Flemming could hardly refrain from laughing at the sight of his friend; and told him it reminded him of a street-musician he once saw in Aix-la-Chapelle, who was playing upon six instruments at once; having a helmet with bells on his head, a Pan’s-reed in his cravat, a fiddle in his hand, a triangle on his knee, cymbals on his heels, and on his back a bass-drum, which he played with his elbows.  To tell the truth, the Baron of Hohenfels was rather a miscellaneous youth, rather a universal genius.  He pursued all things with eagerness, but for a short time only; music, poetry, painting, pleasure, even the study of the Pandects.  Hisfeelings were keenly alive to the enjoyment of life.  His great defect was, that he was too much in love with human nature.  But by the power of imagination, in him, the bearded goat was changed to a bright Capricornus:—­no longer an animal on earth, but a constellation in heaven.  An easy and indolent disposition made him gentle and childlike in his manners; and, in short, the beauty of his character, like that of the precious opal, was owing to a defect in its organization.  His person was tall and slightly built; his hair light; and his eyes blue, and as beautiful as those of a girl.  In the tones of his voice, there was something indescribably gentle and winning; and he spoke the German language, with the soft, musical accent of his native province of Curland.  In his manners, if he had not `Antinous’ easy sway,’ he had at least an easy sway of his own.  Such, in few words, was the bosom friend of Flemming.

“And what do you think of Heidelberg and the old castle up there?” said he, as they seated themselves at the breakfast-table.

“Last night the town seemed very long to me,” replied Flemming; “and as to the castle, I have as yet had but a glimpse of it through the mist.  They tell me there is nothing finer in its way, excepting the Alhambra of Granada; and no doubt I shall find it so.  Only I wish the stone were gray and not red.  But, red or gray, I foresee that I shall waste many a long hour in its desolate halls.  Pray, does anybody live up there now-a-days?”

“Nobody,” answered the Baron, “but the man, who shows the Heidelberg Ton, and Monsieur Charles de Grainberg, a Frenchman, who has been there sketching ever since the year eighteen-hundred and ten.  He has, moreover, written a super-magnificent description of the ruin, in which he says, that during the day only birds of prey disturb it with their piercing cries, and at night, screech-owls, and other fallow deer.  These are his own words.  You must buy his book and his sketches.”

“Yes, the quotation and the tone of your voice will certainly persuade me so to do.”

“Take his or none, my friend, for you will find no others.  And seriously, his sketches are very good.  There is one on the wall there, which is beautiful, save and except that straddle-bug figure among the bushes in the corner.”