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.

CHAPTER XXI. THE STUDENT

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. I have no witness to call in my defence. There were but
two Englishmen in Gottingen in my day; one of them is now no more. Poor
fellow! he had 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
cruise 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 Sixty-first 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 Fouque and
Hoffman, Musaeus and Tieck--will comprehend that the 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 which 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.