The literature of Germany at last shows signs of revival from the torpor consequent on the late political convulsions, and the Leipzig book-catalogue for Michaelmas 1850 is far more promising than any of its predecessors since the revolutions of 1848. Out of a number of meritorious German books that have recently come before us, we have been much interested by the first instalment of a series of Zeitbilder—sketches of German social and political life during the second quarter of the present century. Anna Hammer is certainly the best we have seen of the numerous German novels of a political tendency published within the last two years. Its object is the exposure, in the course of a fictitious narrative, of the oppression and injustice which, in many German states, the people have long endured; of the wanton insolence of the military and aristocracy, the servility and corruption of the courtiers and placemen, and the frequent tyranny of the sovereigns. The book is a picture of misrule; and if, here and there, high colouring may be suspected, on the other hand most of the abuses shown up are but too real and notorious. It is written with temper and moderation, and points to redress of grievances and to constitutional government—not to subversion and anarchy. The author is no experienced novelist, nor does he pretend to that character; but he writes with a thorough knowledge of his subject, and also with much spirit and dramatic effect, preferring short sentences and pointed dialogue to the long-winded paragraphs and tedious narrative common amongst the romance-writers of his country, to whom he has evidently preferred for his models those of France and England. We augur favourably of this escape from the trammels of custom, and hope to see the example followed by others. In the present instance, the result has been a very lively tale, more than one of whose chapters would stand alone as detached and independent sketches of German life. Annexed to the tolerably intricate plot, are episodical scenes, the actors in which are dismissed without ceremony when they have fulfilled the purpose of their introduction—this purpose being the exhibition of the character and peculiarities of the classes they typify. Thus, for instance, of the persons in the second chapter of the novel we hear no more until the third volume; of some of them nothing is seen until the closing scene of all, when they appear—without, however, being dragged in—to figure in the final group on which the curtain falls. There is certainly a want of art in the construction of Anna Hammer; but this is in some degree atoned for by vividness and character, much rarer qualities with German novelists. An idea of its merits will be best conveyed by extract, for which it is well adapted by its abundant incident and desultory nature. We commence with the opening pages, a graphic sketch of garrison life.

On a warm April afternoon, three cavalry officers were seated together in the only inn of a small German town. Two of them sat at the table. One of these had one leg crossed over the other; his companion had both legs stretched out at full length before him. The third sat at the window. All three were smoking; two of them cigars, the third a huge meerschaum pipe. All three were silent. He whose legs were crossed played with his spur, and spun the rowel till it rang again. Number Two gazed at his great pipe, and at the clouds that he puffed from it. Number Three looked through the window at the clouds which the wind drove across the sky.

A weary life is that of cavalry officers in small garrisons. One hour of the twenty-four is passed in the riding-school; another in drilling recruits; a quarter of an hour is consumed in inspection of stables—and then the day's work is done, and all the other hours are before them, vacant, but heavy as lead. Only one squadron is there; it comprises, at most, but four or five officers. These were at the military school together. Their subjects of conversation—horses and dogs, women, and the army-list—are long since worn out. The nearest garrison is too remote for friendly visits. With non-commissioned officers, discipline and etiquette forbid their association. The little town affords them no society. The small, quiet, and often narrow-minded family circle of burghers and officials shuns intimacy with the officers. They meet them at the tavern and bowling-alley, and at the club, if there is one: in public places, with their wives and children, they do not willingly consort with them; and in their houses they receive them not. There are certainly a few noble families in the neighbourhood; but these are not all sociable; and those who would gladly be hospitable have been too much so, and can be so no longer. Now and then comes an invitation to a shooting party—but there is no shooting in April.

The three officers—all lieutenants and young men, of graceful figures and energetic countenances—sat for a long while still and silent. The postman entered the low-roofed apartment. He laid upon the table the latest newspaper from the capital, and departed, without a word. The officers neither moved nor spoke. At last one of them stretched out his arm and took up the paper, slowly, almost mechanically; the two others gave no heed. The former glanced over the paper,—beginning at the last page, with the deaths, marriages, and advertisements. In a few minutes he had got to the end—that is to say, to the beginning—and he threw the paper lazily upon the table.

"Nothing new!" said he, gaping; and again he twirled his spur-rowel.

"As usual!" said his neighbour.

The third took no notice.

For a while longer they sat mute and motionless, till the cigars were finished, and the meerschaum-bowl smoked out. Fresh cigars were then lighted, and again the pipe was filled. At the same time the officers rose from their seats, and took a few steps through the apartment.

"Slow work!" said one.

"Damned slow!" replied another. The third looked wearily at his boots. Then they all three relapsed into their seats and their silence.

The sun set. Its last rays illumined the shifting masses of cloud, which piled themselves up into fantastical forms, displaying rich variety of tint. It grew dark in the dingy tavern-room. The clouds from the great meerschaum could scarcely be discerned. The ennui increased.

A waiter brought in two dimly-burning tallow candles, and placed them upon the table. The ennui did not diminish.

The tramp of horses was heard without. It came down the street, in the direction of the tavern. The countenances of the three officers became animated.

"Can it be the captain back already?" cried one, half surprised.

"Impossible; though he rode like the very devil, he could not be back for another hour."

"But there are two horses, an officer's and his servant's; I know it by sound of hoof."

The third officer looked round at the two speakers. "It is not the captain," he said positively. "The captain's black charger has a lighter tread. Yonder officer's horse goes heavily."

They all rose and went to the window. Two horsemen rode slowly up the street; one at an interval of a few paces behind the other.

"By Jove! an officer and his servant!" said one of the lieutenants.

The other nodded assent.

"Who can it be? Whither can he be going?"

None could answer the questions.

The foremost rider drew rein before the house. "Is this an inn?" demanded he through the open door. Host, waiter, hostler, all stumbled out together.

"May it so please you!" replied the host, humbly.

Meanwhile the officer's servant had ridden up and jumped from his horse. The officer also dismounted. The hostler would have taken his bridle. The officer pushed him back so roughly, that he staggered and fell. "Clown, how dare you touch my horse?"

The servant took the bridle from his master, and gave the unfortunate hostler a kick in the rear as he rose to his legs.

"Does your lordship propose to remain here?" inquired the innkeeper, in a tone of deep submission.

The officer answered not. He patted his horse on neck and shoulder. Then he turned round to the host and said, briefly and imperiously, "A room!"

The three officers within doors looked at each other with increasing astonishment.

"Do you know him? Who is he?" asked one of them.

He was unknown to all of them.

"He wears the uniform of our regiment!" remarked another.

"That is unaccountable," said the third, shaking his head.

"The horse is nothing extraordinary: a mere campaigning beast."

"You would have him knock up his best chargers, I suppose? They have ridden far. The horses show that."

The room door opened.

"Be so obliging as to step in here for a short time," said the innkeeper. "Your apartment shall be got ready immediately. Here you will find some gentlemen comrades."

The stranger officer entered. He was a tall, slender, and yet powerful man, with features delicately chiselled, and an air of insolent superciliousness in his whole bearing and appearance. He greeted the occupants of the room with engaging courtesy.

"Ah! comrades!" said he, "I have the honour to introduce myself—Prince of Amberg! I am transferred to your regiment—to this squadron. I recommend myself to your friendship and good fellowship!"

The senior of the three officers continued the introduction: "Von der Gruben; Von Martini; my name is Count Engelhart. We are delighted to make a good comrade welcome." They shook hands.

"May I inquire," said Prince Amberg, "where the captain is, that I may report myself to him? Duty before everything."

"The captain is on an excursion in the neighbourhood, to visit an acquaintance," replied Count Engelhart. "We expect him back in about an hour. He will alight here. I am senior lieutenant of the squadron," added he, smiling.

"Then, meanwhile, I report myself to you," replied the Prince.

With a slight smile upon their faces, the two officers interchanged military salutes.

"Excuse me, for a short half-hour," said Prince Amberg. "After four days' fatiguing ride, I feel the necessity of attention to my toilet. Au revoir." And he left the room.

Whilst the Prince embellished his elegant person, the trio of lieutenants laid their heads together to conjecture the causes that had brought him, the model courtier, the butterfly guardsman, the pet of the court ladies, the most brilliant ornament of the court circle, from the attractive capital to their tedious country garrison. The change was too disadvantageous for it possibly to be the consequence of his own caprice or inclination. On his reappearance he volunteered, over a bowl of champagne punch, the desired information. He was in disgrace at court, in consequence of a trifling indiscretion. One of his new comrades immediately guessed what this was. Martini remembered to have seen in the newspaper an account of a scandalous frolic in a public garden, where a number of young officers of aristocratic families had grossly insulted the wives and daughters of the citizens. But Martini's mention of this incident was the signal for the laughter of his friends, who jeered him for his simplicity, and scouted the idea of a nobleman falling into disgrace because he had made free with a few prudish plebeians. A similar affair that had occurred at a masquerade, and which was attended by circumstances of gross indecency, was also treated as an excellent joke. If they could not divert themselves at the expense of the bourgeoisie, Prince Amberg said, what became of the distinction of ranks? The matters in question had furnished high amusement to the whole court: the ladies had laughed heartily behind their fans at the transgressors' glowing descriptions of the consternation and scandal they had caused; and the reigning prince, whom Amberg irreverently designated as "the old gentleman," took no heed of the matter, nor of the muttered discontent of the insulted burgesses. No; his disgrace was certainly for a trifling offence, but not for such harmless drolleries as these. At church, one day, he had ventured to remark to a lady of the household that she held her prayer-book upside down. The lady, who would fain have passed for a devotee, taxed him with impertinence, and with taking her perpetually for a butt; the pious portion of the court took up the matter, talked of irreligious levity in holy places, and the upshot of the whole was his condemnation to exile in country quarters.

Meanwhile arrivals took place at the inn. The officers' attention was excited by the entrance of a slender, sickly-looking youth of nineteen or twenty, bearing a knapsack and a harp, and accompanied by a dark-eyed maiden of fifteen. These were Bernard Hammer and his sister Anna. The first glance at the young girl's blooming countenance suggested to the profligate Amberg a plan of seduction. Whilst he paid his court to Anna, Martini and Gruben took off the brother's attention, plied him with punch, professed sympathy and friendship, and inquired his history and that of his family. Bernard and his sister, it appeared, were not itinerant musicians, as their humble garb and pedestrian mode of traveling had led the officers to believe. Their father, a skilful professor of music, had taught them to play upon the harp, and Anna, grateful for the seemingly disinterested kindness of Prince Amberg, did not refuse, weary though she was, to gratify him by the display of her skill. Meanwhile the others questioned her brother.

"My story will be very short," said the Young man. "We are three in family. My eldest sister was married young to a worthy and prosperous man, and by this union the happiness of all of us seemed insured. Suddenly she experienced a terrible affliction—"

He paused. "Well?" said Von Gruben, encouragingly. The youth opened his lips to continue.

"Bernard!" exclaimed his sister in a warning voice. She had ceased playing, and, amidst the flatteries and compliments of the Prince, her first glance was for her brother. Her quick ear seemed to have caught his words. Or had she a presentiment of what he was about to say?

The brother started, and the words he was on the point of uttering remained unspoken.

Von Gruben's curiosity, previously feigned, was now strongly excited. "You were about to say—?" he observed. Martini's attention had been attracted by the maiden's exclamation. He, too, approached Bernard, who quickly recovered himself, and continued.

"My brother-in-law," he said, "is lost to my unhappy sister. She has no longer a husband. Spare me the details. They would be too agitating for myself and my little sister. His daughter's grief hurried my father to his grave. It bound his children the closer together. My old infirm mother, my poor sister with her child, and I, have since then lived inseparable, supporting ourselves by the labour of our hands. My sister works with her needle; I draw patterns for manufacturers and embroiderers. Unfortunately, my sister's health has lately given way, and therefore have I now been to fetch home Anna, who has hitherto dwelt with a distant relative. She will take charge of our little household, and nurse our old mother, now nearly bed-ridden."

"Much misery, great cause for grief, is there not, my dear Gruben?" said Martini, twisting his mustache. Then filling the glasses, he drank with Martini and the stranger. Count Engelhart sat motionless behind the punch-bowl, smoking his great meerschaum pipe.

Bernard Hammer's great ambition was to become a painter. He was an enthusiast for art. Whilst his perfidious entertainers kept his glass constantly full, and riveted his attention by their conversation and generous promises, Prince von Amberg, by dint of infernal cunning and of artifices whose real object the simple-minded girl—as yet scarcely emerged from childhood—could not even remotely suspect, inveigled Anna from the apartment. Her departure was unperceived by her brother. Presently, in a lull of the conversation, a scream was heard, proceeding from the upper part of the house. Bernard started up in alarm. The officers would fain have persuaded him to remain, alleging a squabble amongst the servants, when just then the cry was repeated. This time there was no mistaking the sound. It was a woman's voice, its shrillness and power doubled by terror, screaming for aid.

"My sister!" cried Bernard Hammer, and with one bound he was out of the room. Several persons—the host, the hostess, and other inmates of the house—were assembled in the corridor. They looked up the stairs, and seemed uncertain whether or not to ascend. Young Hammer rushed through them, and sprang up stairs. A door was violently pulled open. His sister darted out, her countenance distorted and pale as a corpse. "Wretch! monster! Save me!" she shrieked. Close behind her came Prince Amberg. He appeared quite calm, although his finely-cut features were slightly pale. A supercilious smile played upon his lips.

Anna Hammer flew into her brother's arms. "Save me, Bernard," she cried. "The wretch, the fiend!" She shook like a leaf. Prince Amberg would have passed on, but Bernard let his sister go, and confronted him.

"Sir!" he cried, "what have you done to my sister? What insult have you offered to the child? Answer for yourself! Give me satisfaction!"

The Prince laughed. "Satisfaction! Ask the little strumpet herself what ails her."

"Strumpet! Sir, you stir not hence!" And he grasped the Prince fiercely by the breast. Amberg would have shaken off his hold. The uniform coat was torn in the struggle, and Bernard received a blow in the face from his adversary. But it seemed as if the sickly youth were suddenly endowed with superhuman strength. He seized the Prince with both hands, and shook him till the strong vigorous officer almost lost consciousness. Then he threw him down upon the ground.

The other officers had followed young Hammer, and came hurrying up stairs. They tore him from above the panting Prince.

"Knave! clown!" And Gruben and Martini struck at him with their fists.

"Befoul not your fingers with him," said Count Engelhart. "Leave him to the men." And he pointed to a group of soldiers, now assembled at the stair-foot.

"You are right, comrade; the fellow is like a mad dog. It is out of his power to disgrace our uniform."

Then the officers seized the young man, and with their united strength threw him down stairs.

"Men! there is the strolling musician who dares assault your officers."

The soldiers received Bernard as he fell headlong down the staircase, and dragged him forth with shouts of savage joy, shutting the house-door behind them. The officers returned to their bowl of cardinal, Prince Amberg previously changing his torn uniform. The people of the house looked at each other in silence.

Anna Hammer had remained for a short time in a state of total unconsciousness. She came to herself just as her brother was pushed down the stairs. With a shriek, she flew after him. But she was too late. The soldiers were already forth with their prize, and in vain she shook the door, which was held from without.

In the street there arose a wild tumult; a chorus of shouts and curses, blows and screams.

Notwithstanding her terrible anxiety, the young girl's strength was soon exhausted by her fruitless efforts to open the door. She turned despairingly to the host and hostess. "For the love of God's mercy, save my poor brother! The savages will kill him. He is so weak, so suffering!"

The innkeeper shrugged his shoulders. "What can we do against the military?" he said.

"For the sake of my poor old mother!" implored the maiden. "For my sister's sake! He is our sole support! Without him we perish! And he is so good, so noble!"

The hostess went away, as though unable longer to support the spectacle of the poor girl's despair. Her husband shrugged his shoulders repeatedly. "The soldiery are too powerful. Often the officers themselves cannot restrain them."

The noise outside increased. The voices grew louder and the cries wilder—the scuffle more violent. Nothing could be distinguished of what was going on. Suddenly, above the riot and tumult, young Hammer's voice predominated. In a tone of heartrending agony and despair: "Help!" he cried; "they are murdering me!"

There followed a violent fall upon the pavement, and a wild huzza shouted by many voices. Then all was still as death.

"They have murdered him!" shrieked the maiden. "They have murdered my brother!"

She burst into the room in which the officers sat, and threw herself at the feet of the first she saw. "Save, save! Oh, for heaven's love, save my brother!"

"My little girl," quoth Lieutenant Martini in a tone of quiet jocularity, "it strikes me you are not at all wanted here."

Just then the loud and cheerful notes of a post-horn resounded in front of the house, and a carriage stopped at the door.

"A carriage at this late hour! Quite a day of adventures, I declare!" yawned Count Engelhart.

The house door was heard to open. A few seconds later, that of the public room was thrown wide, and a lady in an elegant travelling-dress was ushered in by the host. She was tall, rather full than slender in person, and apparently about five-and-twenty. Her complexion was fresh, her eyes were lively. Her air and bearing were those of the first society.

On her entrance Prince Amberg sprang from his seat in astonishment. "Frau von Horberg! Your ladyship, what an unhoped-for pleasure!"

"You here, Prince!—how unexpected a meeting!"

Anna Hammer rose to her feet. The thought of a last possible chance of succour and mercy flashed through her soul when she saw that the stranger was acquainted with the prince. Throwing herself before her, she clasped her knees. "Oh, most gracious lady," implored she, "have compassion on my poor brother: say one word for him to the gentleman, that he may free him from the soldiers' hands."

"Will the little toad be gone!" exclaimed Prince Amberg, stepping forward. Then, turning to the lady—"A harp-player, an impudent stroller, who has been making a disturbance here with her brother."

"Ah, fie!" cried the lady, and pushed the young girl from her with a sort of loathing—not with her hand, but with her foot.

Anna Hammer stood up. Feelings of inexpressible grief and bitterness crowded upon her young heart. At that moment she felt herself no longer a child. One hour's events had converted her into a woman. She cast a glance of scorn at the lady, at the officer. Then she silently left the room. She crossed the empty entrance hall, and passed through the open door into the street. Here all was still; not a living creature was to be seen. An icy wind blew. She sought around. A moonbeam, forcing its way through the scudding clouds, revealed to her a dark form lying along the side of the street. She approached this object. It was her brother; he was covered with blood, and did not stir. She threw herself upon his body. He still breathed.

Poor, unhappy sister!

At that moment an officer rode up. He drew bridle at the tavern door, dismounted, gave his horse to the orderly who followed him, and entered the house.

In the public room sat Prince Amberg, conversing with the lady in the familiar tone of old acquaintanceship. On the officer's entrance he sprang from his chair, buckled on his sabre in a twinkling, clapped his dragoon helmet upon his head, and stepped forward with all the rigid decorum of military discipline. "Captain, I report myself—Lieutenant Prince Amberg, appointed to your squadron!"

Habitual readers of German novels will assuredly deem Anna Hammer a great improvement on their usual ponderous style—a decided step in the right direction. Whatever its faults, it has a vivacity not common in German works of fiction. The above extracts, the beginning and end of the first chapter, although sketchy, and hurried, and reading as if written at a scamper, without much artistical finish, are very effective, and exhibit touches of acute observation and quiet humour. We like novels that at once plunge the reader into action and bustle, and crowd the stage with characters. Explanatory introductions and parenthetical explanations are alike odious. The author of Anna Hammer avoids both, and carries out his plan and shows off his personages by dialogue and incident. We have already remarked on his propensity abruptly to discard characters, whose careful introduction led the reader to expect their reappearance. Thus we thought to have again met with the three smoking lieutenants, but it seems they served their turn in the single chapter in which they are held up as examples of the brutality and depravity of their class. They are left to their pipes and their ennui, to their dull German newspaper, and their duller country inn. Even Prince Amberg, the profligate favourite of the equally profligate heir to the crown, is brought forward but once more, under mysterious circumstances, whose explanation is left in great measure to the reader's imagination. Madame von Horberg plays a rather more important, but still a subordinate part in the story, whose chief interest turns upon the courage and self-devotion of Anna Hammer. We shall not trace the plot in detail, which would spoil the interest to those who may read the book. Before glancing at its general outline, we proceed to further extract, and for that purpose need not go beyond the second chapter, which is in itself a little drama of considerable interest. It is entitled—

THE EJECTMENT.

It was early upon a bright morning. The farmer's servants had long betaken themselves, with plough, and harrow, and horses, to their labour in the fields. The women had swept and cleaned hall and kitchen, and were dispersed at their work—some in the garden, digging and planting, others in the wash-house, or in the rooms where provisions for the winter were stored. The cows in the great stable had already been milked, and received their fresh fodder. At an early hour the farmer had exchanged his jacket for a coat, taken hat and stick, and gone out: he had not yet returned.

The mistress of the house went round the extensive tenements, to see if all were in order. She was a tall, robust, vigorous woman, about forty years old, fresh and comely, and still handsome, although that morning her countenance was grave and anxious, and her eye had an uneasy glance. She inspected the kitchen, looked at the hearth, the kettles, the ash-tub, the stock of wood for the day, the potatoes, which were peeling for the midday meal, the shining array of pots and pans. Then she went, followed by the kitchen-maid, into the adjacent larder, and gave out meat and bacon for dinner. Thence she betook herself to the dairy, and here there was a gleam of satisfaction in her eye; but on leaving the room, as she gave one more glance at the numerous brown bowls with their rich white contents, it faded away, and was replaced by earnestness, almost by grief. From the dairy she went to the spacious barn. It was so clean swept that a needle might have been found on the floor. On either hand was a stable; to the right for the horses, to the left for the cows. The former was nearly empty; the animals were at work in the fields, with the exception of some broodmares, which lay on clean straw with their foals beside them. The cowhouse had more occupants. The white, brown, black and brindled beasts stood in long rows at their cribs, smooth, shining, and well fed, and munched the sweet-smelling hay. They all knew the housewife: she patted them all in turn, although she did not, as was her wont, speak caressingly to them, but went silently from one to the other. Pleasure at the full and prosperous aspect of the stable struggled in her features with some secret cause of grief.

Above the stables were a number of rooms; these contained the provisions of hemp, flax, and yarn, and, above all, great store of snow-white linen, from the coarse house linen up to the finest damask. The sturdy farmer's wife had already set foot on the stairs, to ascend and feast her eyes with her treasure; but she hastily turned away, back into the kitchen, and thence into the farm-yard.

The farm-yard was large and roomy. On the one side stood the farm-buildings; in their centre, separated from them by tolerably wide intervals, was the snug farm-house, with its walls of dark bricks, and its roof of bright red tiles, with green shutters to the windows, and vines trailing over its southern and eastern sides. On either hand were sheds for carts, sledges, ploughs, and other farm implements. Opposite to the farm-house, in a smiling little garden, stood a smaller dwelling, of even pleasanter aspect than its neighbour. This house, then uninhabited, was to be the residence of the present owners of the farm, when increase of years should induce them to resign its management into the more vigorous hands of their children. Judging from the robust aspect of the farmer's wife, that day was yet far distant.

A thick forest enclosed the farm on three sides. On the fourth, garden and pasture and arable land stretched out in all directions, as far as the eye could reach. The underwood in the forest was already bursting into leaf, and the lofty beeches here and there put forth tender green buds. The knotty branches of the huge oaks were still gray and bare.

Not far from the farm-house, where the ground rose a little, stood a long table of white deal, surrounded by green branches, and canopied by the spreading limbs of an elm. Near at hand were groups of walnut-trees, and a few chestnuts, budding into white and pink blossom; and a little farther five or six venerable oaks, which seemed to have stemmed the storms of centuries, and to have witnessed the building and decay of more than one farm-house, the growth and decline of many generations.

The soft beams of the spring sun gave friendly greeting to the housewife as she stepped out into the farm-yard, and a light breeze wafted to her senses the fresh perfumes of awakening nature. Thousands of birds sang and twittered exultingly amongst the trees; the woodpecker tapped perseveringly at the dry branches of the oaks; and over the house, from an almost invisible elevation, was heard the joyous carol of the lark.

Two children came forth from the garden of the smaller house. A boy of six or seven years old dragged a child's cart, in which sat a little girl of three. Both were pictures of health and cheerfulness. The boy sprang shouting to meet his mother, the cart rattling behind. With a joyful "Good morning, mother!" he held out his hand. She pressed it, then stooped down, took the little girl from the cart, kissed her and put her upon the ground.

"You are early up this morning, dear children!" said she.

"Oh yes, mother," replied the boy, with childish unconcern. "Father said yesterday this would likely be our last day here, so, before we went, I thought to take little Margaret a ride round the garden."

"Good boy. But your father was not in earnest. We shall stay here to-day and many another day besides."

"That is capital! Then I shall have a field to myself, and a strip of meadow, and I can bring up the foal and calf which father gave me."

"That you can and shall do."

"And I shall have my chicken," cried little Margaret.

"You shall, my dear Margaret."

The woman went with the children into the garden, and sat down on a bench in an arbour. There she took the little girl upon her lap, whilst the boy stood beside her, and she gazed alternately at the substantial farm-house and at the pleasant cottage close at hand.

"How dull you are to-day, mother; is anything the matter?" said the boy.

"Nothing, my child—it will pass away."

Through a wicket in the hedge, a countryman entered the farm-yard. He looked about him on all sides, and when he saw the woman, he went up to her.

"Good morning, neighbour. How goes it?"

"Good morning, neighbour. How should it go?"

"I see no preparations as yet. Is not the commissioner coming?"

"I believe not."

"Is your husband at home?"

"He is gone out."

"Do you really believe the gentlemen will not come? Do not rely upon it. These are bad times."

"They cannot come."

"Don't say that, neighbour. Who can tell what can or cannot happen now-a-days!"

"Why prophesy evil, neighbour? Ill luck comes fast enough; there is no need to invoke it."

"Well, well, don't be angry. I meant no offence. It is good to be prepared for misfortune. And my word for it, these are bad times. The humble are oppressed; the great nobles have the power; justice is no more in the land—by the peasant, especially, it is never to be found. The nobleman and the fisc are too powerful for him."

"But we have laws, neighbour; and the laws govern both rich and poor, great and small."

"They should, they should! But what is the use of laws, when judges are not honest? When bailiffs can squeeze us, and tax-gatherers cheat us, without our daring to make a stir about it."

"But bailiffs and tax-gatherers have their superiors."

"Ay, but all are links of the same chain. All stand by each other. They dine at each other's tables, and make each other presents. The bailiff sends the best carriage-horses to the president's stables. The president is a good friend of the minister's. And the nobleman is hand and glove with all of them."

The woman rose from her seat. "It is breakfast-time, neighbour Littlejohn; come in. My husband will soon be back."

They walked toward the farm-house. They were but a few paces from the door, when two carriages drove into the yard, containing several persons. On the box of one sat two gendarmes, and upon the other were two officers of justice.

"There they are," exclaimed Littlejohn. "Keep up your heart, neighbour."

The woman's countenance worked convulsively for a moment, but she quickly composed herself, and taking little Margaret in her arms, she stood calm and silent before the door.

The gendarmes and officers got down from the box; the gentlemen alighted from the carriages. One of the latter, a short, corpulent person, approached the farmer's wife.

"I come upon a mournful errand, Mrs Oberhage!" said he in a tone of sympathy, disagreeable because it did not sound sincere.

The woman neither stirred nor replied.

"Our duty, Mrs Oberhage—believe me, it is often very painful; but so much so as on this occasion I never yet have known it to be."

The woman answered him not.

"Believe me, this is an unhappy day for me."

"To us you have never yet brought happiness, judge," said the woman bitterly.

One of the other gentlemen now stepped forward. He was tall, thin, and pompous, and had two orders upon his breast. The judge had but one, in his button-hole.

"I think we will to business, Herr Justizrath," said he to the judge.

"Oh, gentlemen!" said the woman, still calm but earnest, "surely you will wait. My husband is not yet here, nor our lawyer. I expect them both immediately."

"What have we to do with either of them?" said the counsellor,[45] carelessly. "The matter is settled, and admits of no alteration."

"The matter is not yet settled. The day is not yet over!" quickly replied the woman.

"My good woman, I can make all allowance for your present mood, but do not cause useless delay. Let us go into the house and begin, Herr Justizrath."

"A little patience, Mrs Oberhage," said the judge, still more blandly than before.

They went into the house. The other officials followed them. The gendarmes remained outside.

Meanwhile, a number of neighbours had arrived at the farm, their countenances expressing the warmest sympathy, mingled with feelings of rage and bitterness—feelings which they did not scruple to express in words, notwithstanding the presence of the gendarmes and men of law.

"So it has come to earnest at last, gossip Oberhage," said an old peasant. "'Tis shame and scandal thus by main force to drive you from house and home."

"Not yet, Father Hartmann!" said the woman, with great external calm. "You know we have sent in a memorial. So long as all is not lost, nothing is lost."

"True enough, but don't be too sure. The world has grown very bad. Only see yonder false-hearted judge and insolent counsellor. They it is who have brought the whole misfortune upon you, and now they are not ashamed to come here and feast their eyes and ears with your lamentations."

"Not with our lamentations!" said the woman, drawing herself up with a feeling of pride and courage which would have done honour to a queen. "It is God's truth," she continued, after a momentary pause, "that these two men have done their utmost to drive us from the farm, on which I and my husband, and my forefathers, have dwelt for now more than two hundred years."

"Ay, ay," said the old peasant, "the little judge was heard to say, as much as ten years ago, that there were records in the office which would be your ruin if brought to light."

"He said as much to my husband, that he might buy the papers of him. And when my husband would not, he came and tried it with me."

"And when you sent him about his business, he went and plotted with the counsellor, who had then just arrived here from the capital, with an appointment to the chamber. That is a bad fellow, neighbour Oberhage. He has feeling for no man, nor for anything but fisc and taxes, impost and extortion. There is not a farm in the district on which he has not found means to lay new burthens. Day and night he rummages old records and registers, to find out new rights for the exchequer, and new means of oppressing the peasantry. And so he brought forward the old papers, by which he makes out that your farm is the property of the sovereign. The fat judge put him up to it."

"That the farm," said the woman by way of amendment, "had belonged to the sovereign, more than two hundred years ago. My ancestors bought it of the government, and paid its price. My grandfather had the papers in his possession, but at his death they were not to be found. My father was away when he died, so the authorities scaled up the inheritance and took charge of all documents. Amongst these were the papers proving the purchase of the farm, and since then we have never seen them. It was said they were not sealed up with the others, or that they got lost."

"The sly judge knows well enough where they are."

"Who can prove it? We told him as much, but he only laughed, and threatened us with an action for slander. Thereupon they began proceedings to turn us out of the farm. The old papers were accepted as valid; all sorts of laws were brought forward—laws which the sovereigns themselves had made; and they so twisted and turned the matter that, at last, house and land were adjudged to the crown. There is no justice for the poor peasant: justice in this country is a crying scandal. The judges think only how best to be agreeable to the nobility and the sovereign, that they may get a bit of ribbon, or an increase, of salary, or a better place.

"But I have yet one hope left," continued the woman. "We have addressed a memorial to his Highness, placing plainly before his eyes the injustice that the tribunals have done us. We have told him everything—how the judge wanted to bargain with us about the documents, how he suppressed our papers, how he and the long-legged counsellor laid their heads together, and plotted, and planned, and bribed witnesses for our ruin. I expect the answer every minute. If there be yet one spark of justice in our sovereign's heart, he cannot and will not suffer them to expel us from our farm."

"Poor woman, build not too much upon that."

"But I do build upon it, for I have trust in God and in good men."

"In good men. Good men have a heart for poor people. But where will you find that amongst those in high places?"

The old peasant's presentiment as to the fruitlessness of the memorial is well-founded. On the return of the farmer without any reply from the reigning prince, his wife appeals to the commissioners, who are busy taking an inventory—preparatory to making over the property into the hands of an administrator—to suspend execution of the judgment obtained until the pleasure of the sovereign shall be known.

"Judge," said the woman, "we have petitioned the sovereign; an answer may come any minute: until then, we need not go."

"But, my dear Mrs Oberhage, think of the judgment rendered. You have already made all the appeals possible. Justice must have its course."

"Justice!" said the woman bitterly, "we will say nothing about that, judge. But the sovereign has to decide whether he will have our property or not. He cannot take the farm, he cannot wish to accept stolen goods. For his decision you, his servants, are bound to wait: the farm won't run away.

"Woman," said counsellor Von Eilenthal pompously, "cherish not vain delusions. I can tell you the answer you will receive from the royal cabinet; I know it: the sovereign referred your application to his excellency the prime-minister, and the minister desired the chamber to report upon it—I myself made out the report."

"Then is our fate indeed decided!" said the farmer.

"Your own sense of what is right tells it you; justice must have its free course."

"These are hard times for us poor people," said the woman. "Our persecutors are set as judges over us, and interpose between the children of the soil and their sovereign, so that our complaints cannot be heard. Their voices alone are heard; ours, never."

"My good woman, the officials do but their duty."

"Yes, yes, Herr Regierungsrath, that is well known—everyone for himself. You now have doubtless wellnigh gained your end; you have reduced enough poor people to yet greater poverty, and may expect a place in the ministry or a president's chair—that has always been your aim."

The counsellor turned to the judge: "Let us proceed with our business," he said.

All hope had now fled from the breasts of the Oberhages, and departure was inevitable. The farmer's brother offered him an asylum; the honest-hearted peasants, indignant at the crying injustice of the case, and commiserating a misfortune which all felt might some day be their own, volunteered their carts and their labour to transport such part of the farmer's property as he was allowed to carry away. This was but a very limited portion, consisting solely of personal effects. Farm implements, live and dead stock, the corn and vegetables in the granaries, the tall stacks of hay and straw, must all be left behind. They stood upon the inventory, and were the property of the state. But the severest cut of all, for the frugal and industrious housewife, was yet to come. Her eldest daughter, a blooming maiden of nineteen, came up to her, followed by the counsellor, the judge, and the Oberhages' lawyer. The girl looked pale and frightened.

"Mother," she said, "you sent me to the linen-room, to give out the linen to be put on the carts."

"Well, what then?" cried the woman in anxious astonishment.

"The gentlemen have taken the key from me, and will not let me have the linen."

"Who has done that?—who will not?" demanded the woman violently, flushing crimson with anger. It was plain that her household gods were attacked.

"His worship the judge."

"His worship the judge? My linen? What have you to do with my linen?"

"Dear Mrs Oberhage, I have already explained to you that you are allowed to take away from the farm only your own property—your own personal effects."

"And is not the linen my own property?"

"No."

"And what is it, then?"

"An appurtenance to the farm."

The woman burst into a laugh—a laugh of sudden and terrible rage. "My linen," she cried—"my linen, for which I and my mother, my grandmother, and my great-grandmother, and at odd times this girl too, have spun the yarn—which we ourselves have woven and bleached, and on whose every thread has fallen a drop of our sweat—my linen, you say, is an appurtenance of your farm, and belongs to you, or to the counsellor there." And she looked from the one to the other of the magistrates. Then, growing calmer, she added scornfully, "take some other notion into your heads, gentlemen; but my linen you shall not have."

"It is your treasure, your pride, Mrs Oberhage," replied the judge, with his everlasting friendliness: "every one knows that; but, unfortunately, there is no alternative. I am grieved on your account, but the linen belongs to the farm, and not to you."

The fury of the farmer's wife seemed about again to break out. Her lawyer stepped forward. "His worship is unfortunately in the right," he said. "The store of linen, inasmuch as it does not appear necessary to the personal wants of yourself and your children, is legally an appurtenance of the farm. You must make up your mind to give it up."

The woman cast a glance at her husband; but neither in that quarter did she find succour. He looked straight before him, like one absorbed in thought.

"Take it then," said she resolutely. And making an energetic effort to conceal a violent trembling that came over her, she returned to her work. Aided by her daughter, by the weeping servants, and by the neighbours, the packing was soon done. The carts, laden with the whole earthly goods of the expelled farmer, were at the door, ready to start. The neighbours stood around, deep sympathy and suppressed anger upon their stern countenances. The farm-servants—men and maids, big and little, boys who had been but lately taken on, and old men, bent by labour, who had perhaps served three generations upon that farm—stood on one side, also silent, but with grief in their faces. The gentlemen of the commission sat at the long table, under the elm, and breakfasted. The gendarmes and officers were near at hand.

The farmer, his wife, and children, had remained behind in the house. Presently they came out: first the farmer, then his wife, with her youngest child on her arm and leading the boy by the hand; last of all came the eldest daughter. In the countenances of the parents, as in that of the daughter, was to be discerned an expression of dignified resignation to a hard lot.

The man and his wife cast searching glances at the carts, and apparently found all things in order. They then approached a cart upon which seats had been reserved for them; and the woman set down the child upon the ground, the better, as it seemed, to take leave of the sympathising groups that stood around. She and her husband went first to the neighbours, then to the servants, and shook hands with every one. Not a word was spoken.

Whilst this farewell scene occurred, the little girl ran to a flock of chickens, which were pecking for food in the yard. A snow-white hen, with a tuft upon its head, came tamely to meet her. She took it up in her little arms, caressed and played with it.

Suddenly a thought came into the boy's head: he went up to his mother, who had just concluded her sorrowful leave-taking.

"Are we going away for good, mother?" he said.

"Yes, my child, never to return."

"Shall we not take my foal and calf? You promised me this morning that I should rear them."

"I did promise you, my child, but they no longer belong to us."

The firm character of the mother already manifested itself in the son. With scarcely a change of countenance.

"Mother," he said, "will they remain on the farm?"

"They will remain here."

He ran to the farm-servants, and begged them to take care of his calf and foal, and let them want for nothing. Then he returned contentedly to his mother's side. For the poor woman, however, yet another trial was in store.

"I take my white chicken with me, mother!" cried the little girl, pressing the pretty bird to her bosom.

"Does the fowl also belong to the inventory?" said the woman to the lawyer, who stood near her amongst the peasants.

"But, Mrs Oberhage, such a trifle!"

"Does the chicken belong to the inventory?"

"Yes."

"Child, we must leave the chicken here. I will give you another."

"I won't leave my chicken; I take my white chicken with me." The child was crying.

The little fat judge, observant of the incident, rose from his seat. "Mrs Oberhage, let the child have the chicken. With the permission of the Herr Regierungsrath I make you a present of it."

The child jumped for joy, and the chicken remained perched upon her little hands.

For a moment there was a struggle in the breast of the farmer's wife. She looked at her joyous child, she gazed around her at the house and farm she was about to quit; then, with sudden resolution, she went to the little girl, took the bird from her arms, and let it run away. "Judge," she said, turning to the magistrate, "sorry as I am for the poor child's sake, I nevertheless can accept nothing, as a gift, from you and the counsellor."

But she could hardly complete the sentence. The resolute woman's strength seemed suddenly broken, and hot tears gushed from her eyes. Snatching up the weeping child, she pressed it to her breast, and hid her agitated countenance in its rich golden curls.

It was dinner-time. At this hour, it was customary for a dozen poor persons, old women and grayheaded men, to repair to the farm, where, for long years past, they had received a daily meal. As usual, they had made their appearance, and now stood aloof with sad and downcast looks. The housewife perceived them. This was to be her last sorrow in the home that had hitherto been hers. She stepped towards them. "I can no longer give you a dinner," she said; "another master is now here."

An old man limped forward, supported upon crutches. "To-day," he said, "we are here only to thank you, and to pray God that he may repay you what you, and your husband, and your children, and your fathers before you, upon this farm, have given to the poor. We have heard of the injustice done you; but the injustice of men is the blessing of heaven. Farewell, go in peace to your new home. And may the Lord bless you there and for ever."

He hobbled back amidst the group of beggars, who stood praying, with clasped hands. The housewife gave to every one of them an ample dole. "The Lord be with you also," she said. Then she went to the cart in which the children were already seated. Without another word, she got in. Her husband followed her, and his brother, who accompanied them, was the last. She took her little girl upon her lap, and drew down her kerchief far over her face, so that none could distinguish her features.

The cart drove slowly out of the farm-yard. It was met by a servant on horseback, who dashed past at a gallop, and handed to the Counsellor, Baron Von Eilenthal, a letter with a large seal. That distinguished functionary eagerly opened it, as with a foreboding of good news.

The judge looked inquisitively over his shoulder.

"Ah, my humblest congratulations, Herr President. Delighted to be the first to give you joy. I recommend myself to your further favour."

In front of the house, the beggars struck up in slow and solemn strains the hymn from the Psalm-book—

We have preserved, as dramatic and characteristic, the terminations of the two chapters from which we have extracted. The last was worth giving entire, being perhaps the most carefully finished in the book, but its length compelled compression. As regards its truthfulness, and the state of things it is intended to illustrate, we need hardly inform persons acquainted with the social and political condition of Germany, that acts of corruption and oppression, similar to those above set forth, have been of no rare occurrence, up to a very recent date, in more than one sovereign state of that extensive country. The time of the story of Anna Hammer is 1830, the period when things were probably at the worst, before the petty despots of Germany had been warned and alarmed by the second French revolution, and by other evidences of the growing spirit, throughout Europe, of resistance to tyrannical and irresponsible rule. The book hinges on the supposed existence of a secret association, having extensive ramifications, for the purpose of establishing constitutional government throughout Germany. Three of the earliest members of the society have lingered, at the date of the story's commencement, for five years in a state prison. These three men are Anna Hammer's brother-in-law, Madame Von Horberg's husband, and a certain Count Arnstein, whose son, after passing four years in the United States, returns to Germany, in the character of an American, and under the assumed name of Bushby, with the double purpose of assisting the plans of the conspirators, and of accomplishing his father's escape. The place of imprisonment of the three political offenders is, however, a mystery which one of the most active and intelligent of the confederates has for years been in vain endeavouring to solve. It is at last discovered by the ingenuity of Geigenfritz, an old soldier, and trusty agent of the society, who then contrives to introduce Anna Hammer into the fortress, in the capacity of servant girl to the commandant's housekeeper. The housekeeper, Miss Bluestone, who has lived in a military prison until she has acquired the tone, and much of the appearance, of a grenadier, and her comrade, Corporal Long, a veteran converted into a gaoler, who divides his affections between the wine barrel and a huge bunch of keys, are capitally hit off. The account of Von Horberg's dungeon, and of the means of communication he contrives with a prisoner lodged in the lower floor of the tower, in which he occupies an upper cell, is very well done. Indeed this, the first chapter of the second volume, entitled Dungeon Life, is one of the best of the book, and reminds us not a little of Baron Treuck's exciting prison narratives. It acquires additional interest from the circumstance that Anna Hammer is said to have been written in a prison, where the author was long confined on political charges, of which he was ultimately found guiltless. Before coming to the prisons, however, we are taken to court, and are introduced to the old prince-regnant, to his dissolute grandson and heir, and to his amiable granddaughter, who is in love with Arnstein alias Bushby. For a final extract, we select a scene in the grounds of the country residence of the sovereign, who has just installed himself there for the fine season, and where two important personages of the novel—the crown-prince and Geigenfritz—are first brought before the reader.

The park behind the palace was of great extent. Gardens, pieces of water, slopes planted with vines, thick shrubberies and tracts of woodland, were there mingled in an apparently wild disorder which was in reality the result of careful arrangement and consideration. The whole was surrounded by a lofty wall, in which were three or four small doors. A thick forest came close up to the outside of the wall, and was intersected by several roads.

Along one of these roads drove an elegant travelling carriage, drawn by two extremely swift and powerful horses. A bearded man, of Jewish aspect, muffled in a huge coachman's coat, sat upon the box. The shutters of the vehicle were drawn up, so that it could not be seen into. It stopped at the edge of the forest. The door opened, and a little man, also of Israelitish appearance, but very richly dressed, got out. He left the door open.

"Turn round, Abraham!" said he in Jewish jargon to the driver.

The coachman obeyed, so that the horses' heads were in the direction whence they came.

"Stop!"

The carriage stood still, and the little man walked round it, examining it minutely on all sides, as if to make sure that it was sound and complete in every part. With equal attention he inspected the harness and limbs of the vigorous horses.

"Keep a sharp watch, Abraham, for my return."

"Don't be afraid, Moses."

"The very minute I get in, drive off at full speed. But no sooner—d'ye hear?—no sooner."

"Why should I sooner?" retorted the coachman sharply, in the same dialect.

"Not till I am quite safe in the carriage—till you see, till you hear, that I have shut the door. You must hear it, you must watch with your ears, for you must not take your eyes off the horses."

"Don't frighten yourself, fool!"

"And, Abraham, quit not the box during my absence, and be sure and leave the door open, that I may jump in at once on my return."

The coachman answered not.

"And, one thing more. Dear Abraham, will the horses hold out?—six German miles?—without resting. Are you sure the carriage will not break down?"

"Begone, fearful fool, and leave carriage and horses to my care!"

The little man looked at his watch.

"Exactly five. It is just the time. Once more, dear Abraham, keep a sharp look-out, I entreat you."

At a sort of sneaking run, the timid Jew hurried to a door in the park wall, close to which the road passed. He glanced keenly around him. No one was in sight, and, producing a key, he hastily unlocked the door, opening it only just wide enough to allow him to slip through. In an instant he was in the park, and the door shut behind him.

Completely unseen as the Jew believed himself, there yet was one at hand whose watchful eye had followed all his movements.

At the exact moment that the coachman turned his carriage, and at a short distance from the spot, a man emerged from the thicket. His appearance was very striking. Far above the usual stature, in person he was extraordinarily spare. Large bones, broad shoulders, a muscular arm and a hand like a bunch of sinews, indicated that his meagre frame possessed great strength. His strange figure was accoutred in a remarkable costume. He wore a short brown jacket of the colour and coarse material of the cowls of the mendicant friars, short brown leather breeches, grey linen gaiters and wide strong shoes. His head was covered with an old misshapen gray hat, whose broad brim was no longer in a state to testify whether it had once been round or three-cornered. Across his back was slung a bag, from whose mouth protruded the neck of an old black fiddle. The man's age was hard to guess. His thick strong hair was of that sort of mouse-colour which even very old age rarely alters. His countenance was frightfully furrowed; but if its furrows were deep, on the other hand its outlines were of iron rigidity. The eye was very quick. In short, however narrow the scrutiny, it still remained doubtful to the observer whether the man was fifty, sixty, or seventy years old.

This person, stepping out of the forest, was on the point of springing across the road, when he perceived the carriage and the two Jews. Satisfying himself, by a hasty glance, that he was still unseen, he drew back within cover of the thicket. Concealed behind a thick screen of foliage, he watched with profound attention every movement of the men, who were too distant for him to overhear their words. When one of them had entered the park, the long brown man made a circuit through the wood, and again emerged from it at a point where he could not be seen by the coachman, but which yet was not far distant from the door through which the Jew had passed. After brief reflection, he approached this door and tried to open it. It was locked. He turned back, skirting the wall—but so noiselessly that the sharpest ear, close upon the other side, could hardly have detected his presence. He paused at a place where trees and thick bushes, growing within the park, overtopped the wall. A long branch protruded across, and hung down so low that the tall stranger could easily reach it. He closely examined this branch, its length and strength, then the wall—measuring its height with his eye, and noting its irregularities of surface. Suddenly he seized the branch with both hands, set his feet against the wall, and swung his whole body upwards. Before a spectator could have conjectured his intention, he was seated on a limb of the tree within the park; it was as if an enormous brown cat had sprung up amongst the branches. In another second he was on the ground, the slightest possible cracking of the twigs alone betraying his rapid descent.

He stood in the midst of a thick growth of bushes, the stillness around him broken only by the voices of birds. Cautiously he made his way through the tangled growth of branches into a small winding path, which he followed in the direction of the door. On reaching this he found himself in a broad carriage road, apparently commencing and terminating at the palace, after numerous windings through the park. Opposite the door was an open lawn; to the right were long alleys, through whose vista the rays of the early morning sun were seen reflected in the tranquil waters of a lake. To the left was a prolongation of the copse. Not a living creature was to be seen.

For a minute the man stood undecided as to the direction he should take. Then he re-entered the copse—making his way through it, with the same caution and cat-like activity as before, to a little knoll nearly bare of bushes, and crowned by three lofty fir-trees. He was about to step out into the open space, when he heard a rustling near at hand. He stood still, held his breath and looked around him; but he was still too deep in the bushes and could discern nothing. He saw only leaves and branches, and, towering above them, the three tall fir-trees, with the morning wind whispering through their boughs.

The new-comer was the little Jew, who walked uneasily to and fro beneath the fir-trees, on a narrow footpath which led across the knoll. He evidently expected some one. From behind a tree the tall man with the fiddle watched his movements, and listened to his soliloquy.

"Five minutes late," muttered the Jew, looking at his watch. "Am I the man to be kept waiting? He is not to be relied upon. But I have him now, fast and sure." He resumed his walk, then again stood still. "A good affair this! good profit! a made man! But where can he be?" He paused before the very tree behind which stood the man in the brown jacket. "He is imprudent," he continued, "light-headed, and reckless. But am I not the same? I am lost if he deceives me. I have him, though—I have him."

"Mosey!" said the strong voice of the long brown man, close to his ear. At the same moment, a heavy hand was clapped roughly on the Jew's shoulder. He fell to the ground, as though a thunderbolt had struck him; in falling he caught a view of the stranger. "Geigen—" cried he, in a horror-stricken voice, leaving the word unfinished.

"Speak the word right out!" said the long man, with a calm, sneering smile.

The little Jew's recovery was as sudden as his terror. He was already on his legs, brushing the dust from his clothes.

"How the gentleman frightened me!" he said in a sort of dubious tone.

"Speak the word out, Mosey—the whole word!"

"What should I speak out?—which word? What does the gentleman want?"

"Mosey, speak the word out—Geigenfritz!"

"What is your pleasure?—what is the word to me?"

"Old rogue! old Moses Amschel! what is the word to you? what is Geigenfritz to you?—your old friend?"

"I know no Geigenfritz; I know no Moses Amschel. You are mistaken. And now go your ways—do you hear?" He had become quite bold and saucy.

The brown man looked at him with a smile of scornful pity. "Mosey," he said, "shall I reckon up the prisons and houses of correction in which I have seen you? You have grown a great man, it seems. I have heard of you. You are a rich banker: noblemen associate with you, and princes are your debtors. You are a baron, I believe, and you live in luxury; but you are not the less Moses Amschel, my old comrade. I knew you directly, and your rascal of a brother, too, who is outside with the carriage."

The Jew's confidence left him as he listened to this speech. He made one more effort to assume a bold countenance, but his voice trembled as he muttered, "You are mistaken. I have business here: leave me, or I will have you arrested."

Geigenfritz laughed. "You have business here, I doubt not. But arrest me! Your business will hardly bear daylight, and my arrest would interfere with it."

The truth of these words produced a terrible effect on the little Jew. He stood for a moment helplessly gazing around him; then he looked sharply at his interlocutor, whilst his right hand fumbled in his breast, as though seeking something. But he drew it forth empty, and let it fall by his side, whilst his eyes sought the ground. "Well, Geigenfritz," he said, in a low tone, "leave me for a while. Go and wait by the carriage with my brother; I will soon be back, and we will speak further."

"Not so, old sinner. You said you had business here. You and I have done business together more than once."

"This time there is nothing for you to do."

"That is not for you to decide."

"Don't spoil trade, Geigenfritz."

"What trade is it?"

"You shall know by-and-by."

"Immediately, I expect."

"Impossible."

"I have but to remain here."

Moses Amschel grew very anxious. "I swear to you, Geigenfritz, you ruin me by remaining. The business can't be done in your presence."

"We shall see."

The obstinacy of Geigenfritz was not to be overcome. Moses Amschel ran to and fro, wringing his hands, and straining his eyes to see into the park. Suddenly his anxiety increased to a paroxysm. Geigenfritz followed the direction of his eyes. With extreme swiftness a man ran along one of the alleys, in the direction of the mound on which they both stood.

"For God's sake, go, leave me!" exclaimed Moses Amschel, in abject supplication.

"Fellow, 'tis the Crown-prince. What dealings have you with him?"

"Go, I implore you, go."

"Not a step, till you answer me."

"I have business with him."

"What business?"

"You shall know afterwards; go, I can't escape you."

"What business?"

"Jewel business. But now go, go!"

"You are right; you cannot escape me." And Geigenfritz disappeared amongst the bushes.

Moses Amschel had had barely time to recover breath and composure, when a third person joined him. This was a slender young man, of elegant appearance, and handsome but dissipated countenance. His rich dress was disordered.

"Who was here, Jew?"

"No one. Who should be here. Who would I bring with me?"

"I heard talking; who was with you?"

"No one, your highness."

"Name not my name, Jew, and speak the truth."

"I wish I may die, if a creature, was with me!"

The young man looked suspiciously on all sides, and then drew from under his coat an object enveloped in a silk handkerchief, and handed it to Amschel.

"Here, Jew, and now away with you!"

Moses Amschel would have unfolded the handkerchief, to look at its contents.

"Scoundrel! do you think I cheat you? In three months."

He took a step to depart, but again returned.

"To America, to New York! Not to London, d'ye hear?"

"I know."

At the top of his speed, as he had come, the stranger departed. Moses Amschel unrolled the handkerchief, glanced at its contents, again carefully wrapped it up, and stole swiftly and cautiously to the park-door, which he hastily unlocked, and as hastily relocked behind him. But, as he turned to regain the carriage, his movements were arrested by the iron arm of Geigenfritz, who rose, like an apparition, from a ditch at his side.

"How you frighten me!—I am not going to run away."

"Because you can't. Now, comrade, halves!"

"Are you mad?"

"Not I, but you, if you think you are not in my power."

Moses Amschel looked around him, but help there was none, and the brown man held him so tightly that he could not stir. The carriage, certainly, was near at hand, but the horses were as skittish as they were good, and the driver must not leave them.

"Show it me," said Geigenfritz.

Resistance was impossible. Tardily and unwillingly the Jew untied the handkerchief, and revealed a diamond diadem of extraordinary magnificence. Notwithstanding his alarm, his eyes sparkled at the sight.

"Old rogue! who stole that?"

"Stole! Nonsense."

"What is it worth?"

"Worth?—a couple of hundred dollars."

"Do you take me for a child?"

"Well, perhaps a couple of thousand."

"More than a million."

"You frighten me."

"No matter—halves!"

"But I must sell it first; you shall have your share of the price."

"Of the price? You don't take me in. We will divide at once."

"How is that possible?"

"Very easy. I break the crown into two halves; you take one, I the other. Give it here."

Moses Amschel shook with terror, and clutched the glittering ornament convulsively with both bands. It was in vain: the iron hand of Geigenfritz detached his fingers, one after the other, like those of a child. With the last remains of his exhausted strength, the Jew still clung to his treasure, which, in another second, would have been wrested from him, when suddenly a broad knife, thrust over the shoulder of Geigenfritz, inflicted a swift deep cut across the back of the hand with which he grasped the diadem. Involuntarily, Geigenfritz relaxed his hold both of Jew and jewels.

Moses Amschel and the coachman Abraham, who, having seen from his box his brother's peril, had thus opportunely come to his aid, ran away laughing. The one jumped into the carriage, the other resumed the reins, and they drove off at a gallop.

The prince has stolen the diadem from his own wife, in such a manner as to cast suspicion upon others, and the Jew is to sell it to furnish supplies for the extravagance of this dissolute heir to the crown. Geigenfritz's knowledge of the shameful transaction is afterwards made instrumental in procuring the release of Von Horberg and the other prisoners. Convinced that the time is not yet ripe for the realisation of their schemes of political regeneration, they emigrate to the United States. There, a postscript informs the reader, Von Horberg, divorced from his unworthy wife—who during his imprisonment, has become the mistress of the prince-royal—is married to Anna Hammer. The interest of the story is throughout well sustained.

Anna Hammer will probably soon be, if it be not already, in the hands of the translators. Rendered into English with a little care, by equivalents, instead of with that painful literalness and abundance of foreign idioms which too frequently shock us in translations of German books, it would be very pleasant reading. Notwithstanding its defects, its occasional carelessness and slight improbabilities, it better deserves a translation than many of the foreign novels to which that compliment has been paid within the last few years, and than some which have been lauded to the skies and largely read. And we take this opportunity to express our surprise that no member of the industrious corps of translators from the German has directed his or her attention to the writings of a man, who, for originality and genius, perception of character and power of description, is very far superior even to those of his German cotemporaries who have enjoyed the highest favour in England. We refer to the gifted author of the German-American Romances. Miss Bremer—although a Swede, we here class her amongst German writers, her works having been done into English from the latter language—has been translated at every price, and in every form, from expensive octavo to shilling pamphlets. Not a bookshop or railway station but is, or has been, crowded with her works. Without in the least depreciating the talents of a lady who has written some very pleasing tales and sketches, we should yet be greatly flattering her did we place her on a level with such a writer as Charles Sealsfield. Styles so opposite scarcely admit of comparison; but we apprehend there are few readers to whom the best of her books will not appear tame and insipid, when contrasted with the vigorous and characteristic pages of such works as The Cabin Book, The Viceroy and the Aristocracy, or Pictures of Life in both Hemispheres. Yet Sealsfield has been read in England only to the limited extent of some short extracts in this Magazine,[46] and of some yet briefer ones in a defunct Review.[47] In the States he is better known and appreciated. There he has been translated and re-translated in volumes, pamphlets and newspapers, but in a style, if we may judge from one or two specimens that have reached us, which does him grievous injustice. Many of his works, and especially the three above-named, richly deserve the utmost pains a translator could bestow, and would assuredly attain high popularity in any country into whose language they should be rendered.