continued to talk, the impression grew each
moment more strong that I must have met him
previously.

I could gather—it was easy enough to do so
—from the animated looks of the party, and the
repeated bursts of laughter that followed his
sallies, that the newly–arrived officer was a wit
and authority amongst his comrades. His
elevated rank, too, may have contributed to
this popularity. Must I own that he appeared
in the character that to me is particularly
offensive? He was a "narrator." That vulgar
adage of "two of a trade" has a far wider
acceptance when applied to the operations of
intellect than when addressed to the work of
men's hands. To see this jealousy at its height,
you must look for it amongst men of letters,
artists, actors, or, better still, those social
performers who are the bright spirits of dinner–
parties—the charming men of society. All the
animosities of political or religious hate are
mild compared to the detestation this rivalry
engenders; and now, though the audience
was a foreign one, which I could have no
pretension to amuse, I conceived the most bitter
dislike for the man who had engaged their
attention.

I do not know how it may be with others, but
to myself there has always been this difficulty in
a foreign language, that until I have accustomed
myself to the tone of voice and the manner of a
speaker, I can rarely follow him without
occasional lapses. Now, on the present occasion,
the narrator, though speaking distinctly, and
with a good accent, had a very rapid utterance,
and it was not till I had familiarised my ear
with his manner that I could gather his words
correctly. Nor was my difficulty lessened by the
fact that, as he pretended to be witty and
epigrammatic, frequent bursts of laughter broke
from his audience and obscured his speech. He
was, as it appeared, giving an account of a fishing
excursion he had just taken to one of the
small mountain lakes near Poppenheim, and it
was clear enough he was one who always could
eke an adventure out of even the most ordinary
incident of daily life.

This fishing story had really nothing in it,
though he strove to make out fifty points of
interest or striking situations out of the veriest
common–place. At last, however, I saw that,
like a practised story–teller, he was hoarding up
his great incident for the finish.

"As I have told you," said he, "I engaged
the entire of the little inn for myself; there
were but five rooms in it altogether, and though
I did not need more than two, I took the rest,
that I might be alone and unmolested. Well,
it was on my second evening there, as I sat
smoking my pipe at the door, and looking over
my tackle for the morrow, there came up the
glen the strange sound of wheels, and, to my
astonishment, a travelling carriage soon
appeared, with four horses driven in hand, and I
saw in a moment it was a lohnkutscher, who
had taken the wrong turning after leaving
Ragatz, and mistaken the road, for the highway
ceases about two miles above Poppenheim, and
dwindles down to a mere mule–path. Leaving
my host to explain the mistake to the travellers,
I hastily re–entered the house, just as the
carriage drove up. The explanation seemed a
very prolix one, for when I looked out of the
window, half an hour afterwards, there were
the horses still standing at the door, and the
driver, with a large branch of alder, whipping
away the flies from them, while the host
continued to hold his place at the carriage door.
At last he entered my room, and said that the
travellers, two foreign ladies—he thought them
Russians—had taken the wrong road, but that
the elder, what between fatigue and fear, was so
overcome, that she could not proceed farther,
and entreated that they might be afforded any
accommodation—mere shelter for the night—
rather than retrace their road to Ragatz.

"'Well,' said I, carelessly, 'let them have
the rooms on the other side of the hall; so that
they only stop for one night, the intrusion will
not signify.' Not a very gracious reply,
perhaps, but I did not want to be gracious. The
fact was, as the old lady got out, I saw
something like an elephant's leg, in a fur boot, that
quite decided me on not making acquaintance
with the travellers, and I was rash enough to
imagine they must be both alike. Indeed, I
was so resolute in maintaining my solitude
undisturbed, that I told my host on no account
whatever to make me any communication from
the strangers, nor, on any pretext, to let me
feel that they were lodged under the same roof
with myself. Perhaps, if the next day had been
one to follow my usual sport, I should have
forgotten all about them, but it was one of such
rain as made it perfectly impossible to leave
the house. I doubt if I ever saw rain like it.
It came down in sheets, like water splashed out
of buckets, flattening the small trees to the
earth, and beating down all the light foliage
into the muddy soil beneath; meanwhile the air
shook with the noise of the swollen torrents,
and all the mountain–streams crashed and
thundered away, like great cataracts. Rain can
really become grand at such moments, and no
more resembling a mere shower than the cry of
a single brawler in the street is like the roar of
a mighty multitude. It was so fine, that I
determined I would go down to a little wooden
bridge over the river, whence I could see the
stream as it came down, tumbling and splashing,
from a cleft in the mountain. I soon dressed
myself in all my best waterproofs—hat, cape,
boots, and all—and set out. Until I was fully
embarked on my expedition I had no notion of
the severity of the storm, and it was with
considerable difficulty I could make head against
the wind and rain together, while the slippery
ground made walking an actual labour.

"At last I reached the river, but of the bridge
the only trace was a single beam, which, deeply
buried in the bank at one extremity, rose and
fell in the surging flood, like the arm of a
drowning swimmer. The stream had completely
filled the channel, and swept along, with