THE STUDENT STARK.
After a short pause, Freisleben addressed himself to the telling of his story: and for that purpose drew forth a letter. After he had seen that the company were supplied with glee-wine, he said--
We have had enough of evil and evil deeds, and it may, therefore, be permitted me to relate something out of the life of a good man; namely, out of the life of my friend Stark, whom you have become acquainted with in his passing through here lately, face to face.
His father was the pastor of the village of Greenwiesel, and had, as is only too much the case with the country clergy, a very scanty income. The boy received his first instruction in the Folks'-school of the place, and afterwards from his father, who, being an industrious man, contrived to spare so much time from the duties of his office, as was necessary to the due progress of his son. Private teachers he could not afford, nor the expense of his maintenance in a neighbouring town, so that he might attend the Gymnasium there. This was only an advantage to Stark, as he could not easily have enjoyed an education which was at once so well grounded, and so free from all pedantry, as that which his father gave him. An old officer who had long spent his pension in the village, and was a friend of the pastor's, spared no pains to instruct him in the mathematics, which he loved above all things. But the scholar listened with still more delight to his instructor when he talked to him of the armies in which he had served, and of the battles in which he had been engaged against the French. The intercourse with the old officer, and the books which he put into his hands, contributed not a little to inflame the boy's enthusiasm for liberty and Fatherland. With avidity he devoured the German history of Kohlrousch, and was accustomed then to rush forth into the wood, in order that he might stretch himself under the German oak, and felt altogether as German should. Nowhere was he so delighted to be, as abroad amid God's free nature; and as the other boys of the village could not understand his internal feelings and impulses, he was thus daily accustomed to roam about alone, which occasioned him many a reproof from his father. If it was fine weather, he used to take out his Tacitus with him, his favourite author, or he recited with a loud voice a passage from Ossian, of which the old officer had given him a German translation. Nothing, however, gave him greater pleasure than to battle with the winds; and the more it thundered and lightened, the more drenchingly poured down the rain, the more exulting was his feeling of the strength of his youth. When wet through, and looking wild, he returned home, his mother would clasp her hands in wonder at his foolishness, as she termed it. Yet she loved him extremely, as he on his part, above all things, loved his parents and his sister, and did every thing to please them that he could discern would be acceptable to them.
The first bitter tears that he shed, and bitter ones indeed they were, was when his old friend and instructor, the old officer, died. But a still greater misfortune soon befell him and his family. At the time that young Stark should have entered one of the higher classes of the Gymnasium of a neighbouring town, the old pastor was seized with an apoplectic stroke, as he returned from preaching. His speedy death spared him the painful reflection, that he left a widow and two uneducated children helpless in the world. The family removed to the next town, and there hired a poor dwelling in a small side street. The young Stark, who attended the Gymnasium, felt, indeed, that he must consider himself as the head of the family, and must provide for it. He discharged his duty in the most exemplary manner. Besides that, he received his school instruction free, he also enjoyed a stipend which was awarded him in consequence of his having passed a brilliant examination. It was very small indeed, but Stark knew how to circumscribe his wants. He laboured zealously, in order to advance as rapidly as possible, while at the same time he devoted every leisure hour to instruct a considerable number of boys in the city, in their elementary learning. With the united proceeds of this stipend and these labours he maintained his family; and thus, when he had toiled through the day as learner and teacher, the evening found him by his study-lamp, where he sate fixed till late in the night. But he was cheerful and contented. His strongly-grounded constitution enabled him to support these exertions, and the glad consciousness of being able to stand independent, and to provide for the necessities of his mother, and of one dearly beloved sister, made sweet to him that monotonous life.
Another removal of the little family was necessary when the young man went to the High School. For the rest, his family continued to live after that removal as they had done before, and Stark pursued his studies with double diligence, in order yet better to maintain them. His teachers in the university took an interest in the brave youth, and amongst the students he found congenial friends, who, more favoured by fortune, took a pleasure in procuring him many enjoyments of life, without touching too closely on the delicacy of his feelings. They visited him gladly in his modest room, where, besides the most necessary articles of furniture, there was nothing to be found but books, and some maps which he made use of in his studies, and which hung on the whitewashed walls. Yet was no one happier than he when he shared the frugal meal in the evening with his family, or with a friend chatted over a glass of beer and a pipe. He went very simply, but yet very neatly dressed. His tall, strong figure; that earnest, somewhat pale countenance, to which the slightly aquiline nose, the friendly, thoughtful eye, and a background of black whiskers, gave interest and effect, produced on the beholder a highly favourable impression. Every one with pleasure heard him speak, for his voice was strong and well-toned, his speech fluent, and when he became zealous, carried you irresistibly along with it. But when he sung, he affected every one. His bass voice was, however, too powerful for a small room. It made every window vibrate, and was, indeed, a voice made to sing the songs of German freedom under the German oak.
Cruelly did fate startle him out of this monotonous yet quiet and happy life. A nervous fever which then raged, snatched away his mother; and his only sister, who had been her true nurse on her sick bed, soon followed her. Stark was strongly bowed down by these severe losses. So much the more did he attach himself to a maiden, whom he had now known for some years, and to whom he had now been for half a year affianced.
The father of Emily, his promised bride, lived near the city. Emily had a very attractive person, was always merry and good-humoured, and possessed many good qualities; but was in the highest degree giddy and fickle. My friend would never admit the last characteristic. He was blind enough only to see in the maiden, noble and beautiful qualities, which he worshipped. But he came to be bitterly convinced to the contrary. A wealthy merchant's son, who just then was commencing business for himself, announced himself as a lover of Emily to her father. The father, although pleased with the proposal, yet gave his daughter free choice, and she was heartless enough to prefer the characterless, pretty, and glib-tongued merchant, to the poor Stark, who, since his recent trials, truly had become more grave, and might possibly have wearied her with many melancholy retrospections of his lost mother and sister. Emily shrunk from writing herself to my friend, but informed him, apparently in an unfeeling manner, through a third person, that the connexion must be broken off; and assigned as reasons, besides some other unimportant things, that her father was favourable to the pretensions of the other lover, and had forbid her to hope for his consent to a union with Stark.
Her father, who through the whole affair conducted himself as an honourable man, answered a letter which my friend addressed to him. This answer kept strictly to the truth; but at the same time expressed a wish that it might be the last; moreover, requesting the return of the letters of Emily. I will here communicate to you the letter which my friend wrote to the false one. He permitted me, as I was long the confidant of his attachment, and frequently the bearer of his letters, to take a copy of this, and also to show it to any good and tried friend. You may in it see the real nature of his character.
"Emily!--Thy father has requested me to renounce our verlobment; to break off the correspondence. I had already written to give him this assurance, but he had not the goodness to receive the letter. Consequently I have not given it him, and his will is for me no unconditional law.
"But thou appearest to be of the same mind, and thy wishes shall be sacred to me till my last breath. Fear not that I will embarrass thee with further importunities: only I cannot deny myself the melancholy pleasure, once more, in this last letter, to speak to thee from my heart. I will justify myself to thee, justify thou also thyself to thyself. My heart shall and must be silent: I have cause to fear that its language will no longer be understood; and I will not desecrate its sensibilities. It has for some time been my employment to read over again all thy letters with a bitter feeling. It is as if the lovely deception yet still played round my heart; as if it could not awake out of the sweet dream. I know many kinds of doubts, but none gives such a scorpion sting as the doubt with which thou hast inspired me. I have been happy,--happy in my vain belief! and I thank thee for it. Thou mayst be proud;--no other woman has made me so happy as thou. Thou mayst be very proud;--none can henceforward make me happy. Thou bringest me back to my old philosophy respecting the fair sex, and indeed at the right time.
"Emily, thou hast not dealt nobly, not honestly, with me, not wisely with thyself. Why hast thou not told me the truth? Thinkest thou that I shun the truth, even when it strikes me to the earth? I observed thy change immediately with the holiday. I ran to and fro, full of anguish, like one possessed. No greeting came from thee--no affectionate inquiry--no question after a letter, which I had, in fact, written seven times and tore again to pieces. My spirit was on the rack. Then informed me, Neuburg, that the connexion must cease; that thou wished it--thou! who only a fortnight before, sent me the most sacred protestations! Thy father had taken away all hope from thee; had menaced thee with his curse!
"Of all this nothing was true, as I learned from thy father's letter. What course, thinkest thou, then was left me to pursue in accordance with my character, but to write to thy father directly, as from thy messenger I must understand that he knew all. Hadst thou but said the truth to me, I should, after a short struggle, have returned every thing to thee.
"Thou complainest of my pride, and takest great pains to humble me. Perhaps thou mayst succeed; perhaps not. Thy father will receive no further letter from me; thy mother, none; thou thyself perhaps, none. That cannot humiliate me. I find my conduct tolerably consistent,--as consistent as a man in my state of mind can be.
"What shall I now do? It was thy desire,--thine, and thine only to break off. Thou wouldst have spared me, and thyself, and thy parents, many painful feelings, if thou hadst acted with somewhat more consideration. It seems as if thou hadst made it thy pleasure to wind up my sensibilities to such a height, in order then to make me feel my nothingness. Thou hast succeeded. The maiden who, but shortly before, hung on my neck, and prayed assurances of my truth, has now not once the courage to say that she loves me. I am too serious for gallantry; and thou hast wofully erred, if thou hast classed me amongst such men. It seems we have neither of us known each other, and need therefore make no complaints of each other. That I have disturbed thy peace, forgive me. That thou hast created in me so many beautiful hopes, only again to destroy them; that through thee my joys are dashed to the ground, that will I forgive thee; lament my simplicity, and again class thee amongst the ordinary crowd of maidens.
"Could I but do that, Emily, I should yet be happy enough. My seriousness has not pleased thee; and, in order to cure it, thou hast poured bitterness into it. I complain not of thy parents; they act according to their notions of duty; but how thou actest according to thy conception of duty, I cannot perceive. Thou hast neither acted towards thy father nor towards me as thou shouldst. The reasons which thy father gives are valid enough, as thou givest weight to them; but one thing more than all has struck me--it is called the fickleness of women.
"Thy father does thee justice. Emily, thou shouldst have been honest with me. I am not the man that will abuse the tender heart of a maiden. I challenge thee to speak the truth. Have I not been open-hearted with thee? Have I stolen thy affections? My whole soul hangs yet on thee, and never will it be able to loose itself from thee. If thou wert unworthy of me, would I weep and lament over thee? Tell me then candidly thy desires, and trust me that I have generosity enough to satisfy them all, even if it cost me my life. Thou canst charge nothing upon my honour. Thou would long ago have had thy letters, if thy father had not demanded them. He shall not receive them, but he shall read them if he desires it, for his own satisfaction and thy justification. Hast thou written any thing that thou art ashamed to acknowledge? Hast thou cause for shame? Then are we both to be pitied; thy father and I, and thou most of all. Then shall they, to extinguish all mistrust, be destroyed in thy presence. If I am reluctant to come into thy father's presence, yet I will not be ashamed before him. I am wont to compel respect, if indeed I can acquire no attachment. I can well imagine how many disadvantageous things people will tell thee at my expense. If thou canst believe them without examination, then, indeed, have I expended on thee every sentiment of my heart in vain. I pity thee in all my misery far more than myself, since I shall probably so long as I live continue a living reproof to thee. My conduct will be thy punishment. I assure thee, love, that I shall never lose thee out of my soul. I have with no other maiden stood in a nearer relationship. Thou art the only one that has firmly fixed herself in my heart. Go whither thou wilt, I shall bear thee with me to the grave. Thirty years hence thou wilt most probably hear from me exactly the same tone, if thou art by any circumstance reminded of me.
"Emily, thou shouldst have dealt more honestly with me. By God! I would have sacrificed every thing for thee. Wilt thou be happy when at thy wedding I sing a song of sorrow, that my friends may weep with me?
"Emily, I pray thee, for God's sake, by the happiness that thou yet hopest, be worthy of thyself: I cannot believe any thing bad of thy heart. Be the friend of thy father, if thou canst no longer be my beloved. If my kiss has not ennobled thee, then am I an outcast, or thou a creature without mind. Do nothing--nothing secret. What I did was done on thy account; otherwise I walk ever in the light. For my sake, also, show this letter to thy parents; I will not, when occasion requires it, conceal from them that I have written this letter.
"Allow me once more to deceive myself with the sweet delusion of the harmony of our souls. Thou hast destroyed a beautiful work, love, which thou shouldst not have done, or shouldst not have helped to build it up. Thou askest what I think, and not what I feel? I am infinitely sorrowful; and of what kind my affections are thou mayst read hereafter in my countenance. I may, perhaps, never again be so happy as to speak another syllable with thee, but my heart will accompany thee, since I am unchangeable!
"S. ----."
It is an old, old story,
Yet bides for ever new;
And he to whom it chances,
It breaks his heart in two.
Heyne.
It came not truly so far with my friend; but happiness of his life was for a long period destroyed: the manly and high-toned character of his mind, however, saved him from sinking permanently under the weight which would have prostrated many a one of equally sensitive and strongly-devoted temperament. But, as an English poet has said, he resolved not to sacrifice
His name of manhood to a myrtle shade.
The fervour of his passion for political liberty, his admiration of heroic actions, and his pride in his native country, were very near, in the excited state of his mind, leading him to involve himself in the grand but ill-digested plans of the Burschenschaft for the consolidation of Germany into one magnificent empire; and probably the blowing up of those plans by the government measures which followed on the wild deeds of Sand and others, just at that crisis, saved him from the fate which most probably would have awaited one so ardent and qualified to take a prominent part--flight, or exile, from his native country. Therefore, turning his eyes away from this hopeless track, he studied with renewed severity, passed a splendid examination, and soon after wrote a work on the German political constitution, which at once attracted attention, and excited the admiration of all the lawyers in Germany. It was soon translated into most of the languages of Europe, and brought him a call from the principal university of one of the first states of Germany, where he now occupies the chair of jurisprudence with the most splendid reputation. He is no less distinguished by the clearness and grasp of his reasoning powers, than by the eloquence of his style, by which he contrives to diffuse a charm and a life into the driest topics; and he is equally so for the liberality of his principles, and the ardent devotion of his mind to the liberties of mankind. He is beloved by the students who attend his lectures, for the affability of his manners, and by his cordial readiness on all occasions to give them his advice in any of their troubles or perplexities. Having himself fought his way through a narrow and a rugged path, he knows how to sympathize with others in the same circumstances. His triumphs over his own impediments have not inspired him with arrogance; nor the sorrows and disappointments of his dearest hopes seared his sensibilities, but on the contrary, softened and mellowed his heart. In public, he wears in his pale and grave countenance traces, not only of his native tone of mind, but of the shattering baptism of spirit that he has passed through; but in the social circle, though often on his first entrance silent and reserved, the warmth of his imagination and heart are sure to triumph over the sadness of habitual reflection; and he charms every one with the poetry and the animated references to the great deeds and great men of his Fatherland, that show you that he is still at heart the same as when he listened in breathless attention to the stories of the old officer, or sung out Ossian on the forest hills.
Of Emily, we have little to say. Hidden, herself, in the retirement of private life, she would have seen with an inextinguishable regret the splendid career and wide fame of the man whom she had abandoned, had she possessed a mind worthy of becoming the companion of such a man and of such a destiny; but the great error of Stark's life was that of investing a lovely but not high-minded woman, with the poetry and the magnanimity of his own spirit. But he himself is a striking example of the virtues, the talents, and the indefatigable labours by which many a German Professor fights his way out of narrow circumstances, and through the shades of native obscurity, into the broad light of fame and public usefulness. Such instances are not rare, and they----but, hear I right? it even now strikes twelve!
In confirmation of this was heard on all sides the reports of fire-arms.
"Prost Neu-Jahr! gentlemen," cried Freisleben. "Prost Neu-Jahr!" resounded they in reply. Freisleben declared that his story was at an end; they drank off their glasses anstossing for the first time in the new year, and hurried into the street.
CONCLUSION OF NEW YEAR'S EVE--THE TORCH TRAIN--THE EXPLOIT
OF THE RED FISHERMAN.
Following the distant sound of the fire-arms, they soon came to the troop of students, which was marching round to bring to the Prorector, and to some of the most popular professors, a "Vivat!" Music went before, accompanied with torches; and a noisy swarm of students followed it,--some in cloaks and great coats; some in dressing-gowns, and with their long pipes in their mouths. You could easily see that they had all of them suddenly started away out of their kneips, where they had celebrated the termination of the old year. They now arrived at the dwelling of a professor. The musicians placed themselves in the centre of the street, surrounded by the torches; the students closed in around them in a dense circle, and the music played a tune. A student then stepped forward, and gave a loud "hoch!" to the Professor. All joined in it three times, while the music blew a flourish, and the pistols thundered off all round. As the third "hoch!" ceased, a window opened above, a dark figure showed itself, and immediately below "Silentium" was commanded. All were still, and the Professor spoke as follows:--
"Gentlemen! Ever since I have resided in Heidelberg as teacher, have you annually paid me this testimony of your respect and esteem; but were I to live to be as old as Methuselah, and was this scene every year renewed, it would give me a fresh satisfaction.
"Gentlemen! Let the world judge of our worth as men; let the republic of the learned, which you are growing up to become a part of, decide on our services as learned men, on our ability as teachers,--the means of alone coming to a just conclusion oh those points will still lie constantly in the hands of the student youth. May they always use them with wise consideration, and free from all party spirit. So long as we are able to labour with the vigour of men for the good of the High-School, will our honest endeavours to fill our posts worthily as teachers, not be in vain; and we rejoice in this glad consciousness that we find in the acknowledgments of the student youth, only an echo of that which our inner self declares. But when the zenith of our career is past, so comes by degrees the weakness, and with it the doubtfulness of age; and then does it delight us to find in the acknowledgments of others, the conviction that, although our hair has become whitened with the snow of age, yet our labour still preserves its freshness and its green. And the Ruperto-Carola is also an ancient and venerable stem, which ages in their flight have already visited with their storms; but, if these storms have often and fiercely shook it, they have never been able to uproot it. So long as teachers dwell under the shadow of this tree, who, anxiously seeking its prosperity, cherish and nourish the old trunk; so long as scholars make to it their pilgrimage, who seek knowledge earnestly, so long shall Ruperto-Carola flourish and bloom."
[Here the Professor went over the past year in review, and stated what it had brought both of good and evil to the university, and then continued.]
"May Ruperto-Carola ever possess scholars, of whose approval an honest man will be proud! May yet many an age on the festive day resound the cry of--'Vivat Ruperto-Carola!'"
The sons of the Muses here joined in with their thundering "vivats!" The music made a flourish--the pistols resounded.
"Once more," cried the Professor, in conclusion, "my hearty thanks for this proof of your love. May your Fatherland receive you in a while with pride from our arms, where it yet only reluctantly leaves you for your good. May you live long and happy!"
The professor withdrew from the window; the music played yet another tune, and the troop then marched onwards. The four friends having separated themselves from the throng, in order to return home, heard yet for a long time, the distant uproar of the merry students, and the sounding of the fire-arms.
We must here further observe, that not only such night-music is brought; but also on some occasions, in order to do the more honour to the professors, the so-called solemn night-music, attended by a greater procession of the students, who carry torches, and have their appointed marshals and officers, to maintain order in the procession. The description of a torch-train will yet follow. Before this arrives at the house of the Professor, two or three deputies proceed thither in a carriage. These, in full gala costume, wait upon him for whom the compliment is intended, and make him a short address. The Professor returns them his thanks, and as he has always become aware of the intention of the students, he has his bottle of champagne ready, which he sets before the deputies, and anstosses with them. They retire as the torch-train approaches the house, and when the customary hochs! have been given: first, by the students to the honour of the Professor; and then by the Professor in his speech to the prosperity of the university, the officers who have stepped forward for the purpose clash their swords wildly together. Before retiring they generally sing--"Stosst an! Heidelberg live thou!" and the torch-train marches away.
In some places, as in Munich, it is the custom that the Prorector when the New-Year's-night "Hoch!" is brought him, invites the students in, and treats them with punch. It may readily be imagined how much of this liquor is consumed on such an occasion, and into what a predicament a Professor once fell in Munich, who had prepared his punch, but waited for the students in vain, who out of dislike omitted to pay him this visit of honour.
But it was destined that the Englishman and his three friends, to whom we must now return from this digression, should not on this night yet retire to rest. They had just arrived in the Karl-platz, as a man galloped past, crying out with all his might,--"The ice goes! The ice goes!"
This messenger was from Neckargemünd, sent to announce to the inhabitants of Heidelberg this event, which the people living on the banks of the river, and especially the boat-people, always look forward to with great anxiety, and take their measures of precaution accordingly. But especially in that winter were people full of apprehension, as the ice-covering had acquired an extraordinary thickness; and indeed, in some places, could no longer be called a covering, since the flood in shallow places was completely frozen to the bottom. After a fierce and early-occurring season of severity, the actual warmth of spring suddenly broke out, and the soft south wind melted the snow so rapidly on the hills that the waters ran in streams down their sides. But all was in readiness; and as soon as the four students reached the bridge, they saw, wherever the houses on the banks of the Neckar did not completely occupy its strand to the edge, groups of men, who had provided themselves with cressets with rolls of pitched torches, called pitch garlands, and awaited the spectacle with eager looks. The bridge itself was covered with men, and scarcely a place at the balustrade was to be fought out. From this place an interesting scene presented itself. So far as you could see the banks of the Neckar, the torches flamed, and threw their flickering lights on the surface of ice, on the crowding spectators, and on the neighbouring landscape.
In the city itself, most of the houses were lit up for the festival, while above them, in the country, the mountains and the old castle shrouded themselves in the deepest gloom. Most of those who had assembled on the bridge, were men in their ordinary dress, who had, on the announcement of the ice-break, hastened hither from the punch-bowl. But others had been roused from their beds, and exhibited themselves in costumes singular enough, over which they had hastily thrown their cloaks; out of which their nightcaps peeped above.
The explosion, as of distant thunder, was now heard, and the floods of water that rushed up through the disrupted ice were seen pouring over the surface. The ice in the neighbourhood of the bridge cracked and groaned aloud; deep fissures opened, and ran with lightning speed far and wide. But as the mass of waters still rushed nearer and nearer, and the ice continued to resist its pressure, the floods rose, and forcing into the streets, made the people assembled on the banks flee back precipitately. On the other side of the bridge, all hands in the mean time were busy removing the piles of fire-timber which were ranged there, and in conveying them to a safe distance. The huge fragments of the already up-torn ice were sent with fury over the ice-surface that yet resisted; in some places, piling itself up into actual bulwarks, and in others was heaved into the streets. Thus it happened, that a little boy who, forgotten of the rest in their flight, had escaped to the top of a pile of wood, above the bridge, was, by one of the masses of ice which was forced forward by the water and driven directly under the pile, carried aloft, together with the pile. Ere any one could spring to his assistance, the moment was come when the opposing ice could no longer maintain its resistance to the accumulating flood. It burst with loud explosions, and raising itself furiously with the other fragments rushed forward towards the bridge. Through the long contest, the water had acquired the most terrible agitation, and when the victory came at once, it formed itself into a headlong stream, which carried the mass of ice on which the boy was, rapidly towards the middle of the flood. The boy, surrounded by the raging element, shrieked in the most fearful manner for help. His cries of misery were scarcely to be heard, but they were not necessary to fill every spectator with terror and commiseration. But who shall help him! Many an able swimmer was there, but none would undertake so desperate an enterprise. Some cried out to throw a rope from the bridge, that the boy might lay hold of, but this was impracticable, for in the moment in which the ice-masses struck the piers of the bridge, they were scattered into fragments, and the stone bridge itself trembled with the shock of their dashing against it. Already the ice-mass, on which the boy sate in despair, approached the piers. Every spectator watched the horrible catastrophe with breathless expectation; when the masses of ice which now passed in countless numbers, blocked up first one and then another arch of the bridge. There was a momentary pause in the progress of the ice. At the crisis of this terrific spectacle, a band of lively music approached the bridge. It was the wild troop of students, who, having completed their round, and finished all their Vivats! and Lebe Hochs! were marching past with their torches, and amongst them was seen the Red Fisherman, who holding in one hand a torch, and in the other a pipe, was striding on with open breast, and in his shirt-sleeves.
"Ackermann! Ackermann!" shouted the multitude, "he must help! He alone can do it!"
The approaching train rushed upon the bridge; the torch-bearers flew to the balustrades to cast a light upon the scene--the music ceased in an instant The Red Fisherman, on whom all eyes were turned, cast but one glance towards the child; threw his torch on the ice below, and ran down from the bridge to the banks of the Neckar. It was high time, for the ice-masses again began to put themselves in motion. Boldly the fisherman sprung from one block of ice to another; already was he near the boy, when the ice broke beneath him; yet he fought desperately against the rushing water. He reached the boy, and endeavoured to raise himself upon the ice-mass;--at the same moment it went to pieces, and both the fisherman and the boy disappeared for some seconds. The people gave them up as lost for ever, when a voice was heard from the other side of the bridge, crying "A rope! a rope!" It was the fisherman himself, who stood on the basement at the foot of the pier with the boy in his arms! He stood up to the middle in water, but he held fast by a projection of the pier. A rope with a large piece of wood tied to it was speedily let down by some of the fishermen, and Ackermann with the boy was hauled up with the help of the students. As soon as his head appeared on a level with the parapet, he handed over the boy to the people, and then himself leaped over the iron balustrade. With a loud "Vivat!" he was here received; and the musicians blew the finest flourish that they had executed on this remarkable New-Year's night. The troop of students accompanied the Red Fisherman with loud acclamations, who quickly put himself in dry clothes; not regarding some slight wounds which he had received from the ice-masses. The students took him into their midst, and "Free-night! free-night!" resounded on all sides.
This cry of triumph means that they will revel the whole night through; and this takes place either at the room of some student, or at a kneip. In the last case, the permission of the police is necessary. These free-nights are only held on extraordinary occasions, or, as in many cases, when without any particular cause the sons of the Muses find themselves in a thoroughly joyous humour.
These were especially frequent formerly amongst the so-called Lumpia. This means a union of students, who bind themselves for a certain time to give themselves up to the Lump; that is to doing nothing, and to the wildest pleasures,--to drinking, playing at hazard, and so on. To the honour of the students these wild engagements are rare, and are in the strictest manner prohibited by the laws.
The Red Fisherman warmed his stiffened limbs at the kneip with punch, and a collection was made on the spot, whose proceeds were handed to him as his reward. The four friends in the mean time had taken the child, and brought it into a neighbouring inn, where it was undressed and put to bed, until the mother, who did not till some time afterwards learn the whole of the circumstances, could be fetched.
After the many events of the night, the wearied party hastened home, to dream over again what they had witnessed, variously metamorphosed by fancy, and one image mixed up and exchanged with another.