However disposed I might have felt towards sleep, the little German resolved I should not obtain any, for when for half an hour together I would preserve a rigid silence, he, nowise daunted, had recourse to some German “lied,” which he gave forth with an energy of voice and manner that must have aroused every sleeper in the diligence:  so that, fain to avoid this, I did my best to keep him on the subject of his adventures, which, as a man of successful gallantry, were manifold indeed.  Wearying at last, even of this subordinate part, I fell into a kind of half doze.  The words of a student song he continued to sing without ceasing for above an hour—­being the last waking thought on my memory.

Less as a souvenir of the singer than a specimen of its class I give here a rough translation of the well-known Burschen melody called

Thepope

I.
The Pope, he leads a happy life,
He fears not married care, nor strife,
He drinks the best of Rhenish wine,
I would the Pope’s gay lot were mine.

Chorus. 
He drinks the best of Rhenish wine. 
I would the Pope’s gay lot were mine.

               II. 
               But then all happy’s not his life,
               He has not maid, nor blooming wife;
               Nor child has he to raise his hope—­
               I would not wish to be the Pope.

               III. 
               The Sultan better pleases me,
               His is a life of jollity;
               His wives are many as he will—­
               I would the Sultan’s throne then fill.

               IV. 
               But even he’s a wretched man,
               He must obey his Alcoran;
               And dares not drink one drop of wine—­
               I would not change his lot for mine.

               V.
               So then I’ll hold my lowly stand,
               And live in German Vaterland;
               I’ll kiss my maiden fair and fine,
               And drink the best of Rhenish wine.

               VI. 
               Whene’er my maiden kisses me,
               I’ll think that I the Sultan be;
               And when my cheery glass I tope,
               I’ll fancy then I am the Pope.

CHAPTER XLIII.

THE JOURNEY.

It was with a feeling of pleasure I cannot explain, that I awoke in the morning, and found myself upon the road.  The turmoil, the bustle, the never-ending difficulties of my late life in Paris had so over-excited and worried me, that I could neither think nor reflect.  Now all these cares and troubles were behind me, and I felt like a liberated prisoner as I looked upon the grey dawn of the coming day, as it gradually melted from its dull and leaden tint to the pink and yellow hue of the rising sun.  The broad and richly-coloured