There may be some, there may be many of my readers who would think that Hamilton had been a “confounded fool,” were they to hear that, at the appointed time, he braved the threats, resisted all the bribes of his uncle, remitted his five thousand pounds to Munich, and returned to Bavaria, with the intention there to live and die, “the world (viz., London) forgetting, by the world forgot.” We do not wish him to fall in the opinion of anyone, and therefore request all persons disposed to entertain such an opinion of him, under such circumstances, to close this book, and imagine he acted as they would have done in his place. Often have vows as solemn as his been broken, and for the same mercenary motives which might have tempted him; and if the world have not applauded, it has at least not censured such derelictions in a manner to deter others from practising them.

Suppose him, then, reader, (not gentle reader, for such would never consent to the supposition,) suppose him at the end of two years, a man of the world, or a worldly man, whichever you please, Hildegarde not exactly forgotten, but remembered only as a “beautiful girl with whom he had been at one time so much in love as to have entertained the absurd idea of rusticating with her on a couple of hundred pounds per annum in the Bavarian Highlands!” Suppose him attached to some embassy, young, handsome, and rich, the chosen partner of all still dancing princesses! Or suppose we put an end to Uncle Jack at once, and allow Hamilton, without further delay, to inherit a fortune which would give him a position in the London and Yorkshire world; if you wish it, we can double his income too—in books, fifty or sixty thousand a year is quite a common thing, and as to old uncles, they are only mentioned in order that they may die, just when their fortune is necessary to the happiness or comfort of younger or more interesting persons. Suppose——Suppose——Suppose you close the book, as before recommended, for nothing of this kind occurred. Uncle Jack (who in his youth had taken a trip to Gretna Green) might have pardoned his nephew’s “loving not wisely, but too well;” but he neither would do so, nor would he die, and so Hamilton, after having listened to his father’s reproaches and expostulations, endured his brother’s sneers, and steadily set at defiance his uncle’s anger, returned to Munich and claimed his bride, of whose coldness or want of enthusiasm he was never afterward heard to complain.

Felsenbauer’s little property was purchased, and Hans, after having officiated as Hamilton’s “gentleman” for two years in England, returned to his primitive occupation of directing the plough—not quite, indeed, with the satisfaction of a Cincinnatus, for years elapsed before he ceased to regret his fallen greatness, or to expatiate to his few ignorant fellow-servants on the splendors of his master’s home.

Hamilton resigned himself more cheerfully than his servant to his change of fortune; he never spoke of home, with which his communication became very indirect and uncertain from the time his sister had married and gone to reside in the north of Scotland. His brother John seldom wrote, his father and uncle never; he made no effort to conciliate the latter, not even taking advantage of the occasions, which presented themselves at a later period, of requesting him to become a godfather to a little Jack or a little Joan. He became a good farmer, a keen sportsman, and so celebrated as a rifle shot, that he was feared as a competitor at all the Scheiben-Schiessen in the neighbourhood. He generally wore a mountaineer’s dress—perhaps because it was comfortable, perhaps, also, because it was becoming; and in the course of a few years his family would scarcely have recognised him in the vigorous, sunburnt man, whose very features were changed in expression by his altered mode of life—energy and strength had taken the place of ease and gracefulness. A. Z. pronounced the change advantageous, and often said it would have been difficult to have found a more picturesquely bandit-looking figure than his when, on a return from the hunt, he sprang on the rocky path leading to his mountain home, his slouched hat shading the upper, as much as his long moustache the lower part of his face.

As to Hildegarde, the calm, contented tenor of her life preserved her beauty in so remarkable a manner, that Hamilton seriously believed she grew handsomer every year; they and the Z—s almost lived together, no summer heat or winter storm kept them asunder; their alpine parties, and sledging expeditions to the neighbouring balls were made together, and many a little adventure is still remembered by both families, with a mixture of amusement and regret—regret that those times are past—gone—never to return again.

At the end of eight years Uncle Jack, unsolicited, relented, and Hamilton was recalled. Can it be believed that for some days he hesitated to obey the mandate? that Hildegarde wept bitterly for the first time since her marriage? But so it was. The offers which, ten years before, would have filled their hearts with gratitude and joy, were now accepted as a sacrifice made to the future prospects of their children. A. Z. to the last insisted that she would be the greatest sufferer of all. “In you,” she said, turning to Hildegarde, “I lose the most patient and intelligent of listeners; in your husband, the most attentive of friends; eight years’ intimate intercourse, such as ours has been, has made you both so completely a part of our family, that, knowing how much we shall miss you, Herrmann and I have at length come to the long protracted, desperate resolution of leaving Hohenfels; we ought to have done so long ago, on account of the education of our children.”

“Oh, no, don’t leave Hohenfels; we shall be sure to return here next year—every summer!” cried Hamilton and Hildegarde, almost together.

But they have not returned, nor are they likely to do so. The revolution which commenced in Germany, in the year 1848, is still in progress; to foretell how, or when it will end, would be difficult; this much is, however, certain, that Bavaria is not likely to be soon again (if ever) as tranquil and happy as when these pages were first written; then the most intelligent peasant would have refused to leave his waltz, his pot of beer, or his joyous jodel, for the sake of any newspaper that ever was printed, or even to hear a political discussion between the schoolmaster and the parish priest! Great is the change which has taken place in this respect; without any law to control the liberty of the press, newspapers of the worst tendency now circulate in all directions, and the peasant reads, thinks, and talks more of politics than of his crops, and naturally feels inclined to adopt opinions calculated to elevate him in his own estimation, and draw those down to his level whom he had formerly considered far above him. In order to appreciate the importance of this change, my countrymen must remember that in Germany the peasantry is the army.

Hohenfels is sold. Baron Z—found the brewery more expensive than profitable, when his visits of inspection were limited to an occasional week or ten days. He is half inclined to purchase Hamilton’s house, which still remains, shut up and uninhabited; presenting, as A. Z. observed in her last letter, the perfect picture of a deserted house, with all its “garden flowers growing wild.”

“After all, Hildegarde,” said Hamilton, one morning, as they looked out of the breakfast-room window into his uncle’s handsome domain, “after all, if we could conjure a few of your mountains, with some chamois upon them, here, I believe I could again prefer England to Germany—that is, in my present position—a poor man really can enjoy life in Germany—it is only a rich one who could do so in England!”