were it twice as fleeting—­as it is ten times more brilliant—­than the forked lightning, irradiates the dark gloom within us for many a long day after it has ceased to shine upon us.  As in boyhood it is the humanizing influence that tempers the fierce and unruly passions of our nature, so in manhood it forms the goal to which all our better and higher aspirations tend, telling us there is something more worthy than gold, and a more lofty pinnacle of ambition than the praise and envy of our fellow-men; and we may rest assured, that when this feeling dies within us, that all the ideal of life dies with it, and nothing remains save the dull reality of our daily cares and occupations.  “I have lived and have loved,” saith Schiller; and if it were not that there seems some tautology in the phrase, I should say, such is my own motto.  If Lady Jane but prove true—­if I have really succeeded—­if, in a word—­but why speculate upon such chances?—­what pretensions have I?—­what reasons to look for such a prize?  Alas! and alas! were I to catechise myself too closely, I fear that my horses’ heads would face towards Calais, and that I should turn my back upon the only prospect of happiness I can picture to myself in this world.  In reflections such as these, the hours rolled over, and it was already late at night when we reached the little village of Merchem.  While fresh horses were being got ready, I seized the occasion to partake of the table d’hote supper of the inn, at the door of which the diligence was drawn up.  Around the long, and not over-scrupulously clean table, sat the usual assemblage of a German “Eilwagen”—­smoking, dressing salad, knitting, and occasionally picking their teeth with their forks, until the soup should make its appearance.  Taking my place amid this motley assemblage of mustachioed shopkeepers and voluminously-petticoated frows, I sat calculating how long human patience could endure such companionship, when my attention was aroused by hearing a person near me narrate to his friend the circumstances of my debut at Strasbourg, with certain marginal notes of his own that not a little surprised me.

“And so it turned out not to be Meerberger, after all,”:  said the listener.

“Of course not,” replied the other.  “Meerberger’s passport was stolen from him in the diligence by this English escroc, and the consequence was, that our poor countryman was arrested, the other passport being found upon him; while the Englishman, proceeding to Strasbourg, took his benefit at the opera, and walked away with above twelve thousand florins.

“Sappermint” said the other, tossing off his beer.  “He must have been a clever fellow, though, to lead the orchestra in the Franc Macons.”

“That is the most astonishing part of all; for they say in Strasbourg that his performance upon the violin was far finer than Paganini’s; but there seems some secret in it, after all:  for Madame Baptiste swears that he is Meerberger; and in fact the matter is far from being cleared up —­nor can it be till he is apprehended.”