ssed 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
fierce-looking, fiery, little grey eyes set slantwise in his head
without a vestige of eyelash over 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 madchen 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 c