olden time in morning gown and slippers, looks in at the door and smiles.  In the upper story of the same house lived a poor boy with his mother, who was so far crazed as to believe herself to be the Virgin Mary, and her son the Saviour of the world.  Wild fancies, likewise, were to sweep through the brain of that child.  He was to meet Hoffmann elsewhere and be his friend in after years, though as yet they knew nothing of each other.  This was Werner, who has made some noise in German literature as the author of many wild Destiny-Dramas.”

“Hoffmann died, I believe, in Berlin.”

“Yes.  He left Koenigsberg at twenty years of age, and passed the next eight years of his life in the Prussian-Polish Provinces, where he held some petty office under government; and took to himselfmany bad habits and a Polish wife.  After this he was Music-Director at various German theatres, and led a wandering, wretched life for ten years.  He then went to Berlin as Clerk of the Exchange, and there remained till his death, which took place some seven or eight years afterward.”

“Did you ever see him?”

“I was in Berlin during his lifetime, and saw him frequently.  I shall never forget the first time.  It was at one of the esthetic Teas, given by a literary lady Unter den Linden, where the lions were fed with convenient food, from tea and bread and butter, up to oysters and Rhine-wine.  During the evening my attention was arrested by the entrance of a strange little figure, with a wild head of brown hair.  His eyes were bright gray; and his thin lips closely pressed together with an expression of not unpleasing irony.  This strangelooking personage began to bow his way through the crowd, with quick, nervous, hinge-like motions, much resembling those of a marionette.  He had a hoarse voice, and such a rapid utterance, that although I understood German well enough for ordinary purposes, I could not understand one half he said.  Ere long he had seated himself at the piano-forte, and was improvising such wild, sweet fancies, that the music of one’s dreams is not more sweet and wild.  Then suddenly some painful thought seemed to pass over his mind, as if he imagined, that he was there to amuse the company.  He rose from the piano-forte, and seated himself in another part of the room; where he began to make grimaces, and talk loud while others were singing.  Finally he disappeared, like a hobgoblin, laughing, ’Ho! ho! ho!’ I asked a person beside me who this strange being was.  ‘That was Hoffmann,’ was the answer.  ‘The Devil!’ said I.  ‘Yes,’ continued my informant; ’and if you should follow him now, you would see him plunge into an obscure and unfrequented wine-cellar, and there, amid boon companions, with wine and tobacco-smoke, and quirks and quibbles, and quaint, witty sayings, turn the dim night into glorious day.’”

“What a strange being!”