SCHINDERHANNES, THE ROBBER OF THE RHINE. CHAPTER I. THE TRAVELS OF IDA. THE art of subdividing a work into books is a very valuable one. Volumes by no means answer the same purpose; for every author, or at at least every bookseller, knows that to conclude even a portion of the narrative at the end of any volume but the last is death to the speculation. A work labouring under this misfortune is known at a glance, by the circumstance of a single volumein all probability the first-presenting every appearance of extensive circulation, while the rest are as clean and pure as if they had never entered this dirty world at all. A book is another thing. Occurring, as it may, and doth in the instance now before the reader's eyes, in the middle of a volume, it is like a landing-place in a stair of more than one flight, on which the upward-bound may pause for a minute to breathe, and, curse by his gods the steepness of the last, or look forward with hope to the easier ascent of the next. He cannot throw down the book as he would a volume. Peradventure the work hath been borrowed from a circulating library, and must therefore be read through, or the money lost. At all events, he must be a reader wofully deficient in courage and endurance who would stop in the middle of a vol ume. In the present case the break enables us to turn back our eyes-following the rebellious glances of the reader to the very commencement of the story; and affords us a fair opportunity of endeavouring to beguile his discontent by seducing his thoughts into another channel, although running parallel, as we confess it does, with the former, and both destined to meet at last. When Carl Benzel, after his fantastic duel with Wolfenstein (characteristic, we are sorry to say, of the follies of a similar kind still practised in Germany), was rushing in desperation along the road, he saw a hankerchief, it may be remembered, waved to him from a carriage. This he afterwards concluded to be a signal from Idaand he was right. After the handkerchief had been withdrawn, and her eyes had fallen beneath the keen, cold glance of her mother, the young lady began to ask herself for what purpose she had been guilty of the indecorum. When Carl had left her a rejected and disconsolate maiden at the window-for she had not strength for some moments to retire, although she shut the sash-there entered into her feelings more of bitterness than she had ever felt before. She could have married Wolfenstein, could it have been done on the instant, without a sigh; or she could have taken the vows of a nun, could they have been concentrated into a single word, without a tear. But when, after some time, she saw all things prepared for the road, and knew that her late interview with Carl had been the last, "a change came o'er the spirit of her dream," that was not exaggerated in the description of Liese." Her face was flushed, and her step quick and resolute; but when she observed the preparations for the journey, she became as pale as marble, and seemed ready to faint. The extreme suddenness of the change, be it remarked, only existed in its external phenomena; for all men and women too-are accustomed to keep up their anger through a kind of obstinacy, long after every natural prop has melted away from under it. In the carriage her ideas whirled as rapidly as the spokes of the wheels; and like them they all revolved round a common centre. Before she had journeyed a thousand yards, Carl was acquitted of the charge of infidelity; but found guilty of the minor offence of mystery. It is true she had not asked him to explain his conduct; but there could be no doubt that it was his bounden duty to have broken her windows, if necessary to the explanation reaching her ears, rather than have retired under circumstances so equivocal. At all events she saw no possibility of her making the first advance. She would die, if such consummation was requisite, but "make no sign." Just at that moment Carl Benzel passed: and Ida Dallheimer waved her handkerchief. Much might be said on this text. We shall content ourselves, however, with stating the simple fact, that Ida had no motive for the action at all. She did not know that she had done it till rebuked by her mother's eyes she did not feel that she had done wrong till she felt her cheeks tingle with a blush. Being done, however, it was very well. The consciousness of being fully committed" eases the mind; which is the reason, by the way, why love (of another kind from Ida's) is never so secure from detection as when it has turned into crime. Having actually made the first advance, it was her business to prove to herself that Carl had deserved it; and she had now leisure of mind and selfpossession enough for the task. 66 We shall not burthen the narrative with the proceedings of the case, in which her judgment catechised her heart-somewhat in the style of a saucy barrister attempting to browbeat a confident witness-but come at once to the result; which the reader will perceive was not very wide of the truth. Her lover, she concluded, was ruined, and by his own folly; and his reluctance to accept, so suddenly, of her sweet self, arose from his generosity. This being settled, she determined, lest her telegraph should have been unseen or misinterpreted, to have recourse to the more intelligible signs of the alphabet. N |