STUDENT LIFE IN GERMANY. THE JOBSIAD. adorned with wood-cuts, not the most recherché cither in design or exccution; but the author apologizes for the Is a former paper we promised some account of the shabbiness of his illustrations by the cogent reason Jobsiad, a mock heroic poem, intended to illustrate certain peculiar features of German Student life; which promise we now proceed to fulfil. It contains the adventures of Hieronimus Jobs, a student of theology, who, having achieved great fame at college, as what in England would be called a "rowing man," that is, a thorough "Bursch," is unable to pass his examinations as candidate for holy orders, and is obliged to take up the profession of night-watchman, in which situation the powerful voice which he had acquired by frequent singing of student songs, enables him to give great satisfaction. The whole story is told in a sort of slang doggrel verse, which it is difficult to give an idea of, and "That though the pictures are not the neatest, That one with the other might harmonize." The epic commences with an account of the parentage, birth, and early years of Hieronimus, showing how he was sent to school and learnt nothing there; how his father and mother, discovering in him the certain signs of great genius, wished him to be a clergyman; how his master endeavoured to persuade them to the contrary; and how they, reassured by the prognostications of a gipsy, and indignant at the teacher's calumnies, finally sent Hieronimus to the University. VOL. III. "Our hero no sooner arrived, as stated, But though in arrival one of the last men, He very soon showed himself one of the fast men, While the useful time of his youth flow past; He hated the Philistines' worse than the devil, And, in spite of the rector's and beadle's frowning, And laughed when they sickened in trying to smoke. And so the author goes on describing the heroic life of a true German student; and then, as Hieronimus begins to fall short of money, we have a letter from him to his parents, giving a faithful account of his doings at College. "Dear parents, with pain I am forced to avow That I'm greatly in want of some money just now; To send me a trifle as soon as you may; For I don't wish to ask too much, you know, (1) All who are not students. (2) In plain English, "kicking up a row." (3) Freshn.en. Yes, many a jest against me they devise, At the very least, in college and class; And when from the college at length I come I study the rest of the day at home." He then goes on to describe the other occasions he has for additional supplies, such as that he has unfortunately torn his coat, and has been obliged to get a new one; he has also fallen dreadfully ill, and has been presented with unconscionable bills by his physician his apothecary, his nurse, and his confectioner; moreover, his medical adviser has insisted on his drinking wine every day, to correct the weakness of his stomach; and, to crown all, in his haste in ascending the college steps, he has tumbled down and broken his arm; the burden of the whole letter being the same, "Send me some more cash;" and he concludes If you are well, and have leisure to write, Hieronimus. In haste, I just add you a postscript here, To send me the cash I have asked of you duly." Then comes the paternal reply: "His father answered, My dearest boy, That you're asking for so much money from me. I am also extremely delighted to hear, That from wicked companions you keep yourself clear, And sit in your chambers and study all day, And love your books as much as you say. Also, that tea is your only drink; Still, however, I cannot but think, That if, indeed, you drink nothing but tea, If the rest, as you say, point at you as a miser, I am glad to hear you are always the wiser: And so the unfortunate father goes on, commenting in turn on each of the extraordinary items of expense contained in his son's letter, the answering burden of the paternal epistle being, that no more money is to be asked for. The various sums now demanded, are, how ever, dispatched to him, and the letter concludes with the significant P.S. :--- "From you I am always delighted to hear, The period at length arrives when, his college studies | of course does not produce a very favourable impression being finished, our hero is to return home. towards the young candidate; but the examination proceeds : "For luggage, he hadn't a very large packet; His books, and the rest of his property, have long since disappeared, to furnish out the necessary expenses of a real German student; and, in order to account for their absence, he determines to inform his parents that his trunks have been stolen on the road. Thas fortified, he arrives at home, and presents himself, in true Burschen style, to his astonished parents, who do not recognise him. "The rather, that no one could guess Who he was in his student's dress. An enormous hat, with a swingeing feather, The pious young clergyman cursed and swore." His father, as may be supposed, is not a little scandalized at the appearance and conduct of the hopeful young candidate for holy orders; and not the less so, when he drinks up all the beer in the house, and empties the contents of the governor's tobacco-box in the eourse of the first evening. However, Hieronimus is at length led to see the folly of his ways, he exchanges his merry-andrew accoutrements for a suit of decent elerical black, gives up swearing, and determines to "leave off sack, and live cleanly." All these changes improve him so much, that his father begins to re-entertain those hopes which his first appearance had so completely destroyed. These bright anticipations, too, are rendered yet brighter, by the excellence of a sermon which Hieronimus preaches as probationer; being one which he had stolen from a fellow-student before leaving college. The fatal day, however, at length approaches, when our hero's final examination for holy orders is to take place, and he appears before a committee of clergymen, appointed to inquire into his fitness. The names and qualifications of the examiners are given at considerable length, quite in the style of Homer's list of the ships; and then they proceed to open the University certificate, which runs something as follows: "It is now, I think, three years or better, Since the bearer of this my letter, Mr. Hieronimus Jobsins, Was here Theologiæ Studiosus. He has asked for this writing from me; and there- I give the aforesaid my signed attestation. The reading of this certificate of diligence at college, "The learned Inspector began the first, A Bishop is, I rather think, An extremely pleasant species of drink, At this reply of the candidate Jobs, All the Examiners shook their nobs. Mr. Candidate Jobs, I should like to learn They call by this name the glasses so clear, From which the students drink wine and beer; And many a jolly good Bursch that I know, Will finish a dozen Apostles or so.' At this reply of the Candidate, &c. The good Mr. Krager then took up the text, At once Hieronimus answered him :- Of any Augustine, upon my word, But the college beadle, who got me a lecture Mr. Plotz was the next one there; He asked, Mr. Candidate, how many were Hieronimus answered him- Ah, ha! I was often cited, when I was at college, A single word on economy.' At this reply, &c." which Hieronimus answers in the same way, with remiAnd so they go on asking various questions, all of niscences of his college life and college slang; and all of them, of course, with about the same amount of But success. "For brevity's sake, my reader I'll spare The rest of the questions they put to him there; First the Inspector said, Hem-hem!' And then the rest, secundum ordinem." Hieronimus is, of course, thoroughly plucked, and his prospects in life ruined. His father dies of vexation, after having delivered to him a long discourse on the folly of his conduct; and the hero of the epic, passing from one situation to another, finally ends his days as night-watchman in his native town. Such is a sketch of that grand comico-heroic poem, the Jobsiad. Its excellence, in our eyes, is not very great; but it is curious, as a specimen of the comic writings of the Germans; a portion of their literature with which we are not much acquainted, and which, indeed, we could not at all enter into. Moreover, the object of the poem is good; and, as it appears to be admired in its own country, it is not impossible that it may be productive of benefit,-showing up, as it does, the absurdities of the Burschen system. 68 BLACK FRITZ. CHAP. IV. THE eight days were passed, and Luitgarde appeared again before Father Augustin. Through the visible surprise with which he received her there shone a mark of tranquil satisfaction, and he replied to her questions, whether he had well considered her project, and intended to aid her in its accomplishment, that something might be done something even, perhaps, hoped for, as to the conversion of the captive, but-Luitgarde must make up her mind to go herself to him in the dungeon. She was alarmed, but replied-" If there be no other way, I am even ready for that; and, as soon as you, honoured father, can assure me of discretion and silence, so that, except you and he, no one can learn anything of this hazardous step" "This I can do," replied the father. "It is my firm resolution; I will do what I can to save his soul. I will, for his love, which I have so badly recompensed, give this as a compensation." The features of the father brightened up more and more as he observed Luitgarde's fixed purpose, and the visit was appointed for the next day but one. With the necessary precaution, and fully disguised, they proceeded on their way. The nearer Luitgarde came to the miserable spot, the more her whole frame was violently agitated. Father Augustin prepared her for what she was to find; a deep, dark, subterranean dungeon, the prisoner bound hand and foot with heavy chains, lying on his hard couch, through which the chains passed down, and were attached underneath by an enormous lock. Through long, dark passages-by close, grated apertures, out of which proceeded the clank of chains, imprecations of rage, or deep groans, pale and tottering, she followed her leader. Now the way led down a narrow staircase; the turnkey opened, with a rustling noise, a creaking iron door, and they were on the spot. -- An ice-cold current blew from the damp and gloomy abode. The father went forward; he addressed the captive, who, lying on his face, did not even once turn his eyes towards the persons entering, and said to him in a friendly tone,-"Fritz, thou hast longed to see the wellknown person; if thou wilt be persuaded of her innocence-here she is."-At these words, he seized the veil, which Luitgarde from anguish and sorrow had forgotten to raise up. "Thou "Art thou she?" exclaimed the prisoner. comest into this abode of horror and wretchedness!" He gazed on her awhile, half tranquil, half irritated; gradually his features took a darker expression, and with a laugh of bitter mockery, said he,-" Art thou Wilt thou draw out still meditating some new deceit ? more from me, in order to betray me to my torturers? It is not necessary; I am ready to die, I have no wish to escape. "Thou art silent!" continued the captive; "thou art silent! I see how it is with thee." And now he broke out into bitter scornful reproaches against her for her falsehood, while a strange passion, partly furious and overbearing, partly tender and fervent, unveiled itself in these complaints, and allowed Luitgarde to see to the very bottom of a heart which was entirely given up to her, and which had for a long time been dear to her. She wept gently, which gradually disarmed him; and, as he became calm, she drew near to him, and said, "Victorin, I am still innocent, however appear ances may be against me; listen to me !"--and she related to him now the aflair of the robbers, the sensation which this story excited, and the inevitable demand of the chancellor for the ring; and while she spoke, the tears streamed from her eyes. Is it possible," exclaimed the captive," that you do not hate me? Does there still exist a voice in your She raised her head, and through her tears looked at him earnestly and tenderly, while she replied, "I wish you well from my heart; it was the same from the first moment I learned to know you; and I tell you, as truly as I wish for you and for myself eternal happiness, I am innocent of your betrayal." Merciful God!" exclaimed he aloud-"but, alas! I have calumniated you. alas! what have I done? God cannot be merciful to me!" He fell down on his face, and his heart heaved with fearful convulsion. Luitgarde placed her hand on his shoulder; "Vie"believe me, God torin!" said she, with deep emotion, is infinitely good, and long-suffering; and if you, a weak and dying being, can forgive me by whom you believe yourself injured, shall not the all-merciful Father forgive his fallen and repentant child?" Father Augustin now came forward; with all the force of holy truth-with all the knowledge of the human heart and with all the persuasion of his high mission-he penetrated irresistibly into the soul of the wretched man. He struck at that heart which was still capable of many beautiful sentiments, and, at length, he succeeded in melting its hardened covering. The captive raised himself up; Luitgarde saw his face bathed in tears. "And do you believe-do you really believe, "that God honoured father," said he, deeply affected, can still pardon me-me, so corrupt and hardened a sinner?" The worthy priest rapidly seized on these expressions; he developed the immeasurable extent of the divine mercy; he quoted all the places in holy books which "O God! O God!" promise pardon to the repentant sinner. Victorin's tears flowed more abundantly. exclaimed he at last, and flung himself on his knee, from his bed, "canst thou forgive me?" At this moment, the sun passed over the grating of the prison, and shot down a clear light on the kneeling captive. Surely, thou art heard-thou art forgiven!" exclaimed Luitgarde, in a holy inspiration. 64 May God give you strength, my son!" said the "Ah! this angel in priest, putting his hand on the young man's head. Luitgarde sunk on his breast. my arms!" said he, "do I dare presume to look at you? O God! pardon thy contrite-thy despairing child!" A deep and holy, though humble, tranquillity lit up the countenance of a fallen sinner, on his return to his divine Redeemer. When the three persons had recovered from their emotion, Father Augustin said to Luitgarde, Now, my young lady, I shall accompany you out of this place, for I must speak alone with him;" to which Luitgarde silently yielded. "I dare still once more, before my death, hope to see you, noble young lady?" said the captive, respect"I shall fully, but with evident anguish. She held out her hand to him in tears; see you again, Victorin; we are not separated." The priest led her out. Victorin's repentance was not the passing feeling of It gradually advanced under the wise His obstinate deportthe moment. guidance of Father Augustin. ment towards his judge now disappeared; he acknowledged his guilt, he claimed no indulgence, he wished to die; only one goal appeared to him worth wishing for in this world, the possession of the woman whom he loved above everything else of her, who awoke long before in his callous heart the first movement of a nobler nature; and she was, through his guilt, for ever removed from him. Luitgarde, like Victorin, had resigned herself to her destiny; even to her, it was clear that he must die. But, although her mind was made up for that event, yet one thing pressed anxiously upon her mind, namely, the clearing up of Victorin's birth. She admitted the priest into her secret; and, after many consultations, it 1 was at last decided that the latter should write to the Count von Lansky, send the ring to him, and communicate to him the recollections of the prisoner from his childhood, and other presumptions, and then await his decision. Victorin was to know nothing beforehand of this communication. The reply soon came back. Paternal anxiety and hope-paternal joy and pain, were in opposition with each other in it; still it left everything undecided, much to hope, still more to fear. But the count himself would come to Prague, and, in the mean time, Father Augustin was to examine the cap tive more closely, and prepare him for his arrival He did so. All that Victorin related-all the glimmering recollections upon which he dwelt-the value the good collier's wife, his nurse, put upon the seal ring the consideration which she secretly sought to impress him with for it, as for his most valuable possession-stray words which he heard fall from his Lurse and her husband, in the Saxon mountains, all agreed completely with Luitgarde's conjectures. At length, Father Augustin ventured to disclose to him the probable secret of his birth, and of his rank. He was beside himself at the intelligence. Pride and despair, joy and overwhelming sorrow, tore his breast; and the thought of having found, perhaps, in the last moments of a life condemned and devoted to the executioner's axe, a splendid birth, a father, and a noble lady, dear to his heart-in short, everything which can give value to existence, to lose all these blessings in a few days, was a greater burden than his mental and bodily strength could endure. He fell under it; a wasting fever seized him, and the worthy father saw, not without a mixture of satisfaction, the approach of a welcome death, which should spare to the captive the last soul-harrowing steps, and the open disgrace. At the priest's earnest solicitations, the patient was brought into a healthier room, the heavy bonds were changed for lighter, and he was attended to with greater care; his well-preserved youth withstood the violence of disease, and, as his strength returned, the impetuosity of his spirit was subdued. As soon as he came to himself, capable of some recollection, and saw the priest enter, he held out to him his hand, with a quiet and gentle mien, and spoke; Now, Father Augustin, I have found it; now I am at rest! O, pardon the pain, the sorrow I have caused you!" "With the robber chief?" said the count, warmly. "O! so then, it must indeed be true! Am I then to have found a long-bewailed and only son for no other purpose than to see the disgrace of my family in him. The priest came forward, and sought to alleviate that painful sentiment, whilst he represented to the count the admirable deportment, the pious devotion, of the unhappy man. He listened, absorbed in deep reflection; then he turned towards Luitgarde, and said, "And you, young lady, what may be your name?" Luitgarde Branow--" "This cannot be! Surely everything unites to drive me to despair! You are Miss Branow, the daughter of the sister of Count Martinitz?" Luitgarde bowed affirmatively. "Yes, these are her eyes! so looked Adelheid, such was her stature. O, heavens! and do you know what fate was intended for you?" She replied with a heavy sigh, and said, "I know, count; I have long had some knowledge of it." "And do you abhor him whom the wretched parents had destined for you?" Luitgarde's tears burst out, but, presently composing herself, she related to the count everything, from the first occurrence on the banks of the Moldaw, up to her last visit to him in the dungeon. Count Lansky listened to her with nervous agitation; by degrees, his indignant spirit melted into tenderer sentiments; paternal sympathy, and a deep sorrow at the noble qualities which a hostile fate had destroyed, took their place in his heart. At last he rose up with tears in his eyes, and said, "Now, if it then be true, and I am to find again in the prisoner my lost child, let us go to him. Of all things, a torturing uncertainty is borne with the greatest difficulty; and I do not know whether I should fear most at having no son, or at seeing him again such as he is. Conduct me to him, Father Augustin; and you, noble lady, daughter of the unforgotten friend of my youth, are you still so kind as to accompany us?" They went; Father Augustin opened the door of the high-vaulted, fast-grated apartment, in which, however, cleanliness and friendly daylight agreeably greeted them as they entered. Luitgarde, with a high-beating heart, remained outside the half-opened door, in order not to interrupt the affecting scene. The captive stood up from the table, at which he was reading a pious book. He went to meet the priest, as far as his chains perAh! a thread which shall lead me, honoured father, mitted, and kissed him with respectful joy. The palefrom the labyrinth of my despair, and of my corrup-ness of his features, the slowness of his movements, bore tion!" And he went on to develope, with a kind of noble elevation, the thought that God had so wonder fully led him, and brought him back to himself at the very end of his earthly career. And, my child, what have you found?" asked the holy man. Joyous and tranquil, the good old man proceeded by his exhortations to strengthen his disciple in his pious thoughts and resolutions, and presently repaired to Luitgarde, in order to make her a report of all. Scarcely had he arrived, when the door opened, and a man of middle age, of tall and noble presence, entered the testimony to what he had suffered, and drew towards him the sympathies of the beholders. "This is an envoy from the Count von Lansky," said the priest, "who is come to ask you for the circumstances of your early history, and your recollections; you know of what importance the truth of your decla ration is in this matter." Victorin bowed in silence, whilst he placed his hand on his breast; and a sudden emotion appeared to seize him, at the look of the stranger, and at the name of his supposed father. Even the old count regarded him with evident embarrassment. When he began to speak, he scrutinised him severely, and even with some hardness in his tone and look. The captive replied respectfully and gently. The harshness in the count's manner diminished gradually, as his attention became fixed on the wretched man, in whose form and deportment no common mind, nothing ignoble was expressed; but his embarrassment augmented with every proof which the prisoner exhi bited, and at last he gave way to a deep internal struggle. 66 All, all is accurate," he exclaimed, sorrowfully; "still one only mark remains to decide on the misery and shame of an aged nobleman." Victorin became pale, and retreated. "The lost son of the Count Lansky must have a scar |