WARLIKE ADVENTURES OF A PEACEFUL MAN.
FROM THE GERMAN.
BY MISS MARY E. LEE.
CHAPTER FIRST.
NINE-AND-THIRTY YEARS OF AGE.
IT was in the year 18—, and while residing in the garret of a house in Berlin, that I was awakened on one Sunday morning by the ringing of the church bells, and on collecting my drowsy senses, I felt a cold shudder pass over me on recalling to mind that this was my thirty-ninth birthday. The youth of nineteen looks with eagerness to the freedom of twenty-one—for ere that period his whole existence seems narrow and unripe; nine-and-twenty moves on with a thoughtful mien to thirty, for then all the spangles and glitter of life are probably worn off; but worst of all is it to enter on one’s fortieth year, unblest with lucrative employment or a beloved helpmate. Such a fate was mine, though certainly none of my own making; and I, therefore, determined, that so long as I was a member of the order of bachelors, it was unnecessary to acknowledge beyond nine-and-thirty. With this desperate resolve, I arose, and selected my Sunday attire with some care, although my soul was oppressed with bitter sorrow. Thirty-nine, and yet only a poor theological student, unmarried, without a prospect of any lucrative situation—for I had not yet been even able to attain the arduous station of teacher in a public school. To what purpose all my hoarded knowledge, my thirty years’ patient study, my exemplary conduct through life? I had neither relatives nor patrons; day after day I was hastening from street to street, giving private lessons to enable me to support my sad and friendless existence; and in my leisure hours, I was compelled to turn author, made almanacks, and contributed to numerous petty journals. Ah, it was hard work, when booksellers paid me in copper coin for the pictured paradise of my muse, while others, who had not laboured half so hard as myself, were rejoicing in a golden harvest. Oh, the heavenly dreams of my youth, how had they all vanished! Ah, the beloved Frederica!—how needless was it that she should remain true, doomed as she was to wither like an Alpine flower in maiden solitude! Tears gushed to my eyes with this last thought, and yielding to my sorrow, I wept like a very child.
Frederica had been for eight years my promised bride. She was poor as myself in worldly wealth, being the daughter of a counsellor of Berlin, who died shortly after becoming a bankrupt; and as her mother’s circumstances were too humble to allow her daughter to reside with her, the dutiful maiden, in her anxiety to assist her needy parent, obtained a place as domestic in a family, where, although treated with the greatest kindness, she still felt her depressed condition.
CHAPTER SECOND.
THE LETTER.
While yielding to these mournful reflections, during the operation of dressing, a tap was heard at my door, and the letter-carrier entered and handed me a huge package, for which he charged five pence, a large amount from the purse of a poor student. Throwing myself into a chair, I gazed for some minutes on the unknown superscription, examined the seal, and peeped into the folds of the letter, as well to repress my ungovernable curiosity as, perhaps, to give full play to the delicious hope which its contents were probably doomed to overthrow. The question was, whether I should immediately open it or delay the perusal until the next day—for one must acknowledge that a man is apt to be superstitious when suffering beneath a succession of misfortunes, and it seemed to me that the reception of bad tidings on my birthday would throw a dark shadow over the whole succeeding year. At length, defying fate and banishing fear, I equipped trembling doubt with the armour of valiant resolution, and breaking the seal, read on until my eyes were blinded with tears. Then laying the letter aside, I made an effort to recover myself, read it once more, and falling on my knees, poured out a torrent of gratitude to my Heavenly Benefactor for a most unexpected blessing. The above-mentioned letter was from my most influential friend, a merchant of Frankfort, in whose family I had formerly resided as tutor. By chance, or rather, I should say, through the interest of this kind friend—for there is no such thing as chance in God’s world—I now received the appointment of curate to the patrimonial estate of Count C, with a salary of seven hundred florins, the use of house, garden, firewood, and,
