twins were on terms of distant acquaintanceship, compared with the instinctive relation these two bore to each other.

How was it possible, you will ask, that such an eternal similarity should have marked their dispositions? The answer is an easy one. The Fraulein was deaf-perfectly destitute of hearing. The last recorded act of her auditory nerves, was on the occasion of some public rejoicing, when twenty-four large guns were discharged in a few seconds of time, and by the reverberation broke every window in Göttingen, the old lady, who was knitting at the time, merely stopped her work, and called out, "come in!" thinking it was a tap at the room-door. To her malady was it then owing, if she so perfectly resembled the professor her brother. She watched him with an anxious eye; his face was the dial that regulated every hour of her existence; and as the telegraph repeats the signal that is made to it, yet knows not the interpretation of the sign, so did she signalize the passing emotions of his mind, long, perhaps, after her own could take interest in the cause.

Nothing had a stranger effect, however, than to listen to the professor's conversation, to which the assent of the deaf old lady chimed in, at short and regular intervals. For years long, she had been in the habit of corroborating every thing he said, and continued the practice now from habit. It was like a clock, that struck the hour when all its machinery had run down. And so, whether the Hofrath descanted on some learned question of Greek particles, some much-disputed fact of ancient history, or, as was more often the case, still narrated with German broadness some little anecdote of his student life, the old lady's, "Ja! ja! den, sah jch selbst, da war jeh, auch!" "Yes, yes; I saw it myself; I was there too;" bore testimony to the truth of Tacitus or Herodotus, or, more precarious again, to these little traits of her brother's youthful existence, which, to say the least, were better uncorroborated.

The Hofrath had passed his life as a bachelor, a circumstance which could not fail to surprise, for his stories were generally of his love adventures and perils; and all teemed with dissertations on the great susceptibility of his heart, and his devoted admiration of female beauty-weaknesses of which it was plain he felt vain, and loved to hear authenticated by his old associates. In this respect, Blumenbach indulged him perfectly now recalling to his memory some tender scene, or some afflicting separation, which invariably drew the Hofrath into a story.

If these little reminiscences possessed not all the point and interest of more adventurous histories, to me, at least, they were more amusing by the force of truth, and by the singular look, voice, and manner of him who related them. Imagine, then, a meagre old man, about five feet two, whose head was a wedge with the thin side foremost, the nose standing abruptly out, like the cut-water of a man-o'-war gig; a large mouth, forming a bold semicircle, with the convexity downwards, the angles of which were lost in a mass of wrinkles on his withered cheeks; two fiercelooking, fiery, little grey eyes, set slant-wise in his head, without a vestige of eyelashover them; his hair, combed back with great precision, and tied behind into a queue, had, from long pulling, gradually drawn the eyebrows upwards to double their natural height, where they remained fixed, giving to this uncouth face an expression of everlasting surprise-in fact, he appeared as if he were perpetually beholding the ghost of somebody. His voice was a strange, unnatural, clattering sound, as though the machinery of speech had been left a long while without oiling, and could not work flippantly, but, to be sure, the language was German, and that may

excuse much.

Such was the Herr Hofrath Froriep-once, if you were to believe himself, a lady-killer of the first water. Indeed still, when he stretched forth his thin and twisted shanks, attired in satin shorts, and black silk stockings, a gleam of conscious pride would light up his features, and he would seem to say to himself, "These legs might do some mischief yet."

Caroline Pichler, the novelist, had been one of his loves; and, if you believed himself, a victim to his fascinations. However, another version of the tale had obtained currency, and was frequently alluded to by his companions, at those moments when a more boastful spirit than they deemed suitable, animated his discourse; and at such times, I remarked that the Hofrath became unusually sensitive, and anxious to change the subject.

It was one evening, when we sat somewhat later than our wont, in the garden, tempted by the delicious fragrance of the flowers, and the mild light of a new moon, that, at last, the Hofrath's Mädchen made her appearance, lantern in hand, to conduct him home. She carried on her arm a mass of cloaks, shawls, and envelopes, that would have clothed a procession, with which she proceeded, leisurely, and artistically, to dress up the professor and his sister, until the impression came over the bystanders, that none but she who hid them in that mountain of wearables, would ever be able to discover them again.

"Ach Gott," exclaimed the Hofrath, as she crowned him with a quilted nightcap, whose jaws descended and fastened beneath the chin, like an antique helmet, leaving the miserable old face, like an uncouth pattern in the middle of the Berlin embroidery-" Ach Gott, but for that!"

"But for that!" reiterated old Hausman, in a solemn tone, as if he knew the secret grief his friend alluded to, and gave him all his sympathy. "Sit down again, Froriep," said Blumenbach; "it is an hour too soon for young folk like us to separate. We'll have a glass of Rosenthaler, and you shall tell us that story."

"Be it so," said the Hofrath, as he made signs to the Mädchen that he would cast his skin. "Ich bin dabey! I'm ready."

"Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil,

Wi' usquebaugh we'd face the deevil,"

quoth Burns; and, surely, Tam's knowledge of human nature, took a wide circuit when he uttered the words. The whole philosophy of temptation is comprised in the distich, and the adage of coming up "to a man's price" has no happier illustration; and certainly had the poet been a Bursche in Germany, he could not have conveyed the sliding-scale of professors' agreeability under a more suitable formula. He, who would be civil with a pipe, becomes communicative with coffee-brotherly with beer-but opens every secret of his nature under the high-pressure power of a flask of Rhenish. The very smack of the Hofrath's lips, as he drained his glass to the bottom, and then exclaimed in a transport, "Er ist zum kissen der Wein!" announced that the folding-doors of his heart stood wide open, and that he might enter who would.

"Rosenthaler was Goethe's favourite," quoth Stromeyer; "and he had a good taste in wine."

"Your great folk ever," said Hausman, "like to show some decided preference to one vintage above the rest: Napoleon adopted Chambertin, Joseph the Second drank nothing but Tokay, and Peter the Great found brandy the only fluid to his palate."

"A plague on their fancies," interrupted old Blumenbach. have the story."

"Let us

"Ah! well, well," said the Hofrath, throwing up his eyes with an air of sentimentalism, "so you shall. 'Love's young dream!' was sweet after all! We were in the Hartz," continued he, at once springing into his story with a true Demosthenic abruptness-"we were in the Hartz mountains, making a little tour, for it was semestre, and all the classes were closed in the university. There was Tieck, and Feldtbourgh the Dane, and Upsal, and old Langendorf of Jena, and Grötchen von Zobelschein, and Mina Upsal, and Caroline, and Martha there-she, poor thing, was getting deaf at the time, and could not take the same pleasure as the rest of us she was always stupid you know."

Here he looked over at her, when she immediately responded"Ja, ja, what he says is true."

"Each morning, we used to set off up the mountains, botanizing and hammering among the lime-stone rocks, and seeking for cryptogamia and fellspar, lichens and jungermania, and primitive rock; mingling our little diversions with pleasant talk about the poets, and reciting verses to one another, from Hans Sachs and the old writers, and chatting away about Schiller-the 'Lager' was just come out, and more than one among us could scarce believe it was Frederick did it.

"Tieck and I soon found that we were rivals; for, before a week, each of us was in love with Caroline. Now, Ludwig was a clever fellow, and had a thousand little ways of ingratiating himself with a pretty womanand a poetess besides. He could come down every day to breakfast with some ode or sonnet, or maybe a dream; and then he was ready after dinner, with his bit of poetry, which sometimes, when he found a piano, he'd set to music; or maybe in the evening he'd invent one of those strange rigmarole stories of his, about a blue bottle fly, dying for love of a white moth, or some superannuated old drone bee, that retired from public life, and spent his days reviling the rest of the world. You know his nonsense well; but somehow one could not help listening, and what's worse, feeling interest in it. As for Caroline, she became crazed about gnats, and spiders, and fleas, and would hear for whole days long the stories of their loves and sorrows.

"For some time I bore up as well as I could. There was a limit, heaven be thanked, to that branch of the creation, and as he had now got down to millepedes, I trusted that before the week was over he'd have reached mites-beyond which it was impossible he could be expected to proceed. Alas, I little knew the resources of his genius; for one evening, when I thought him running fast aground, he sat down in the midst of us, and began a tale of the life and adventures of the Herr Baron von Beetroot, in search of his lost love, the Fraulein von Cucumber. This confounded narrative had its scene in an old garden in Silesia, where there were incidents of real beauty and interest interwoven, ay, and verses, that would make your heart thrill. Caroline could evidently resist no longer. The Baron von Beetroot was ever uppermost in her mind, and if she eat "ghurkin-salade" it brought the tears into her eyes. In this sad strait, I wandered out alone one evening, and, without knowing it, reached the Rase Mühle, near Oltdorf. There I went in and ordered a supper; but they had nothing but "dicte milche"* and "kalte shade." No matter,

Thick milk, a mess of sour cream thickened with sugar and crumbs of bread. Kalte shade, the same species of abomination, the only difference being, Leer, vice cream, for the fluid.

thought I, a man in such grief as mine, need little care what he eats; and I ordered both, that I might afterwards decide which I'd prefer. They came, and were placed before me. Huimel und Erde! what did I do but eat the two: beer and cream, cream and beer, pepper and sugar, brown bread and nutmeg. Such was my abstraction, that I never noticed what I was doing, till I saw the two empty bowls before me. 'I am a dead Hofrath before day breaks,' said I, and I'll make my will;' but before I could put the plan into execution, I became very ill, and they were obliged to carry me to bed. From that moment my senses began to wander; exhaustion, sour beer, and despair, were all working within me, and I was mad. It was a brief paroxysm, but a fearful one. A hundred and fifty thousand ridiculous fancies, went at racing speed through my mind, and I spent the night, alternately laughing and crying. My pipe, that lay on the chair beside the bed, figured in nearly every scene, and performed a part in many a strange adventure.

66

By noon the others learned where I was, and came over to see me. After sitting for half an hour beside me, they were going away, when I called Caroline and Martha back. She blushed, but taking Martha's arm, she seated herself upon a sofa, and asked in a timid voice what I wished for. "To hear me before I die,' replied I; to listen to a wonderful vision I have seen this night.'

"A vision,' said Caroline—' Oh, what was it?'

"A beautiful and a touching one. Let me tell it to you. I will call it The never-to-be-lost-sight-of, though not-the-less-on-that-account-tobe-concealed, Loves of the Mug and the Meerschaum.'

"Caroline sprang to my side as I uttered these words, and as she wiped the tears from her eyes, she sobbed forth—

"Let me but hear it-let me but hear it!'

"Sit down,' said I, taking her hand and pressing it to my lips-'sit down and you shall.' With that I began my tale. I suppose," continued the Hofrath, "you don't wish to have the story?”

"Gott bewahr! heaven forbid," broke in the whole company in a breath. "Leave the mug and the meerschaum, and go on with Caroline." “Well, from that hour her heart was mine. Ludwig might call all the reptiles that ever crawled, every vegetable that ever grew, to his aid—the victory was with me. He saw it, and irritated by defeat, returned to Berlin, without bidding us even farewell, and we never heard of him till we saw his new novel of Fortunio. But to go on; the day after Tieck left us was my birth-day, and they all arranged to give me a little fête ; and truly nothing could be prettier. The garden of the inn was a sweet spot, and there was a large linden like this, where the table was spread; and there was a chair all decked with roses and myrtle, for me-Caroline herself had done it; and they had composed a little hymn in honour of me, wherein were sundry compliments to my distinction in science and poesy-the gifts of my mind, and the graces of my person. Ach, ja! I was handsome then.

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Well, well, I must close my tale-I cannot bear to think of it even now. Caroline came forward, dressed in white, with a crown of roses and laurel leaves intertwined, and approached me gracefully, as I sat waiting to receive her all the rest ranged on either side of me.

'Auf seine stirne, who, der licht———'

Upon that brow where shines the light—'

said Caroline, raising the chaplet.

"Ah duc Heiliger,' screamed Martha, who only that instant saw I was bareheaded. The dear man will catch his death of cold;' and with that she snatched this confounded nightcap from her pocket, and rushing forward, clapped it on my head before I could know it was done. I struggled and kicked, like one possessed, but it was of no use; she had tied the strings in a black knot, and they could neither be loosened nor broken. 'Be still there,' said she; 'thou knowest well that at fifty-three' You can conceive," said the Hofrath in a parenthesis, "that her passion obliterated her memory. At fifty-three, one can't play the fool like at twenty.'

"Ach ja! it was over with me for ever.

Caroline screamed at the cap, first laughing, then crying, and then both-the rest nearly died of it, and so did I. Caroline would never look at me after, and I came back home, disappointed in my love-and all because of a woollen nightcap."

When the Hofrath concluded, he poured the remainder of the Rosenthaler into his glass, and bowing to each in turn, wished us good-night, while, taking the Fraulein Martha's arm, they both disappeared in the shade, as the little party broke up, and each wended his way homeward.

FRAGMENT XIV." THE STUDENT."

I

If I were not sketching a real personage, and retailing an anecdote once heard, I should pronounce the Hofrath von Froriep a fictitious character, for which reason, I bear you no ill-will if you incline to that opinion. have no witness to call in my defence. There were but two Englishmen in Göttingen in my day-one of them is now no more. Poor fellow! he had but just entered the army; his regiment was at Corfu; and he was spending the six months of his first leave in Germany. We chanced to be fellow-travellers, and ended by becoming friends. When he left me, it was for Vienna, from which, after a short stay, he departed for Venice, where he purchased a yacht, and with eight Greek sailors, sailed for a tour through the Ionian Islands. He was never seen alive again; his body, fearfully gashed and wounded, was discovered on the beach at Zante. His murderers, for such they were, escaped with the vessel, and never were captured. Should any "61st" man throw his eye over these pages, he will remember that I speak of one, beloved by every one who knew him. With all the heroic daring of the stoutest heart, his nature was soft and gentle as a child's. Poor G- ! some of the happiest moments of my life were spent with you-some of the saddest, in thinking over your destiny.

You must take my word for the Hofrath, then, good reader. They who read the modern novels of Germany-the wild exaggerations of Fouqé, and Hoffman, Museus, and Tieck, will comprehend that his story of himself has no extravagance whatever. To ascribe language, and human passions, to the lower animals, and even to the inanimate creation, is a favourite German notion, the indulgence of which has led to a great deal of that mysticism we find in their writings; and the secret sympathies of cauliflowers and cabbages, for young ladies in love, is a constant theme among this class of novelists.

A word now of the students, and I have done. Whatever the absurdities in their code of honour, however ludicrous the etiquette of the "comment," as it is called, there is a world of manly honesty, and trueheartedness, among them. There is nothing mean or low, nothing dishonourable nor unworthy, in the spirit of the Burschenschaft. Exagge