I did not wait any further direction, but hastened on, and soon overtook a nut-brown boy who had eyes as blue and clear, but more demure than Hans'. He was rather shy at being so abruptly accosted by a stranger, but the mention of Hans' name quickened his words, and by the time we had reached his father's door, he was quite re-assured. The cottage was similar in appearance to hundreds I had already seen. I noticed, however, a small shelf of books in the window, which I immediately judged to be the library of travels and voyages of which I had heard in the Hartz. The old people were overjoyed to hear of Hans' health and strength from me. “He writes to us often, indeed,” said the mother; “but we feared nevertheless that if he were ill, he would conceal it from us, his passion for wandering is so strong." The hale old father, whose ruddy blood still freshened his tanned and wrinkled cheek, consoled himself by saying: "God knows, Hans is a brave boy. He is young and wants to see something of the great world, but what of that? He will never wander very far from his old parents; and think then, what wonderful adventures he will have to tell his children, when he is as old and sober a fellow as I!” I learned from them that Hans was in Prague, and would soon return to them through the Franconian land. I was in haste to reach Heidelberg, however, and after a short half-hour spent with them, took my leave of Göppingen. One other little incident in connexion with this episode of my wanderings, and I have done. I relate it with the more pleasure, as it fully illustrates the faithfulness and sincerity which mark the handwerkers as a body. III. I was in Genoa. Summer had passed away fleetly, and with it my last fond experiences of German life, and the glorious excitement of my week among the Swiss Alps. The "Virgilio," which was to bear me to Leghorn, was in the harbor below, and only two more hours were allotted me to walk the streets of the superb city. I was leisurely sauntering down the Strada Balbi, now watching the glittering play of some fountain, gushing up through the green boughs of orange trees, now turning to look out on the blue and glassy Mediterranean, when 1 was startled by a sudden exclamation, which sounded very much like my own name, imperfectly pronounced. A figure bounded across the street, and almost before I could recall the place where I had beheld it, a pair of manly arms were thrown around me, and my mouth was almost buried under the eaves of a thick moustache. "This is certainly a German embrace," was my first thought, and I then recognized Hans by the blue eyes. "Now, Heaven be praised," was his first exclamation; "here is my comrade of the Hartz. Well, I believe one may go to the end of the world, and still find somebody that has known him. How goes the wandering, friend? I heard of you in Göppingen." "And of you too, Hans, must I ask the same question. Where have you been since we marched through the Hartz?" "Oh, I kept on to Berlin-stupid people, the Berliners! I could get no work, and they laughed at my Suabian dialect. Then went the journey through Saxony, and here I was happy; I hailed it as my mother-land. And thinking of my mother, I must needs go back to Göppingen, when there was a festival, as you may well suppose; but I did not stay long at home. An old handwerker told me that work was plenty in Lombardy; I remembered that that was in Italy, and set out rejoicing; came over the Alps and down the lake of Como, which is more beautiful than I thought Heaven could be, and so to Milan and Genoa." We had little time for long confidences. An uneasy puffing of the smoke from the pipes of the "Virgilio," warned me to hasten my departure. Hans accompanied me to the quay, where he gave me even a warmer embrace at parting, than he had surprised me with in the Strada Balbi. As the boat turned the corner of the mole, on her way out of the harbor, we waved our caps to each other for the last time. DEATH. FRANCIS DE H. JANVIER. Hail mighty monarch!-King of Terrors !-Death! At thy approach, before thy withering breath, Scarcely had this fair world from chaos sprung- The joyful morning stars in concert sung Ere Sin had entered, and the stern decree Of" Dust to dust," gave thy dread power to thee ! O'er all the earth, since that tremendous hour, And we who now exist, dare not delay, Before thy dismal throne, in silence stands Plagues, wars, and famines-the dire group compose! Nature, with all her store, thy call attends, Thy hand can grasp whate'er thy soul desire- Thou ridest forth amid the howling storm- From the dark canopy thine arrows fly, The roaring deep-the gentle murmuring stream- |