Chapter XIX

To any one fond of reading the history of prisoners, the simplicity of this concealment, which escaped the examination of the keepers anxious to discover it, will not seem at all wonderful. The secret of Consuelo was never discovered; and when she looked for her treasures, on her return from walking, she found them untouched. Her first care was to put her bed before her window, as soon as it was night, to light her lamp and commence writing. We will suffer her to speak for herself. We are owners of the manuscript which was for a long time after her death in the possession of the canon *****. We translate from the Italian:—

Journal of Consuelo, otherwise Poporina, a Prisoner at Spandau, April, 175—

"April 2.—I have never written anything but music; and though I speak several tongues with facility, I am ignorant whether I can express myself in a correct style in any. It never has seemed proper that I should expound what fills my heart otherwise than in the divine art which I profess, words and phrases appear so cold to me, compared with what I could express in song. I can count the letters, or rather notes, I have hastily written, without knowing how, in the three or four most decisive instances of my life. This is, then, the first time in the course of my life that I find it necessary to trace in words what has happened to me. It is a pleasure for me to attempt it. Illustrious and venerated Porpora! amiable and dear Haydn! excellent and kind canon *****! you, my only friends—except, perhaps, you, noble and unfortunate Trenck—it is of you that I think as I write; it is to you that I recount my reverses and trials. It seems to me that I speak to you, that I am with you, and that in my sad solitude I escape annihilation by initiating you into the secret of my existence. It may be I shall die here of ennui and want, though as yet neither my health nor spirits are materially changed. I am ignorant, however, of the evils reserved for me in the future; and if I die, at least a trace of my agony, a description of it, will remain in your hands. This will be the heritage of the prisoner who will succeed me in this cell, and who in the recess in the wall will find these sheets, as I found myself the paper and pencil with which I write. How I thank my mother, who could not write, for having caused me to be taught! It is a great consolation in prison to be able to write. My sad song could not pierce the walls, nor could it reach you. Some day this manuscript may; and who knows but I may send it soon. I have always trusted in Providence.

"April 3.—I will write briefly, and will not indulge in long reflections. This small supply of paper, fine as silk, will not last always, and my imprisonment perhaps will not soon end. I will tell you something every night, before I go to sleep. I must also be economical of my waxlights. I cannot write by day, lest I should be surprised. I will not tell you why I have been sent here, for I do not know myself, and perhaps by guessing at the cause, I might compromise persons who have nothing to do with me. I will not either complain of the authors of my misfortune. It seems to me that I would lose the power of sustaining myself, if I were to complain or become angry at them. I wish here to speak only of those whom I love, and of him I have loved.

"I sing for two hours every evening, and it seems to me that I improve. What will be the use of this? The roofs of my dungeon reply, they do not understand—but God does; and when I have composed some canticle which I sing in the fervor of my heart, I experience a celestial calm, and sink to sleep almost happily. I fancy that heaven replies to me, and that a mysterious voice sings while I sleep a strain far more beautiful than mine, which in the morning I attempt to remember and repeat. Now that I have pencils and a small supply of ruled paper, I will write out my compositions. Some day, my friends, it may be that you will attempt them, and that I shall not have altogether vanished from your memory.

"April 4.—This morning the 'red-throat' came into my room, and remained there more than a quarter of an hour. For a fortnight I have invited him to do me this honor, and at last he decided on it. He dwells in an old ivy which clings to the wall near my window, and which my keepers spare, because it gives a green shelter to their door, which is a few feet below. The little bird for some time looked at me in a curious and suspicious manner. Attracted by the crumbs of bread which I rolled up to resemble little worms, hoping to entice him by what appeared living prey, he came lightly, as if he were wafted by the wind, to my bars; but as soon as he became aware of the deceit, he went away with a reproachful air, and I heard a chattering which sounded very like a complaint. And these rude iron bars, so close and black, across which we made our acquaintance! they are so like a cage that he was afraid of them. To-day, when I was not thinking of him, he determined to cross them, and perched himself on the back of a chair. To avoid frightening him, I did not stir, and he looked around with an air of terror. He seemed like a traveller who has discovered an unknown land, and who examines it, that he may impart to his compatriots an idea of its curiosities. I astonished him most, and as long as I did not move he was much amazed. With his large round eye, and his turned-up nose, he has an impudent, saucy look, which is quite amusing. At last, to bring about a conversation I coughed, and he flew away with great alarm. In his hurry he could not find the window, and for some time he flew around as if he were out of his senses; but he soon became calm, when he saw I had no disposition to pursue him, and alighted on the stove. He seemed agreeably surprised at its warmth, and returned thither frequently to warm his feet. He then ventured to touch the bread-worms on the table, and, after scattering them contemptuously about, being beyond doubt pressed by hunger, he ate them. Just then, Swartz, the keeper, came in, and my visitor flew in terror from the window. I hope he will return, for he scarcely left me during the day, and looked constantly at me, as if he said he had not a bad opinion of me or of my bread.

"This is a long story about a red-throat. I did not think myself such a child. Does prison life have a tendency to produce idiocy; or is there a mystery and affection between all things that breathe under heaven? I had my piano here for a few days. I could practise, study, compose, sing. None of these things, however, pleased me so much as the visit of this little bird!—of this being!—yes, it is a living thing! and therefore was it that my heart beat when I saw him near me. Yet my keeper, too, is a living thing, one of my own species; his wife, his son (whom I have seen several times), the sentinels who walk day and night on the rampart, are better organised beings, my natural friends and brothers before God—yet their aspect is rather painful. The keeper produces the effect of a wicket on me; his wife is like a chain; and his son, a stone fastened to the wall. In the soldiers, I see nothing but muskets pointed at me. They seem to have nothing human about them. They are machines, instruments of torture and death. Were it not for the fear of impiety, I would hate them. Oh! red-throat, I love you! I do not merely say so, but feel it. Let any one who can explain this kind of love.

"April 5.—Another event. This note I received this morning. It was scarcely legible, and was written on a piece of paper much soiled:—

"'Sister—Since the spirit visits you, I am sure you are a saint. I am your friend and servant. Dispose as you please of your brother.'

"Who is this friend thus improvised? It is impossible to guess. I found the note on my window this morning, as I opened it to say good morning to my bird. Can he have brought it? I am tempted to think the bird wrote it, so well does he know and seem to love me. He never goes near the kitchen below, the windows of which give vent to a greasy smell, which reaches even me, and which is not the least disagreeable condition of my place of incarceration. I do not wish to change it, however, since my bird has adopted it. He has too much taste to become intimate with the vulgar turnkey, his ill-tempered wife, and ugly son.[12] He yields his confidence especially to me. He breakfasted here with an appetite, and when I walked on the esplanade, hovered around me. He chattered away, as if to please me, and attract my attention. Gottlieb was at the door, and looked at me as I passed, giggling and staring. This creature is always accompanied by a horrid red cat, which looks at my bird with an expression yet more horrible than his master's. This makes me shudder. I hate the animal as much as I do Vrau Swartz, the searcher.

"April 6th.—Another note this morning. It is strange. The same crooked, angular, blotted writing, and the same sheet of dirty paper. My friend is not an hidalgo, but he is gentle and enthusiastic. 'Dear sister—chosen spirit, marked by the finger of God—you distrust me, and are unwilling to speak to me. Can I aid you in nothing? My life is yours. Command the services of your brother.'—I look at the sentinel, who is a brutish soldier, and employs himself in knitting as he walks up and down, with his gun on his shoulder. He looks at me, and apparently had rather send a ball than a note to me. Let me look in any direction I please, I see nothing but stern gray walls beset with nettles, surrounded by ditches, and they, too, shut in by another fortification, the use and the very name of which I am ignorant of, but which hides the water from me. On the summit of this other work I see another sentinel, or at least his cap and gun, and hear from time to time the savage cry, 'Keep off!' Could I but see the water, the boats, or catch a glimpse of the landscape! I can hear the sound of the oars, the fisherman's song, and when the wind blows thence, the rushing of the waters at the place of meeting of the two rivers. But whence come the mysterious notes, and this devotion of which I can make nothing? My bird knows, perhaps, but he will not tell me.

"April 7th.—As I looked carefully about me during my walk on the rampart, I discovered a narrow opening in the flank of the tower I inhabit, about ten feet above my window, and almost hidden by the ivy branches which grow over it. 'So little light,' I said, sadly, to myself, 'cannot illumine the habitation of aught human.' I wished to learn for what it was intended, and attempted to induce Gottlieb to go on the rampart with me, by flattering his passion or rather monomania for shoemaking. I asked him if he could make me a pair of slippers, and for the first time he approached me without being made to do so, and he replied to me without difficulty. He talks as strangely as he looks, and I begin to think he is not an idiot but a madman.

"'Shoes for thee!' he said, and he is familiar withal. 'It is written "the latches of whose shoes I am unworthy to unloose."'

"I saw his mother three paces from the door, and ready to join in the conversation. At that time I had neither leisure nor opportunity to comprehend his humility and veneration, and I asked if the story above me was occupied, but scarcely hoping to obtain a distinct answer.

"'It is not,' said Gottlieb, 'but merely contains a stairway to the platform.'

"'And is the platform isolated? Does it communicate with nothing?'

"'Why ask me? You know.'

"'I neither know, nor care to know, Gottlieb. I ask the question merely to ascertain if you have as much sense as they say.'

"'Ah! I have sense—much sense,' said the poor lad, in a grave and sad tone, which contrasted strangely with the comical air of his words.

"'Then you can tell me,' continued I, '(for time is precious,) how this court is constructed?'

"'Ask your bird,' he said, with a strange smile. 'He knows, for he flies and goes everywhere; but I know nothing, for I go nowhere.'

"'What! not even to the top of the tower in which you live? Do you not know what is behind that wall?'

"'Perhaps I have been there, but I paid no attention to it. I look at no one and nobody.'

"'Yet you see the bird. You know that?'

"'Ah! the bird is a thing of a different kind. All look at angels. That is no reason why I should look at the walls.'

"'What you say is very profound, Gottlieb. Can you explain it to me?'

"'Ask the red-throat. I tell you he knows everything. He can go anywhere, but never goes except among his equals. That is why he comes to see you.'

"'Thank you, Gottlieb. Do you take me for a bird?'

"'The red-throat is not a bird.'

"'What then?'

"'An angel, as you know.'

"'Then so am I.'

"'You have said it.'

"'You are gallant, Gottlieb.'

"'Gallant!' said he, looking anxiously at me. 'What is the meaning of that?'

"'Do you not know?'

"'No.'

"'How know you that the red-throat comes into my room?'

"'I have seen and heard so from him.'

"'Then he has spoken to you?'

"'Sometimes,' said Gottlieb with a sigh, 'but very seldom. Yesterday he said, "No, I will never go into that hellish kitchen." The angels have nothing to say to evil spirits."'

"'Are you an evil spirit, Gottlieb?'

"'No, no; not I, but——' Here Gottlieb put his fingers on his thick lips with a mysterious air.

"'But who?'

"'He did not reply, but he pointed to his cat stealthily, as if he was afraid of being heard.

"'That is the reason, then, why you call him by that terrible name, Belzebub?'

"'Sh—! That is his name, and he knows it well enough. He has been called so ever since the world began. He will not always bear that name.'

"'Certainly not; he will die.'

"'He will not die—not he—he cannot; and he is sorry for it, for he does not know when he will be pardoned.'

"Here we were interrupted by the coming of Madame Swartz, who was amazed at seeing Gottlieb talk so freely with me. She asked me if I was pleased with him.

"'Very much so, I assure you. Gottlieb is very interesting, and I will be glad to talk with him.'

"'Ah, signora, you will do us a great service, for the poor lad has no one to talk with, and to us he never opens his mouth. Are you stupid, and a fool, my poor child? You talk well enough with the signorina whom you do not know, while with your parents——'

"Gottlieb suddenly turned on his heel and disappeared in the kitchen, apparently not having even heard his mother's voice.

"'He always does so,' said Madame Swartz; 'when his father speaks to him, or when I do, twenty-nine times out of thirty, he never opens his lips. What did he say to you, signorina? Of what on earth could he converse so long?'

"'I will confess to you that I did not understand him,' said I. 'To do so, it is necessary to know to what his ideas relate. Let me talk to him from time to time freely, and when I am sure, I will tell you what he thinks of.'

"'But, signorina, his mind is not disturbed.'

"'I think not;' and there I told a falsehood, for which I beg God to pardon me. My first idea was to spare the poor woman, who, malicious as she is, is yet a mother, and who, fortunately, is not aware of her child's madness. This is always very strange. Gottlieb, who exhibited his folly very naïvely to me, must be silent with his parents. When I thought of it, I fancied that perhaps I might extract from him some information in relation to the other prisoners, and discover, perhaps, from his answers, who was the author of my anonymous notes. I wish, then, to make him my friend, especially as he seems to sympathise with the red-throat, who sympathises with me. There is much poetry in the diseased mind of this poor lad. To him the bird is an angel, and the cat a being who never can be pardoned. What means all this? In these German heads, even in the mildest of them, there is a luxury of imagination which I cannot but admire.'

"The consequence of all this is, that the female Swartz is much satisfied with my kindness, and that I am on the best possible terms with her. The chattering of Gottlieb will amuse me. Now that I know him, he inspires me with no dislike. A madman in this country, where even people of high talent are not a little awry, cannot be so very bad.

"April 8th.—Third note on my window. 'Dear sister, that platform is isolated, but the staircase to it connects with another block in which a lady prisoner is confined. Her name is a mystery, but if you question the red-throat, you can find out who she is. This is what you wished poor Gottlieb to tell you. He could not.'

"Who is then the friend who knows, sees, and hears all I do and say? I cannot tell. Is he invisible? All this seems so strange that it really amuses me. It seems to me, that, as in my childhood, I live amid a fairy tale, and that my bird will really speak to me. If I must say of my charming pet, that he needs speech alone, he certainly needs that, and thus I will never understand his language. He is now used to me; he comes to and goes from my room as if he felt himself at home. If I move or walk, he does not fly farther than my arm's-length and then returns immediately to me. If he loved bread a great deal, he would be fonder of me, for I cannot deceive myself as to the nature of his attachment. Hunger, and perhaps a desire to warm at my stove, are his great attractions. Could I but catch a fly, (for they are rare,) I am sure I could get hold of him: he already has learned to look closely at the food I offer him, and were the temptation stronger, he would cast aside all ceremony. I now remember having heard Albert say, that to tame the wildest animals, if they had any mind, nothing more than a few hours' patience is necessary. He had met a Zingara, who pretended to be a sorceress, and who never remained a whole day in any forest without the birds lighting on her. She said she had some charm, and pretended, like Appolonius of Tyana, the history of whom Albert had related to me, to receive revelations about strange things from them. Albert assured me that all her secret was the patience with which she had studied their instincts, and a certain affinity of character which exists between individuals of our own and other species. At Venice a great many birds are domesticated, and I can understand the reason, which is, that that beautiful city being separated from terra firma, is not unlike a prison. In the education of nightingales they excel. Pigeons are protected by a special law, and are almost venerated by the population: they live undisturbed in old buildings, and are so tame, that, in the street, it is necessary to be careful to avoid treading on them. When I was a girl, I was very intimate with a young person who dealt in them, and if the wildest bird was given him for a single hour, he tamed it as completely as if it had been brought up in a cage. I amuse myself by trying similar experiments on my red-throat, which grows every minute more used to me. When I am out, he follows me and calls after me; when I go to the window, he hurries to me. Would he, could he love me! I feel that I love him; but he does not avoid nor fly from me; that is all. The child in the cradle doubtless has no other love for its nurse. What tenderness! Alas! I think we love tenderly only those who can return our love. Ingratitude and devotion, indifference and passion, are the universal symbols of the hymen of all; yet I suffered you, Albert, who loved me so deeply, to die; I am now reduced to love a red-throat, and complain that I did not deserve my fate. You think, my friends, perhaps, that I should not dare to jest on such a subject! No; my mind is perhaps disturbed by solitude; my heart, deprived of affection, wastes itself away, and this paper is covered with tears.

"I had promised not to squander this precious paper; yet I am covering it up with puerilities I find great consolation in, and cannot refrain from doing so. It has rained all day and I have not seen Gottlieb. I have not been out; I have been occupied wholly with the red-throat, and this child's play has had the effect of making me very sad. When the smart shrewd bird sought to leave me and began to peck at the glass, I yielded to him. I opened the window from a feeling of respect for that holy liberty which men are not afraid to take from their fellows. I was wounded at this momentary abandonment, and felt as if he owed me something for the great care I had taken of him. I really think I am becoming mad, and that, ere long, I shall fully understand all Gottlieb's fancies.

"April 9th.—What have I learned?—or rather, what have I fancied that I learned? for I know nothing now, although my imagination is busy.

"Now I have discovered the author of the mysterious notes. It is the last person I would ever have imagined; but that is not what surprises me; it matters not, I will tell you all.

"At dawn I opened my window, which is formed of a large square of glass, that I might lose nothing of the small portion of daylight, which is partially excluded by that abominable grating. The very ivy also threatens to plunge me into darkness, but I dare not pluck one leaf, for it lives and is free in its natural existence. To distort, to mutilate it, would require much courage. It feels the influence of April; it hurries to grow; it extends and fixes its tendrils on every side; its roots are sealed to the stone, yet it ascends and looks for air and light. Human thought does the same thing. Now I understand why once there were holy plants—sacred birds. The red-throat has come and has lighted on my shoulder without any hesitation. He then immediately began to look around, to examine everything, to touch everything. Poor thing! it finds so little here to amuse itself. It is free, however; it may inhabit the fields, yet it prefers a prison, the old ivy and my cell. Does it love me? No! It is warm in my room and likes my crumbs. I am now distressed at having tamed it so thoroughly. What if it should go into the kitchen and become the prey of that abominable cat; my care for it would have brought about its terrible death! to be lacerated and devoured by that fearful beast. But what is the condition of our feeble sex, the hearts of whom are pure and defenceless? Are we not tortured and destroyed by pitiless beings, who, as they slowly kill us, make us feel their claws and cruel teeth?

"The sun rose clear, and my cell was almost rose color, bright as my room in the Corte Minelli, when the sun of Venice ****. We must not think, however, of that sun. It will never rise for me. May you, my dear friends, salute smiling Italy for me, the vast skies é il firmamento lucido—which I never will see again.

"I have asked leave to go out; they have permitted me to do so, though the hour was earlier than usual. I call this going out; a platform thirty feet long, bordered by a swamp, and shut in by huge walls. Yet the place is not without beauty; at least I think so now, that I have seen it under all its aspects. At night it is beautiful, because it is sad. I am sure there are many persons innocent as I am, here, who are much worse treated. There are dungeons whence people never come, which the light of day never penetrates, and on which the moon, the friend of the wretched, never shines. Ah! I am wrong to complain. My God! had I portion of the power of earth, how I would love to make people happy!

"Gottlieb came shuffling rapidly towards me, smiling too, as well as his stony lips permit him. They did not disturb him, but left him alone with me. A miracle happened. He began at once to talk like a reasonable being.

"'I did not write to you, last night,' said he, 'and you found no note on your window. The reason was, I did not see you yesterday, and you asked for nothing.'

"'What mean you, Gottlieb? Did you write to me?'

"'Who else could! You did not guess it was I? I will not write to you now, for since you let me talk to you, it is useless. I did not wish to trouble, but to serve you.'

"'Kind Gottlieb! Then you pity me? You take an interest in me?'

"'Yes; since I found out that you were a spirit of light.'

"'I am nothing more than you are, Gottlieb. You are mistaken!'

"'I am not mistaken; I have heard you sing!'

"'You like music, then?'

"'I like yours. It is pleasant to God and to my heart!'

"'Your heart is pious, your soul is pure, I see!'

"'I strive to make them so! The angels will aid me, and I will overcome the powers of darkness which weigh on my poor body, but which have no influence on my soul!'

"Gradually, Gottlieb began to speak with enthusiasm, never ceasing, however, to be noble and true to poetical symbolism.

"In fine, what shall I say? This idiot, this madman, reached the tone of true eloquence, when he spoke of God's mercy, of human misery, of the future justice of Providence, of evangelical virtues, of the duties of a true believer, of arts, of music, and poetry. As yet, I have not been able to understand in what religion he vested his ideas and fervent exultation, for he seems to be neither catholic nor protestant, and though he told me he believed in the true religion, he told me nothing except that, unknown to his parents, he belonged to a peculiar sect: I am too ignorant to know what. I will study by-and-bye the mystery, singularly strong and beautiful, singularly sad and afflicted soul; for, in fact, Gottlieb is mad, as in poetry Zdenko was, and as Albert was in his lofty virtue. The madness of Gottlieb reappeared after he had spoken for some time with great animation; his enthusiasm became too strong for him, and then he began to talk in a manner that distressed me, about the bird, the demon-cat, and his mother, who, he said, had allied herself to the evil spirit in him. Finally, he said his father had been changed into stone by a glance of the devil-cat, Belzebub. I was enabled to calm him by leading his attention away from his moody fancies, and asked him about the other prisoners. I had now no personal interest in these details, because the notes, instead of being thrown from the top of the tower into my window, were pushed up by Gottlieb, from below, by means of I know not what simple apparatus. Gottlieb obeyed my inquiries with singular docility, had already ascertained what I wished to know. He told me that the prisoner in the building back of me, was young and beautiful, and that he had seen her. I paid no attention to what he said, until he mentioned her name, which really made me shiver. The prisoner's name was Amelia.

"Amelia! What an ocean of anxiety; what a world of memories did that name arouse in me! I have known two Amelias, each of whom hurled my fate into an abyss of ruin, by their confessions. Was the Princess, or the young Baroness of Rudolstadt, the prisoner? Certainly neither the one or the other. Gottlieb, who seems to have no curiosity, and who never takes a step, nor asks a question, unless urged to do so, could tell me nothing more. He saw the prisoner as he sees everything, through a cloud. She must be young and beautiful, for his mother says so; but Gottlieb told me that he did not know. He only knew from having seen her at a window, that she is not a good spirit and angel. Her family name is concealed. She is rich and pays the jailer much money; but she is, like myself, in solitary confinement; she is often sick; she never goes out. I could discover nothing more. Gottlieb has only to listen to his parents' chatter to find out all, for they pay no attention to him. He has promised to listen and find out how long Amelia has been here. Her other name the Swartzes seem to be ignorant of. Were the abbess here, would they not know it? Would the king imprison his sister? Princesses are here treated even worse than others. The young baroness! Why should she be here? Why has Frederick deprived her of liberty? Well! a perfect prison curiosity has beset me, and my anxiety, wakened by her name, results from an idle and diseased imagination. It matters not; I will have a mountain on my heart until I discover who is my fellow-prisoner, bearing that name, which has ever been so important to me."

"May 1.—For many days I have been unable to write. In the interval much has happened that I am anxious to record.

"In the first place, I have been sick. From time to time since I have been here, I have felt the symptoms of a brain fever, similar to that severe attack I had at the Giants' Castle, after going into the cavern in search of Albert. I had painfully disturbed nights, interrupted with dreams, during which I cannot say whether I sleep or am awake. At those times I seem to hear the terrible violin playing old Bohemian airs, chants, and war-songs. This does me much injury; yet when this fancy begins to take possession of me, I cannot but listen and hearken to the faint sounds which the breeze bears to me from the distance. Sometimes I fancy that the violin is played by a person who glides over the surface of the water, that sleeps around the castle; then, that it comes from the walls above, or rises from some dungeon. My heart and mind are crushed, yet when night comes, instead of looking for amusement with my pen and pencil, I throw myself on my bed, and seek again to resume that kind of half sleep which brings me my musical dream, or rather reverie, for there is something real about it. A real violin certainly is played by some prisoner; but what and how does it play? It is too far distant for me to hear aught but broken sounds. My diseased imagination invents the rest, I am sure. Now I can no longer doubt that Albert is dead, and I must look on it as a misfortune that has befallen me. It is apparently a part of our nature to hope against hope, and not to submit to the rigor of fate.

"Three nights ago I was sound asleep, and was awakened by a noise in my room. I opened my eyes, but the night was so dark that I could distinguish nothing. I heard distinctly some one walking with stealthy step by my bed. I thought Vrau Swartz had come to inquire into my condition, and I spoke to her. I had no answer, however, but a deep sigh. The person went out on tiptoe, and I distinctly heard the door closed and bolted. I was overpowered and went to sleep, without paying any great attention to the circumstance. The next day I had so confused a recollection of it, that I was not sure whether I had dreamed or not. Last night I had a more violent fever than hitherto; yet I prefer that to my uneasy slumbers and disjointed dreams. I slept soundly, and dreamed, but did not hear the sad violin. As often as I awoke, I became aware of the difference between sleeping and waking. In these intervals the breathing of a person not far from me reached my ear. It seemed to me that I could almost distinguish some one on my chair, and I was not afraid, for I thought Madame Swartz had come to give me my drink. I did not awake her; but when I fancied she roused herself, I thanked her for her kindness and asked the hour. The person then left; and I heard a stifled sob, so painful and distressing that the sweat even now comes to my brow whenever I think of it. I do not know why it made this impression. It seemed to me that I was thought very ill, perhaps dying, and was pitied. I was not sick enough to feel myself in danger, and I was not sorry to die with so little pain amid a life in which I had so little to regret. At seven o'clock, when the old woman came to my room, I was not asleep, and as I had been for some hours perfectly lucid, I have a distinct remembrance of this strange visit. I asked her to explain it. She merely shook her head, however, and said she did not know what I meant, and that as she kept the keys under her pillow while she slept, it was certain that I had a dream or was deceived. I had been so far from delirium that about noon I felt well enough to take air, and went on the esplanade, accompanied by my bird, which seemed to congratulate me on my recovery. The weather was pleasant. It had begun to grow warm, and the wind from the fields was pure and genial. Gottlieb hurried to me. I found him much changed and much uglier than usual. There was yet an expression of angelic kindness, and even of pure intelligence, in the chaos of his face, whenever it was lighted up. His eyes were so red and bloodshot that I asked if he was sick.

"'Yes,' said he, 'I have wept much.'

"'What distresses you, my poor Gottlieb?'

"'At midnight, my mother came from the cell, and said to my father, "No. 3 is very sick to-night. She has the fever sadly. We must send for the doctor. I would not like to have her die on our hands." My mother thought I was asleep, but I determined not to be so, until I found out what she said. I knew you had the fever, and when I heard it was dangerous I could not help weeping, until sleep overcame me. I think, however, I wept in my sleep, for when I awoke this morning, my eyes were like fire, and my pillow was wet.'"

"I was much moved at the attachment of poor Gottlieb, and I thanked him, shaking his great black paw, which smells of leather and wax a league off. The idea then occurred to me, that in his simple zeal the poor lad might have paid me the visit. I asked him if he had not got up and come to listen at the door. He assured me that he had not stirred, and I am fully satisfied that he had not. The place in which he sleeps is so situated that in my room I can hear his sighs through a fissure in the wall, perhaps through the hollow in which I keep my journal and money. Who knows but this opening communicates secretly with that near the chimney in which Gottlieb keeps his treasures—his books and his tools. In this particular he and I are alike, for each of us, like rats or bats, has a nest in the wall in which we bury our riches. I was about to make some interrogations, when I saw a personage leave Swartz's house and come toward me. I had not as yet seen him here, and his appearance filled me with terror, though I was far from being sure that I was not mistaken about him.

"'Who is that man?' said I to Gottlieb, in a low tone.

"'No great things,' said he. 'He is the new adjutant. Look how Belzebub bows his back, and rubs against his legs. They know each other well.'

"'What is his name?'

"Gottlieb was about to answer, when the adjutant said, with a mild voice and good-humored smile, pointing to the kitchen—

"'Young man, your father wants you.'

"This was only a pretext to be alone with me, and Gottlieb left. I was alone, and found myself face to face with whom—friend Beppo, think you? With the very recruiter whom we met so unfortunately in the Boehmer-wald, two years ago. It was Mayer. I could not mistake him, for, except that he had become fat, he was unchanged. He was the same man, with his pleasant manners, his simple bearing, his false face, his perfidious good humor, and his broum, broum, as if he was imitating the trumpet. From the band, he had been promoted to the department of finding food for powder, and as a recompense for his good service in that position, had been made a garrison officer, or rather a military jailer, for which he was as well calculated as he was for his old position of travelling turnkey, which he had discharged so well.

"'Mademoiselle, (he spoke French), I am your humble servant. You have a very pleasant place to walk in—air, room, and a fine view, I congratulate you, for you have an easy time in prison. The weather is magnificent, and it is a real pleasure to be at Spandau, when the sun is so bright. Broum, broum.'

"These insolent jests so disgusted me, that I did not speak. He was not disconcerted and said—

"'I ask your pardon for speaking to you in a tongue which perhaps you do not understand. I forgot that you are an Italian—an Italian singer—a superb voice, they say. I have a passion for music, and therefore wish to make your time as pleasant as my order will permit. Ah! where the devil did I have the honor of seeing you? I know your face perfectly—perfectly.'

"'At the Berlin Theatre, probably, for I sang there during the winter which has just passed.'

"'No; I was in Silesia. I was sub-adjutant at Glatz. Luckily, that devil Trenck made his escape while I was away, on duty, near the frontiers of Saxony. Otherwise I would not have been promoted, or been here, which, in consequence of its proximity to Berlin, I like very much. The life of a garrison officer, madame, is very melancholy. You may imagine how ennuyé one is when in a lonely country, and far from any large town, especially when one loves music as I do. Where had I the honor to meet you?'

"'I do not remember, sir, ever to have had that honor.'

"'I must have seen you on some stage in Italy or Vienna. You have travelled a great deal. How many theatres have you belonged to?'

"As I did not reply, he continued, insolently, 'It matters not; I will perhaps remember. What did I say? Ah! you, too, suffer from ennui.'

"'Not so, sir.'

"'But are you not in close confinement? Is not your name Porporina?'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'Just so, prisoner No. 3. Well, do you not wish for amusement—for company?'

"'Not at all, sir,' said I, thinking he intended to offer me his.

"'As you please. It is a pity. There is another prisoner here, extremely well-bred—a charming woman, who, I am sure, would be delighted to make your acquaintance.'

"'May I ask her name, sir?'

"'Her name is Amelia.'

"'Amelia what?'

"'Amelia—broum—broum; on my word I do not know. You are curious, I see. Ah! that is a regular prison-fever.'

"I was sorry that I had repelled the advances of Mayer, for after having despaired of making the acquaintance of this mysterious Amelia, and having abandoned the idea, I felt myself attracted by a feeling of pity towards her. I tried then to be more pleasant to this disagreeable man, and he soon offered to put me in connection with No. 2. Thus he called Amelia.

"'If this infraction of my arrest will not compromise you, sir, and if I can be useful to this lady, who, they say, is ill from sadness and ennui——'

"'Broum—broum. You take things literally, you do. You are kind. That old scamp Swartz has made you afraid of his orders. What are they but chimeras—good for door-keepers and wicket masters. We officers, though,' (and as he spoke Mayer expanded himself, as if he had not been long used to such an honorary title,) 'shut our eyes to such honorable infractions of discipline. The king himself, were he in our place, would do so. Now, signorina, when you wish to obtain any favor, go to no one but myself, and I promise that you shall not be contradicted uselessly. I am naturally humane and indulgent; God made me so; besides, I love music. If once in a while you will be kind enough to sing for me, I will hear you here, and you can do any thing you please with me.'

"'I will never abuse your kindness, Herr Mayer.'

"'Mayer!' said the adjutant, interrupting at once the broum, broum which was on his lips. 'Why do you call me Mayer? Where the devil did you pick up that name?'

"'I forgot, and beg your pardon, adjutant. I had a singing-master of that name, and have been thinking of him all day.'

"'A singing-master? That was not me. There are many Mayers in Germany. I am called Nauteuil, and am of French extraction.'

"'Well, sir, how shall I announce myself to that lady? She does not know me, and will refuse my visit, as just now I refused her acquaintance. People become so ill-tempered when they live alone.'

"'Ah, whoever she may be, the lady will be delighted to talk with you, I am sure. Will you write her anything?'

"'I have nothing to write with.'

"'Ah, that is impossible. Have you no money?'

"'If I had, old Swartz is incorruptible. Besides, I do not know how to bribe him.'

"'Well, I will take you this very evening to see No. 2—that is, when you have sung something for me.'

"I was terrified at the idea of Mayer—or Nauteuil, as he now pleases to call himself—introducing himself into my room, and I was about to reply, when he made me understand his intentions more perfectly. He had either not intended to visit me, or he read in my countenance an utter distate to his company. 'I will listen to you,' said he, 'on the platform which overlooks the tower in which you live. Sound ascends, and I will hear you there well enough. Then I will have the doors opened, and a woman shall escort you, I will not see you. In fact, it would not do for me to seem to tempt you to an act of disobedience, though, after all, in such a matter—broum, broum—there is a very easy way to get out of any difficulty. It is only necessary to shoot prisoner No. 3 with a pistol, and say that she was surprised, flagrante delicto, attempting to escape. Ah! the idea is strange, is it not? In prison strange ideas come into one's head. Adieu, signorina Porporina, till this evening.'

"I was lost in mazes of reflection on the conduct of this wretch, and, in spite of myself, became terribly afraid of him. I could not think so base and contemptible a soul loved music so much as to do what he did for the mere pleasure of hearing me. I supposed that the prisoner was the Abbess of Quedlimburgh, and that, in obedience to the king's order, an interview between her and myself was brought about, that we might be watched, and some state secret, she was supposed to have confided to me, be discovered. Under this impression I was as much afraid of the interview as I had previously desired it, for I am absolutely ignorant how much of this conspiracy, of which I am charged with being an accomplice, is true or false.

"Thinking that it was my duty to brave all things to extend some assistance to a companion in misfortune, whoever she might be, I began to sing at the appointed time, to gratify the ears of the post-adjutant. I sang badly enough, the audience inspiring me with no admiration. Besides, I felt he listened to me merely for form's sake, and that perhaps he did not hear me at all. When the clock struck eleven, I was seized with the most puerile terror. I fancied that the adjutant had received orders to get rid of me, and that he was about to kill me, as he said, just as if he looked on the manner as a jest, when I stopped outside of my cell. When the door opened, I trembled in every limb. An old woman, very dirty and ugly, (far more so than Vrau Swartz,) bade me follow, and preceded me up a narrow and steep staircase, built in the hollow of the wall. When we reached the top, I found myself on the platform, twenty feet above where I walk by day, and eighty or a hundred above the fosse which surrounds all that portion of the esplanade. The terrible old woman bade me wait there for a time, and went I know not whither. My uneasiness was removed, and I was so glad to find myself in the pure air, and so far up as to be able to see the country around, that I was not uneasy at the solitude in which I was left. The silent waters around the citadel, and on which its dark shadows fall, the trees and fields, which I saw far in the distance, the immense sky, and even the bats, whirling in space, all seemed, oh, God! grand and majestic, for I had passed two months in prison, counting the few stars which crossed the window of my cell. I could not enjoy this long. A noise forced me to look around, and all my terrors revived when I beheld Mayer near me.

"'Signora,' said he, 'I am sorry to tell you that you cannot see No. 2, at least at present. She seems to be a very capricious person. Yesterday she exhibited the greatest desire to have company, and just now she made me this answer:—"Is prisoner No. 3 the person who sings in the tower, and whom I hear every evening? Ah, I know her voice, and it is needless for you to tell me her name. I had rather never see a living soul again, than that unfortunate creature. She is the cause of all my troubles, and I pray to God the expiation required from her may be as strictly exacted as I am made to atone for the imprudent friendship I have felt for her." This, signora, is the lady's opinion about you. It is only necessary to know whether it is merited or not, and that concerns only your own conscience. I have nothing to say about it, and am ready to take you back to your cell when you think proper.'

"'Do so at once, sir,' said I, deeply mortified at being accused of treachery before so miserable a wretch, and feeling the deepest indignation against the one of the Amelias who had testified so much ingratitude and bitterness.

"'I am not anxious that you should go,' said the new adjutant. 'You seem to like to look at the moon. Do so as long as you please. It costs nothing, and does no one any harm.'

"I was imprudent enough to take a little advantage of his kindness. I could not make up my mind to leave the beautiful spectacle of which I was, perhaps, to be deprived so soon, at once. Besides, I could not resist the idea that Mayer was a bad servant, but too much honored by being permitted to wait on me. He took advantage of my position, and became bold enough to seek to talk to me. 'Do you know, signorina,' said he, 'that you sing devilish well? I heard nothing better in Italy. Yet I have been to the greatest theatre, and passed the principal artists in review. Where did you make your first appearance? You have travelled much?' As I pretended not to understand his questions, he added, boldly, 'Sometimes you travelled on foot, in male attire?'

"This question made me tremble, and I hastened to reply in the negative. He said, 'Ah! you will not own it, but I never forget; and I recall to my memory a strange adventure which you have not forgotten.'

"'I do not know what you wish to say,' said I moving from the wall, and commencing to retreat to my cell.

"'A moment—a moment!' said Mayer.—'Your key is in my pocket, and you cannot go back without me. Let me say a word or two to you.'

"'Not a word, sir: I wish to return to my room, and am sorry that I left it.'

"'Pardieu! you are behaving strangely: you act as if I was ignorant of your adventures. Did you think I was simple enough not to know when I found you in the Boehmer-wald, with a little dark-haired lad, not badly made? Pshaw! I took the lad for the army of the King of Prussia. The girl was not for him; though they say you pleased him, and were sent here because you boasted of it. Well, fortune is capricious, and it is useless to contend with her. You have fallen from a high position, but I beg you not to be proud, and to be satisfied with what chances. I am only a garrison officer, but have more power here than a king, whom no one knows and no one fears, because he is too far away to be obeyed. You see that I have power enough to pass anywhere and to soften your captivity. Do not be ungrateful, and you will see the protection of an adjutant at Spandau is as useful as that of a king at Berlin. Do you understand? Do not fly me—do not make an outcry—for that would be absurd—indeed, it would be pure folly for I might say anything I pleased, and no one would believe you. I do not wish to scare you, for my disposition is good. Think of this till I see you again: and remember, I can immure you in a dungeon, or grant you amusements—starve you to death, or give you means of escape, without being suspected.' As I did not reply, and was completely terror-stricken at the idea of being unable to avoid such outrages, and such cruel humiliation as he dared to subject me to, this odious man added, without doubt fancying that I hesitated, 'Why not decide at once? Are twenty-four hours necessary to decide on the only step which it is proper for you to take, and to return the love of a brave man, yet young, and rich enough to provide in some other country a more pleasant abode than this prison?'

"As he spoke thus, the ignoble recruiter approached me, and acted as if he would oppose my passage. He attempted to lay hold of my hands. I ran to the parapet of the tower, being determined to spring over, rather than suffer myself to be soiled by his caresses. At this moment, however, a strange circumstance attracted my attention, and I pointed it out to the adjutant as a means of enabling myself to escape. It secured my safety; but, alas! came near costing the life of a person, perhaps more valuable than mine.

"On the opposite rampart, on the other side of the ditch, a figure which seemed gigantic, ran or rather leaped down the esplanade, with a rapidity and adroitness which seemed prodigious. Having reached the extremity of the rampart, the ends of which are flanked by towers, the phantom ascended the roof of one of them, which was on a level with the balustrade, and mounting the steep cone with cat-like activity, seemed to lose itself in the air.

"'What the devil is that?' said the adjutant, forgetting the gallant in the jailer. 'May the devil take me, if a prisoner is not escaping.' The sentinel, too, is asleep. 'Sentinel,' cried he, with the voice of a Stentor, 'look out!' Running towards a turret, in which is hung an alarm bell, he rang it with the power of a professor of the devil's music. I never heard anything more melancholy than this infernal tocsin, the sharp clangor of which disturbed the deep silence of night. It was the savage cry of violence and brutality, disturbing the aspirations of the harmony of the water and the breeze. In an instant, all was in motion in the prison. I heard the clangor of the guns in the sentinels' arms, as they cocked and fired at any object of which they caught a glimpse. The esplanade was lighted with a red blaze, which paled the azure reflections of the moon. Swartz had lighted up a bonfire. Signals were made from one rampart to another, and the echoes repeated them in a plaintive and decreasing tone. The alarm gun soon mingled its terrible and solemn note in this diabolical symphony. Heavy steps sounded on the pavements. I saw nothing, but heard all these noises, and my heart was filled with terror. Mayer had left me hastily, but I did not even rejoice at being delivered from him. I reproached myself bitterly with having pointed out to him, I knew not why, some unfortunate prisoner who was seeking to escape. Frozen with terror, I waited the conclusion of the affair, shuddering at every shot that was fired, and waiting to hear the cries of the fugitive announce some new disaster to me.

"All this did not last an hour; and, thank heaven, the fugitive was neither seen nor hit. To be sure of it, I rejoined the Swartzes on the esplanade. They were so excited that they expressed no surprise at seeing me outside my cell at midnight. It may be they had an understanding with Mayer that I was to be at liberty on that night. Swartz, having run about like a madman, and satisfied himself that none of his ward had escaped, began to grow tranquil. His wife and he, however, were struck with consternation, as if the escape of a prisoner seemed a public and private calamity, and an outrageous violation of justice. The other keepers, the soldiers who came and went, exchanged words with them expressive of the same despair and terror. To them the blackest of all crimes seems an attempt to escape. God of mercy! how terrible did these mercenaries, devoted to the barbarous business of depriving their fellows of precious liberty, seem to me. Suddenly, however, it seemed that supreme equity had resolved to inflict a severe punishment on my keepers. Vrau Swartz had gone into the lodge for a few moments, and came out soon after, shouting:

"'Gottlieb! Gottlieb!—pause—do not fire—do not kill my son! It is he—it is he, certainly!'

"In spite of the agitation of the old couple, I learned that Gottlieb was neither in his bed, nor in any part of the house, and that in his sleep he had, perhaps, resumed his old habit of walking over the roofs of the houses. Gottlieb was a somnambulist.

"As soon as this report was circulated through the citadel, the excitement passed away. Every keeper had time to make his rounds, and ascertain that no prisoner had disappeared, and each returned in good spirits to his post. The officers weire enchanted at the dénoûement; the soldiers laughed at the alarm; and Madame Swartz was beside herself, and her husband ran everywhere, exploring the fosse, fearing that the fusilade and cannon shots had awakened Gottlieb amid his dangerous walk. I went with him. It would, perhaps, have been a good time to attempt to escape myself; for it seemed to me that the doors were open, and the soldiers' attention averted. I put this idea aside, however, being occupied only with the hope of finding the poor invalid who had exhibited so much affection for me.

"Swartz, who never loses his presence of mind, seeing the day was breaking begged me to go to my room, since it was contrary to his orders to leave me at liberty at improper hours. He went with me to close the door, but the first thing he saw was Gottlieb, peaceably asleep in my chair. He had luckily been able to take refuge there before the alarm had been communicated to the whole garrison, or his sleep had been so profound and his foot so agile that he had escaped all dangers. I advised his father not to awaken him suddenly, and promised to watch over him until Vrau Swartz was informed of the happy news.

"When I was alone with Gottlieb, I placed my hand gently on his shoulder, and, speaking in a low voice, sought to awaken him. I had heard that somnambulists could place themselves in communication with persons whom they liked, and answer them distinctly. My attempt was wonderfully successful; 'Gottlieb,' said I, 'where have you been to-night?'

"'To-night—is it night? I thought I saw the morning sun shining on the roofs.'

"'You have then been there?'

"'Certainly: that blessed angel, the red-throat, came to the window and called me. I followed him, and we have been high up, very high up, near the stars, and almost to the angels' home. As we went up, we met Belzebub, who sought to catch us. He cannot fly, however, because God has sentenced him to a long penitence, and he sees the birds and angels fly without being able to reach them.'

"'Yet, after having been among the clouds, you came back?'

"'The red-throat said, "Go see your sick sister," and I came back to your cell with him.'"

"'Then, you can come into my cell?'

"'Certainly: I have, since you have been sick, frequently come to watch you. The red-throat steals the keys from my mother's bed, and Belzebub cannot help it; for when an angel, by hovering over him, has charmed him, he cannot wake.'

"'Who taught you so much about angels and devils?'

"'My master,' said the somnambulist, with a childish look, full of the most innocent enthusiasm.

"'Who is your master?' said I.

"'God first—and then—the sublime shoemaker.'

"'What is the name of the sublime shoemaker?'

"'Ah! it is a great name. I cannot tell you, for my mother, you see, does not know him. She does not know that I have two books in the hole by the chimney. One I do not read, and the other I have devoured for four years. This is my heavenly food, my spiritual life, the book of truth, the safety and light of the soul.'

"'Who wrote this book?'

"'He did. The shoemaker of Corlitz, Jacob Boehm.'

"We were here interrupted by the arrival of Vrau Swartz, whom I could scarcely keep from throwing herself on her son and kissing him. This woman adores her first-born, and therefore may her sins be remitted. She spoke, but Gottlieb did not hear her; and I alone was able to persuade him to go to bed, where, I was told, he slept quietly. He knew nothing of what had happened, although his strange disease and the alarm are yet talked of at Spandau.

"I was then in my cell, after having enjoyed a few hours of painful and agitated half liberty. On such terms I do not wish to go out again. Yet I might, perchance, have escaped. I will think of nothing else, now that I am in the power of a wretch who menaces me with dangers worse than death and worse than eternal torment. I will now think seriously of it, and who knows but that I may succeed? Oh! God, protect me!"

"May 5.—Since the occurrence of the events I have described, I have lived calmly, and have learned to think my days of repose days of happiness, and to thank God for them, as in prosperity we thank him for years which roll by without disaster. It is indisputable that, to leave the apathy of ordinary life aside, it is necessary to have known misfortune. I reproach myself with having suffered so many of my childhood's days to pass by unmarked, without returning thanks to the Providence which bestowed them on me. I did not say then that I was undeserving, and therefore it is beyond a doubt, that I merit the evils which oppress me.

"I have not seen the odious recruiting officer since. He is now more feared by me than he was on the banks of the Moldau, when I took him for a child-devouring ogre. Now I look on him as a yet more odious and abominable persecutor: when I think of the revolting pretence of the wretch, of the power he exerts around me, of the ease with which he can come at night to my cell, without those servile Swartzes having even a wish to protect me from him, I feel ready to die in despair. I look at the pitiless bars which prevent me from throwing myself from the window. I cannot procure poison, and have no weapon to open his heart. Yet I have something to fill me with hope and confidence, and will not suffer myself to be intimidated. In the first place, Swartz does not love the adjutant, who would have a monopoly of air, sunlight, bread, and other items of prison food. Besides, the Swartzes, especially the woman, begin to conceive a liking for me on account of poor Gottlieb, and the healthful influence which they say I exert on his mind. Were I menaced, they would not perhaps come to my aid; but were this seriously the case, they would perhaps enable me to appeal to the commandant. He, the only time I saw him, appeared mild and humane. Gottlieb besides, would be glad to do me a favor, and without making any explanation I have already concerted matters with him. He is ready to take a letter which I have prepared. I hesitate, however, to ask for aid before I am really in danger; for if my enemy cease to torment me, he might treat as a jest a declaration I was prudish enough to treat as serious. Let that be as it may, I sleep with but one eye, and am training my physical powers for a fearful contest if it should be necessary. I move my furniture, I pull against the iron bars of the window, and harden my hands by knocking against the walls. Anyone who saw me thus engaged, would think me mad or desperate. I practise, however, with the greatest sang froid, and have learned that my physical power is far greater than I had supposed. In the security of ordinary life, we do not inquire into, but disregard, our means of defence. As I feel strong, I become brave, and my confidence in God increases with my efforts to protect myself. I often remember the beautiful verses Porpora told me he read on the walls of a dungeon of the inquisition at Venice."

'Di che mi fido, mi guarda Iddio! Di che non mi fido mi guardero Io.'

"More fortunate than the wretch who traced the words of that sad prayer, I can at least confide in the chastity and devotion of poor Gottlieb. His attacks of somnambulism have not reappeared; his mother, too watches him carefully. During the day, he talks to me in my room, for since I saw Mayer I have not seen the esplanade.

"Gottlieb has explained his religious ideas to me. They are beautiful, though often whimsical, and I wish to read Boehm's book—for he is a disciple of his, certainly—to know what he has added from his own mind to the theological cordwainer. He lent me this precious book, and at my own peril and risk I became immersed in it. I can not understand how this book disturbed the balance of the simple mind which looked at the symbols of a mystic—himself sometimes mad—as literal. I do not flatter myself that I can thoroughly understand and explain them; but I think I catch a glimpse of lofty religious divination, and the inspiration of generous poetry. What struck me most is his theory about the devil: 'In the battle with Lucifer, God did not destroy him. See you not the reason, blind man? God fought against God, one portion of divinity striving against the other. I remember that Albert explained, almost in the same way, the earthly and transitory reign of the spirit of evil, and that the chaplain of Riesenberg listened to him with horror, and treated his idea as pure manicheism. Albert said that Christianity was a purer and more complete manicheism than his faith; that it was more superstitious, as it recognised the perpetuity of the principle of evil, while his system recognised the restoration of the spirit of evil, that is to say its conversion and reconciliation. In Albert's opinion, evil was but error, and the divine light some day would dissipate it. I own, my friends, even though I seem heretical, that the idea of its being Satan's doom everlastingly to excite evil, to love it, and to close his eyes to the truth, seems, and always has seemed impious to me."

"Boehm seems to me to look for a millenium—that is to say, he is a believer in the resurrection of the just, and thinks they will sojourn with him in a new world, formed from the dissolution of this, during a thousand years of cloudless happiness and wisdom. Then there will be the complete union of souls with God, and the recompense of eternity, far more complete than those of the millenium. I often remember having heard Count Albert explain this symbol, as he told the stormy history of old Bohemia, and of his beloved Taborites, who were embued with faith renewed from the early days of Christianity. Albert had a less material faith in all this, and did not pronounce on the duration of the resurrection, or the precise age of the future world. He had, however, a presentiment and a prophetic view of the speedy dissolution of human society, which was to give place to an era of sublime renovation. Albert did not doubt that his soul, on leaving the temporary prison of death, would begin here below a series of existences, and would contemplate this providential reward, and see those days which are at once so terrible and so magnificent, and which have been promised to the human race. This noble faith seemed monstrous to all orthodox persons at Riesenberg, and took possession of me after having at first seemed strange. Yet it is a faith of all nations and all days. In spite of the efforts of the Roman Church to stifle it—or rather, in spite of its being unable to purify itself of the material and superstitious, I see it has filled many really pious souls with enthusiasm. They tell me it was the faith of great saints. I yield myself to it therefore without restraint and without fear, being sure any idea adopted by Albert must be a grand one. It also smiles on me, and sheds celestial poetry on the idea of death and the sufferings which beyond doubt are coming to a close. Jacob Boehm pleases me. His disciple who sits in the dirty kitchen, busy with sublime reveries and heavenly visions, while his parents become petrified, trade, and grow brutal, seems in character pure and touching to me, with this book which he knows by heart, but does not understand, although he has commenced to model his life after his master's. Infirm in body and mind—ingenuous, candid, and with angelic morals, poor Gottlieb, destined beyond doubt to be crushed by falling from some rampart, in your imaginary flight across the skies, or to sink under premature disease—you will have passed from earth like an unknown saint, like an exiled angel, ignorant of evil, without having known happiness, without even having felt the sun that warms the earth, so wrapped were you in the contemplation of the mystic sun which burns in your mind. I, who alone have discovered the secret of your meditations—I, who also comprehend the ideal beautiful, and had power to search for and realize it, will die in the flower of my youth, without having acted or lived. In the nucleus of these walls which shut in and devour us, are poor little plants which the wind crushes and the sun never shines on. They dry up without flourishing or fructifying; yet they seem to revive. But they are the seeds which the wind brings to the same places, and which seek to live on the wreck of the old. Thus captives vegetate!—thus prisons are peopled!

"Is it not strange that I am here, with an ecstatic being of an order inferior to Albert, but, like him, attached to a secret religion, to a faith which is ridiculed, contemned, and despised! Gottlieb tells me there are many other Boehmists in this country, that many cordwainers openly confess his faith, and that the foundation of his doctrine is implanted for all time in the popular mind, by many unknown philosophers who of old excited Bohemia, and who now nurse a secret fire throughout Germany. I remember the ardent Hussite cordwainers, whose bold declarations and daring deeds in John Ziska's time, Albert mentioned to me. The very name of Jacob Boehm attests this glorious origin. I cannot tell what passes in the contemplative brain of patient Germany, my brilliant and dissipated life making such an examination impossible. Were Gottlieb and Zdenko, however, the last disciples of the mysterious religion which Albert preserved as a precious talisman, I am still sure that faith is mine, inasmuch as it proclaims the future equality of all men and the coming manifestation of the justice and goodness of God on earth! Ah, yes! I must believe in this kingdom, which God declared to man through Christ! I must hope for the overturning of these iniquitous monarchies, of those impure societies, that when I see myself here, I may not lose faith in Providence!"

* * * * * * * *

"I have no news of No. 2. If Mayer has not told me an infamous falsehood, Amelia of Prussia is the person who accuses me of treachery. May God forgive her for doubting one who has not doubted her, in spite of her accusations on my account. I will not attempt to see her. By seeking to defend myself, I might yet more involve her, as I have, I know not how, already."

* * * * * * * *

"My red-throat is still my faithful companion. Seeing Gottlieb without his cat in my cell, it became familiar with him, and the poor lad became mad with joy and pride. He calls it 'lord,' and will not tutoy it. With the most profound respect, and with the most religious trembling, he offers it food. In vain do I attempt to persuade him it is but a common bird, for I cannot remove the idea that some heavenly being has adopted this form. I try to amuse him by giving him some idea of music, and indeed I am sure he has a highly musical mind. His parents are delighted with my care, and have offered to put a spinet in one of their rooms, where I can teach him and study myself. This proposition, which would have delighted me a short time since, I cannot accept. I do not even dare to sing in my room, for fear of attracting the brutal adjutant, ex-trumpeter, whom may God assail!

"May 10.—For a long time I had asked myself what had become of my unknown friends, those wonderful protectors of whom the Count of Saint Germain spoke, and who apparently have interfered only to hasten evils with which the royal benevolence menaced me. If I mistake not the punishment of conspirators, they have all been dispersed and oppressed; or they have abandoned me, thought I, when I refused to escape from the clutches of Buddenbrock, on the day I was taken from Spandau to Berlin. Well, they are come again, and have made Gottlieb their messenger. Rash men! may they not heap on that innocent lad the same evils to which they have subjected me!

"This morning Gottlieb gave me furtively the following note:—

"'We seek to release you. The time draws near. A new danger, however, menaces you, which will delay our enterprise. Place no confidence in any one who seeks to induce you to fly, before we give you certain information and precise details. A snare is laid for you. Be on your guard, and be determined.

"'Your brothers,

"'THE INVISIBLES.'

"This note fell at Gottlieb's feet, as he was passing through one of the prison courts. He firmly believes that it fell from heaven, and that the red-throat has something to do with it. As I made him talk without opposing his ideas too much, I learned strange things, which perhaps have a foundation of truth. I asked him if he knew who the 'Invisibles' were.

"'No one knows, although all pretend to.'

"'How! have you heard of them?'

"'When I was apprenticed to the master cordwainer, I heard much of them in the city.'

"'They talk of them? Do the people know about them?'

"'I heard of them then, and of all the things I heard, few are worthy of being remembered:—A poor workman in our shop hurt his hand so severely that they were about to cut it off. He was the only support of a large family that he loved, and for whom he worked. He came one day with his hand bound up, and looked sadly at us as we worked saying, "You are fortunate in having your hands free. I think I will soon have to go to the hospital, and my old mother must beg to keep my little brothers and sisters from starving." A collection was proposed, but we were all poor, and I, though my parents were rich, had so little money that we could not help our fellow-workman. All having emptied their pockets, attempted to suggest something to get Franz out of his difficulties. None would do anything; he had knocked at many doors and had been driven away. The king, they say, is very rich, his father having left him much money; but he uses it in enlisting his soldiers. It was war time, too, and our king was away. All were afraid of want, and the poor suffered terribly, so that Franz could not find sufficient aid from kind hearts. The lad never received a shilling. Just then, a young man in the shop said, "I know what I should do, if I were in your place. But perhaps you are afraid? I am afraid of nothing," said Franz. "What must I do? Ask aid from the Invisibles." Franz appeared to understand the matter, for he shook his head with an air of dislike, and said nothing. Some young men asked what they meant; and the response on all sides was, "You do not know the Invisibles? any one may know that, you children! The Invisibles are people who are never seen, but who act. They do all things, both good and bad. No one knows where they live, yet they are everywhere. It is said they are found in the four quarters of the globe. They murder many travellers, yet assist others in their contests with brigands, according as the travellers seem to them to deserve punishment or protection. They are the instigators of all revolutions, go to all courts, direct all affairs, decide on war and peace, liberate prisoners, assist the unfortunate, punish criminals, make kings to tremble on their thrones! They are the cause of all that is good and bad on earth. Sometimes it is said they err, but their intention is good; and, besides, who can say that a great misfortune to-day may not be a great happiness to-morrow?'"

"'We heard all this with great astonishment and admiration,' said Gottlieb, and I heard enough to be able to tell you all laboring men, and the poor and ignorant, think of the Invisibles. Some said they were wicked people, devoted to the devil, who endows them with his power, who gives them the gift of secret science, the power to tempt men by the attraction of riches and honor, the faculty of knowing the future, of making gold, of resuscitating the dead, of curing the sick, of making the old young, of keeping the living from death, for they have discovered the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life. Others say they are religious and beneficent men, who have united their fortunes to assist those in need, and who hold communion to redress crime and reward virtue. In our shop every one made his remark. "It is the old order of the Templars," said one. "They are now called Free-Masons" said another. "No," said a third, "they are Herrnhuters of Zinzindorf, or Moravians, the old brothers of the Union, the ancient orphans of Mount Tabor: old Bohemia is always erect, and secretly menaces the other powers of Europe. It wishes to make the world republican.'"

"'Others said they were only a handful of sorcerers, pupils and followers of Paracelsus, Boehm, Swedenborg, and now of Schœffer the lemonade-man, (that is a good guess,) who, by miracles and infernal machinations, wish to govern the world and destroy empires. The majority came to the conclusion that it was the old tribunal of the Free-Judges, which never was dissolved in Germany, and which, after having acted in the dark for many centuries, began to revive and make its iron arm, its sword of fire, and its golden balance to be felt.

"'Franz was unwilling to address them, for it is said those who accept their benefits are bound through life to them, to the peril of their soul and the danger of their kindred. Necessity, however, triumphed over fear. One of our comrades, the one who had given him the advice, and who was suspected of being affiliated with the Invisibles, though he denied it, told him in secret how to make the signal of distress. What this was we never knew. Some said that it was a cabalistic mark written over his door in blood: others that he went at midnight to a mound between two roads, and that a black cavalier came to him as he stood at the foot of a cross. Some say that he merely wrote a letter which he placed in the hollow of an old weeping willow at the gate of the cemetery. It is certain that he received aid; that his family waited until he was well and did not beg; that he was treated by a skillful surgeon, who cured him. Of the Invisibles he said nothing, except that he would bless them as long as he lived.'

"'But what do you, Gottlieb, who know more than the men in your shop, think of the Invisibles? are they sectarians, charlatans, or impostors?'

"Here Gottlieb, who had spoken very reasonably, fell into his habitual wanderings, and I could gather nothing but that they were beings really invisible, impalpable, and, like God and his angels, unappreciable to our senses, except when, to communicate with men, they assumed finite forms."

"'It is evident to me,' said he, 'that the end of the world draws near. Manifest signs declare it. The Antichrist is born, and they say he is now in Prussia: his name is Voltaire. I do not know this Voltaire, and the Antichrist may be some one else, for he is to bear a name commencing with a W., and not a V. This name, too, will be German. While waiting for the miracles which are about to be accomplished, God, who apparently mingles in nothing, who is eternal silence, creates among us beings of a nature superior to our own, both for good and evil—angels and demons—hidden powers. The latter are to test the just, the former to ensure their triumph. The contest between the great powers has already begun. The king of evil, the father of ignorance and crime, defends himself in vain. The archangels have bent the bow of science and of truth, and their arrows have pierced the corslet of Satan. Satan roars and struggles, but soon will abandon falsehood, lose his venom, and, instead of the impure blood of reptiles, will feel the dew of pardon circulate through his veins. This is the clear and certain explanation of all that is incomprehensible and terrible in the world. Good and evil contend in higher regions which are unattainable to men. Victory and defeat soar above us, without its being possible for us to fix them. Frederick of Prussia attributed to the power of his arms success which fate alone granted him, as it exalted or depressed according to its hidden purpose. Yes; I say it is clear that men are ignorant of what occurs on earth. They see impiety arm itself against fate, and vice versa. They suffer oppression, misery, and all the scourges of discord, without their prayers being heard, without the intervention of the miracles of any religion. They now understand nothing, they complain they know not why. They walk blindfolded on the brink of a precipice. To this the Invisibles impel them, though none know if their mission be of God or the Devil, as at the commencement of Christianity, Simon, the magician, seemed to many a being divine and powerful as Christ. I tell you all prodigies are of God, for Satan can achieve none without permission being granted him, and that among those called Invisibles, some act by direct light from the Holy Spirit, while to others the light comes through a cloud, and they do good, fatally thinking that they do evil.'

"'This is a very abstract explanation, dear Gottlieb. Is it Jacob Boehm's or your own?"

"'His, if it be your pleasure to understand him so—mine, if his inspiration did not suggest it to me.'

"'Well, Gottlieb, I am no wiser after all than I was, for I do not know if the Invisibles be good or bad angels to me.

"May 12.—Miracles really begin, and my fate seems to be in the hands of the Invisibles. I will, like Gottlieb, ask if they be of God or of Satan? To-day Gottlieb was called by the sentinel on duty over the esplanade, and his post is on the little bastion at its end. This sentinel, Gottlieb says, is an invisible spirit. The proof is, that Gottlieb knows all the soldiers, and talks readily with them, when they amuse themselves by ordering a pair of shoes, and then he appeared to him of superhuman stature and undefinable expression.— 'Gottlieb,' said he, speaking in a low tone, 'Porporina must be delivered in the course of three nights. This may be, if you can take the keys of her cell from under your mother's pillow, and bring them hither to the extremity of the esplanade. I will take charge of the rest. Tell her to be ready, and remember, if you be deficient in prudence and zeal, you and I are both lost.'

"This is the state of things. The news has made me ill with emotion. I had a fever all night, and again heard the fantastic violin. To escape from this prison, to escape from the terrors with which Mayer inspires me—Ah! to do that, I am ready to risk my life. What, though, will result to Gottlieb and the sentinel from my flight? The latter, though he devotes himself so generously, I do not know. His unknown accomplices, too, are about to assume a new burden in me. I tremble, I hesitate, I am entirely undecided. I write to you without thinking to prepare for my flight. No, I will not escape—at least until I am certain of the fate of my friends and protectors. Gottlieb is resolved on all. When I ask him if he is not afraid, he tells me that he would suffer martyrdom gladly for me. When I add that perhaps he will regret seeing me no more, he says that is his affair, and that I do not know what he means to do. All this, too, seems to him an order of heaven, and he obeys the unknown power which impels him, without reflection. I read the notes of the Invisibles with care, and I am afraid the information of the sentinel is the snare of which I should be afraid. I have yet forty-eight hours before me. If Mayer comes again, I will risk all. If he continues to forget me, and I have no better assurance than the warning of this stranger, I will remain.

"May 13.—I trust myself to fate, to Providence, which has sent me unhoped-for aid. I go, and rely on the powerful arm which covers me with its ægis. As I walked this morning on the esplanade, hoping to receive some new explanation from the spirits that hover around me, I looked at the bastion, where the sentinel is. I saw two, one on guard, with his arms shouldered, and another going and coming, as if he looked for something. The height of the latter attracted my attention, for it seemed to me that he was not a stranger to me. I could only look stealthily at him, for at every turn of the walk I had to turn my back. Finally, as I was walking towards him, he approached me, and though the glacis was higher than where I stood, I knew him at once. I had nearly cried aloud. It was Karl, the Bohemian, the deserter, who was saved from Mayer, in the Boehmer-wald, whom I afterwards saw at Roswald, in Moravia, at Count Hoditz's, and who sacrificed to me a terrible revenge. He is devoted to me, body and soul, and his stern face, broad nose, red brow, with eyes of tin, to-day seemed as beautiful to me as the angel Gabriel.

"'That is he,' said Gottlieb, in a low tone; 'he is an emissary of the Invisibles. He is your liberator, and will take you hence to-morrow night.' My heart beat so violently that I could scarcely contain myself; tears of joy escaped from my eyes. To conceal my emotion from the other sentinel I approached the parapet which was farthest from the bastion, and pretended to look at the grass in the fosse. I saw Karl and Gottlieb exchange words, which I conld not entirely interpret. After a short time Gottlieb came to me, and said, placidly: 'He will soon come down. He will come to our house and drink a bottle of wine. Pretend not to see him. My father is gone out. While my mother goes to the canteen for wine, you will come to the kitchen, as if you were about to go back, and then you can speak to him for a moment.'

"When Karl had spoken for a short time to Madame Swartz, who does not disdain the entertainment of the veterans of the citadel at their own expense, I saw Gottlieb on the threshold. I went in, and was alone with Karl. Gottlieb had gone with his mother to the canteen. Poor child! it seems that friendship has at once revealed to him the cunning and pretence required in real life. He does intentionally a thousand awkward things—lets the bottle fall, makes his mother angry, and delays her long enough for me to have some conversation with my saviour.

"'Signora,' said Karl, 'here I am, and here, too, are you. I was taken by the recruiters. Such was my fate. The king, however, recognised and pardoned me, perhaps for your sake. He also permitted me to go away, and promised me money, which, by-the-bye, he did not give me. I went to a famous sorcerer, to find out how I could best serve you. The sorcerer sent me to Prince Henry, and Prince Henry sent me to Spandau. Around us are powerful people, whom I do not know, but who toil for us. They spare neither money nor exertions, I assure you. Now all is ready. To-morrow evening the doors will be open before you. All who could prevent our escape have been won. All except the Swartzes are in our interests. To-morrow they will sleep more soundly than usual, and when they awake you will be far away. We will take Gottlieb, who is anxious to go, with us. I will go with you, and will risk nothing, for all has been foreseen. Be ready, signora. And now go to the esplanade, in order that the old woman may not find us here.' I uttered my gratitude to Karl in tears alone, and hurried away to hide my emotion from the inquisitorial glance of Vrau Swartz.

"My friends, it may be I will see you again. I shall be able to clasp you in my arms; I shall escape from that terrible Mayer, and see the expanse of heaven, the green fields, Venice, Italy—sing again, and find people to sympathise with me. This prison has revived my heart, and renewed my soul, which was becoming stifled by indifference. I will live, will love, be pious, and be good.

"Yet this is a deep enigma of the human heart:—I am terrified and almost mad at the idea of leaving this cell, in which I have passed three months, perpetually seeking to be calm and resigned. This esplanade, over which I have walked with so many melancholy reveries; old walls, which seem so high, so cold, and so calm, as the moonlight shines on them: and this vast ditch, the water of which is so beautifully green, and the countless flowers which the spring has strewn on its banks. And my red-throat! Gottlieb says it will go with us, but it is now asleep in the ivy, and will not be aware of our departure. Dear creature! may you console and amuse the person who succeeds me in this cell. May she love you as I have done.

"Well, I am about to go to sleep that I may be stronger and calmer tomorrow. I seal up this manuscript, which I am anxious to carry away. By means of Gottlieb I have procured a new supply of paper, pencil, and light, which I will hide away, that other prisoners may experience as much pleasure from them as I have."

* * * * * * * *

Here Consuelo's journal finished. We will now resume the story of her adventures. It is needful to inform the reader that Karl had not boasted, without reason, that he was aided and employed by powerful persons. The invisible persons who toiled for the deliverance of our heroine, had been profuse in their expenditures of gold. Many turnkeys, eight or ten veterans, and even an officer, had been enlisted to stand aside—to see nothing—and to look no farther for the fugitives than mere form required. On the evening fixed for the escape, Karl had supped with Swartz, and pretending to be drunk, had asked them to drink with him. Mother Swartz was as fond of strong liquor as most cooks are. Her husband had no aversion to brandy, when other people paid for it. A narcotic drug stealthily introduced into their libations, assisted the effect of the strong brew. The good couple got to bed, not without trouble, and snored so loudly, that Gottlieb, who attributed everything to supernatural influences, thought them enchanted when he attempted to take possession of the keys. Karl had returned to the bastion, where he was a sentinel, and Consuelo went with Gottlieb to that place and ascended the rope ladder the deserter threw her. Gottlieb, who, in spite of every remonstrance, insisted on escaping with them, became a great difficulty in the way. He who in his somnambulism passed like a cat over the roofs, could not now walk over three feet of ground. Sustained by the conviction that he was assisted by an envoy of heaven, he was afraid of nothing, and had Karl said so, would have thrown himself from the top of the parapet. His blind confidence added to the dangers of their situation. He climbed at hazard, scorning to see or make any calculation. After having made Consuelo shudder twenty times, and twenty times she thought him lost, he reached the platform of the bastion, and thence our three fugitives passed through the corridors of that part of the citadel in which the officers, initiated in their plot, were posted. They advanced without any obstacle, and all at once found themselves vis-à-vis with the adjutant Mayer, alias the ex-recruiter. Consuelo thought all was lost. Karl, however, kept her from running away. "Do not be afraid, signora," said he; "we have bought him over!"