orator would look round, with conscious power, and
considerable satisfaction; and flatter himself, that his specious
arguments were as unanswerable, as they were then unanswered.

Many of our generation may remember the unparalleled enthusiasm, which,
like an electric flash, spread over the civilised world; as Greece armed
herself, to shake off her Moslem ruler.

It was one that few could help sharing.

To almost all, is Greece a magic word. Her romantic history - the legacies
she has left us - our early recollections, identifying with her existence
as a nation, all that is good and glorious; - no wonder these things should
have shed a bright halo around her, - and have made each breast deeply
sympathise with her in her unwonted struggle for freedom.

Carl Obers did not hear of this struggle with indifference. He at once
determined to give Greece the benefit of his co-operation, and the aid of
his slender means. He immediately commenced an active canvass amongst his
personal friends, in order to form a band of volunteers, who might be
efficient, and worthy of the cause on which his heart was set.

He now first read an useful lesson from life's unrolled volume.

Many a voice, that had rung triumphantly the changes on liberty, was
silent now, or deprecated the active attempt to establish it.

The hands that waved freely in the debating room, were not the readiest to
grasp the sword's hilt. Many who had poetically expatiated on the
splendours of modern Greece; on reflection preferred the sunny views of
the Neckar, to the prospect of eating honey on Hymettus.

Youth, however, is the season for enterprise; and Carl, with twenty-three
comrades, was at length on his way to Trieste.

He had been offered the command of the little band, but had declined it,
with the sage remark, that "as they were about to fight for equality, it
was their business to preserve it amongst themselves."

A slight delay in procuring a vessel, took place at Trieste. This delay
caused a defection of eight of the party.

The remaining students embarked in a miserable Greek brigantine, and after
encountering some storms in the Adriatic, thought themselves amply repaid,
as the purple hills of Greece rose before them.

On their landing, they felt disappointed.

No plaudits met them; no vivas rung in the air: but a Greek soldier
filched Carl's valise, and on repairing to the commandant of the town,
they were told that no redress could be afforded them.

Willing to hope that the scum of the irregular troops was left behind, and
that better feeling, and stricter discipline, existed nearer the main
body; our students left on the morrow; - placed themselves under the
command of one of the noted leaders of the Revolution: - and had shortly
the satisfaction of crossing swords with the Turk.

For some months, the party went through extraordinary hardships; - engaged
in a series of desultory but sanguinary expeditions; - and gradually learnt
to despise the nation, in whose behalf they were zealously combating.

At the end of these few months, what a change in the hopes and prospects
of the little band! Some had rotted in battle field, food for vultures;
others had died of malaria in Greek hamlets, without one friend to close
their eyes, or one hand to proffer the cooling draught to quench the dying
thirst; - two were missing - had perhaps been murdered by the peasants; - and
five only remained, greatly disheartened, cursing the nation, and their
own individual folly.

Four of the five turned homewards.

Carl was left alone, but fought on.

Now there was a Greek, Achilles Metaxà by name, who had attached himself
to Carl's fortunes. In person, he was the very model of an ancient hero.
He had the capacious brow, the eye of fire, and the full black beard,
descending in wavy curls to his chest.

The man was brave, too, for Carl and he had fought together.

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