A lame man feels poor—helpless, much more so than a man with an injured arm. How interesting does not a young officer look with his arm in a sling; but his comrade with a crutch attracts nothing but bare, sheer pity. Limping—the mere idea of limping, makes all the difference. Has not the Prussian government decided, after the wars against Napoleon, that the old law, which prohibits a cripple from officiating as priest or minister, is to be interpreted, that an individual who has lost a leg is a cripple, but if he has lost an arm only, he is not to be considered such. They thought, perhaps, of the noble Cervantes, who lost his right hand in the battle of Lepanto, and wrote his immortal Don Quixotte with the left.
I am without books. Well! did not Ercilla write his Auracana in the very face of the Tudian enemy, and the conquering Spaniard, probably, carried no bibliothéque volante with him. True, but had he a dislocated toe, did he wait for wind, had he to buy a hundred trifles, and to make the place before his sofa a real bazaar? Napoleon, you reply, dictated some of his most inspired and inspiring proclamations, in the saddle. True, but it is easier to address an army before or after a battle, than to address the public through a monthly periodical before or after a sea voyage. Again you say—did not Walter Scott compose his Lady of the Lake chiefly in his bed, where most afflicting pains confined him? True, but he had his books and papers around him, and he did not wait for wind. Did not Körner compose his Adieu when wounded on the field of battle? True, once more, and so would I write a touching poem on dislocated toes—how limping Vulcan would inspire me!—were I master of the English tongue; but an article for a review is another thing. And then the heat—the thermometer stands this moment at—Impatience Boils—and the musquitos, who play their scornful music long around your frightened ear, before, at length, they yield to their Timour-like disposition, as the malicious servants of the Holy Inquisition tormented their victims long before the actual infliction of the refined torture, by showing and trying the racking instruments—and the tickling, inexhaustibly persevering flies, which have entered into a most malignant conspiracy against the human nose—what can you possibly expect? Nothing but an anecdote. But, sir, anecdotes, however witty or trifling, are like the glorious pictures which a Raphael painted for the altars of his church—they lose much of their merit if out of their place. Still, I should like to give what is so kindly asked for, and ——
The wind has changed—to-morrow morning we sail—I have to get some ice packed (free intercourse distributes comfort like a blessing far and wide; how could we otherwise have northern ice!) and other things to attend to; my writing will be a hurried business, and I am afraid my communication turn out as so many administrations or notes do—the introductory or promissory part will be the best of it, however poor even this may be. Now, sir, pray let the following succeed immediately after the and above: if you think that the subsequent lines will do, they are quite at your service, though I consider it hard that I must give, whatever I may send, “with my name”—a condition you have underlined. If you think you had better “lay it on the table to be taken up this day six months,” I shall have no objection.
Prussia had been humbled, almost annihilated in the battle of Jena; one Prussian fortress after the other surrendered, except Colberg on the Baltic. She retained what is called in German military language, her maiden reputation. Nettelbeck, an old sea captain and Major Schill, contributed most by their patriotic exertions, to the holding out of this place against the French, who overflooded all the Prussian provinces. Schill had been seriously wounded in the battle at Auerstædt, near Jena; but this did not prevent him from collecting some scattered infantrists and cavalrists and forming them into a corps, motley from without, but unanimous within. He restored to them confidence, and from the rallying of this small band must be dated, perhaps, the regeneration of Prussia. Schill's perseverance and the brave obstinacy of Colberg altogether, had a good effect upon Königsberg, whither the king and queen had fled, and a powerful one upon the whole kingdom. The mere idea—there is one spot at least, where the sweeping eagles of Napoleon have not been able to perch—became a moral rallying point for the stunned hearts of the Prussians. Schill was made lieutenant colonel, and he had the honor of being the first Prussian soldier that returned to the capital.
The effect of the misfortune which had befallen the royal house, was not that of alienating the subjects from the afflicted king and his beautiful consort. During the seven years war, the Prussians had become proud of their name; the government under Frederick William II, had certainly done much to cool all attachment of the people; now, after the disaster of Frederick William III, who was universally known to love justice, every one felt again strongly attached to the government, the country, the name of Prussia. The French, at whose hands the people received such galling insult and grinding oppression, were hated—calmly, thoroughly hated. No wonder then that the inhabitants of Berlin prepared for this day in the spring of 1808 as for a great festival. My father considered it so with the rest.
His youthful years had fallen in that momentous time when Frederick the Great made the Prussians a nation. As the great Dante has raised the Italian idiom from a “vulgar dialect” to a language stamped with his gigantic mind, and erected at once the most noble and most enduring monument with it, so has Frederick of Prussia elevated his people to a nation, stamped it with his mind, and at once led it into the temple of glory. There was no greater man in all the pages of history, for those who lived under Frederick, than himself. How often have I heard my grandfather describe the pillage of Berlin by the Russians after the unfortunate battle at Cunersdorf, how they stripped him of every thing, wounded him, and took him away as prisoner, ill-treating him in all possible ways. Still he would always end his story by—“But that was nothing; my greatest grief was about Frederick.” Nor can I forget the intensity of veneration with which my father would explain to us children some engravings on the walls of our sitting-room, representing some memorable actions of “his great king.” His greyhounds were forgotten on few of them.
My father went early with us to see the entrance of Schill. Coaches were out of question; they could not have proceeded in the throng. We soon lost my brothers in the dense crowd; but they were old enough to look out for themselves; I only remained with my father, and he grasped my hand firmly, to pull me through the almost impenetrable masses of loyal people. I suffered considerably, for I was very little, and frequently did I look from my lower regions at the patches of blue sky which now and then appeared above the heads of my taller equals, with a longing desire for some pure air and free breathing. After much tossing and pulling we found a place, where, as my father believed, I might see the whole procession from the top of a garden gate; he placed himself beneath me. It seems to me that we waited fully two hours, when, at length, the rumbling sound “he comes, he comes,” rolled toward us from a great distance. The sound was swelling, the trumpets could be discerned in the roaring noise of the crowds, and the yelling “vivat Schill” of the boys. I stretched my neck, I saw the four hussars, who opened the procession, cutting with great labor, their way through all the patriotism and loyalty; they approached, they were close by us, but with them had also come an irresistible, compact mass. Where is Schill? There he comes; do'nt you see?—and in this moment the wedge-like crowd broke down the fences, and I tumbled from the place where I had been envied by thousands of passers by. I fell upon another crowd, which had conglomerated behind the fence, and was carried along like an Imperator of old,—like a Franconian king after his election. But I did not remain long in this elevated situation, for the searching eyes of my father had discovered me. “This is my boy”—he exclaimed, “this is my boy!” while he was striving to press through the crowd; but when has a crowd listened to any thing? On it went, and I floated on a sea of heads and hats. At last my father, impelled by a parent's anxiety, almost driven by despair, succeeded in severing this piece of human mosaic. He grasped my foot, and down I went. My situation was in no way bettered, for the current of men continued to roll on; as Socrates threw himself over his beloved Alcibiades or Epaminondas over Pelopidas (I compare the great to the small) so resolved my father to form a shield over his urchin. This necessarily soon created a mountain of tumbling and scrambling individuals over me, and I should surely have been suffocated, had not most happily the layer over my father consisted of a huge grenadier, who, torn or driven from his line, had met with this living stumbling block. “There is a boy below,” he shouted, with a stentorian voice; “by G— he sha'nt be killed.” I considered this a very sensible speech, quite to the purpose; and felt happy indeed, when my Trim—if he was no sergeant, I would have given him the cheveron on the spot, had I possessed the power—succeeded in excavating me. Oh, with what feeling I drew breath! but Schill was gone; I heard the music at a distance long past by, while my father hugged me, his eyes beaming with joyful gratitude for my delivery.
We now mingled with the soldiers, and my father picked out three or four, to take quarters with us. So great was the ardor of the citizens of Berlin, to have some of the followers quartered with them, and in such a degree was all military order broken into, that it was impossible for the commanding officer to give any orders before his followers were dismissed, and he was obliged, the next morning, to publish the order, where and when the rendezvous should take place, through the police of the city. My father had caught an officer and several privates; we made them tell us of Colberg the whole livelong day, and pestered them with a thousand questions.
I had not seen Schill, the object of our wishes, but, soon after his arrival at Berlin, I began to make a heraldic collection, and it struck me, that it would be a fine beginning, could I place at the head the seal of Schill. So I went one day to his quarters and told the sergeant in waiting that I wished to see Schill. I peremptorily refused to tell him my business, and after some conversation, was admitted. I found Col. Schill in the garden, shooting with the pistol at a target. He asked me what I wanted. Your seal, sir, said I. And why my seal? was the reply. Because, said I, I love you, and wish to begin my collection with your coat of arms. Does your father love me too? he asked. Yes, replied I, all the Berlin people do. He seemed much moved, turned toward the other officers, while he treated me in the kindest manner, and said something which I now forget, but the import of which may be easily surmised. He then asked me to take luncheon with them, and I remember that he helped me to a glass of wine, saying—“Boy, be ever true to your country; here, let's touch our glasses on its welfare.” I remember nothing of his appearance, except the kind expression of his large blue eyes. I was a great man among my school-fellows the next day, and refused to exchange one of the seals which Col. Schill had given me, for the arms of the Emperor of Austria. When the signet of the King of Saxony was added, I parted with one of Schill's, but still I thought the advantage of the bargain on the other side.