know nothing more of them than can be learnt from a few scanty references in his rare letters to English friends; but it is certain that the part he played was an active, and even a dangerous one.  He was turned out of Wuerzburg by ‘that ingenious Jackanapes,’ the King of Bavaria; he was an intimate friend of Hegetschweiler, one of the leaders of liberalism in Switzerland; and he was present in Zurich when a body of six thousand peasants, ’half unarmed, and the other half armed with scythes, dungforks and poles, entered the town and overturned the liberal government.’  In the tumult Hegetschweiler was killed, and Beddoes was soon afterwards forced to fly the canton.  During the following years we catch glimpses of him, flitting mysteriously over Germany and Switzerland, at Berlin, at Baden, at Giessen, a strange solitary figure, with tangled hair and meerschaum pipe, scribbling lampoons upon the King of Prussia, translating Grainger’s Spinal Cord into German, and Schoenlein’s Diseases of Europeans into English, exploring Pilatus and the Titlis, evolving now and then some ghostly lyric or some rabelaisian tale, or brooding over the scenes of his ‘Gothic-styled tragedy,’ wondering if it were worthless or inspired, and giving it—­as had been his wont for the last twenty years—­just one more touch before he sent it to the press.  He appeared in England once or twice, and in 1846 made a stay of several months, visiting the Procters in London, and going down to Southampton to be with Kelsall once again.  Eccentricity had grown on him; he would shut himself for days in his bedroom, smoking furiously; he would fall into fits of long and deep depression.  He shocked some of his relatives by arriving at their country house astride a donkey; and he amazed the Procters by starting out one evening to set fire to Drury Lane Theatre with a lighted five-pound note.  After this last visit to England, his history becomes even more obscure than before.  It is known that in 1847 he was in Frankfort, where he lived for six months in close companionship with a young baker called Degen—­’a nice-looking young man, nineteen years of age,’ we are told, ’dressed in a blue blouse, fine in expression, and of a natural dignity of manner’; and that, in the spring of the following year, the two friends went off to Zurich, where Beddoes hired the theatre for a night in order that Degen might appear on the stage in the part of Hotspur.  At Basel, however, for some unexplained reason, the friends parted, and Beddoes fell immediately into the profoundest gloom.  ‘Il a ete miserable,’ said the waiter at the Cigogne Hotel, where he was staying, ‘il a voulu se tuer.’  It was true.  He inflicted a deep wound in his leg with a razor, in the hope, apparently, of bleeding to death.  He was taken to the hospital, where he constantly tore off the bandages, until at last it was necessary to amputate the leg below the knee.  The operation was successful, Beddoes began to recover, and, in the