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KATERINA.

THE DWARF OF THE JUNGFERNSTIEG.

EVERY one knows (who knows anything about the great and free city of Hamburg) that the lowest classes of society within its ramparts are sadly to be pitied. The rich are very great people there, as they are everywhere else, and the poor are very small indeed. They are diminutive alike in stature and importance, so that Katerina Bürger, though barely three feet high, was by no means remarkable among her own particular class; and no one in it would ever have dreamed of such a thing as calling her a dwarf. The magnificent senators (for a senator is "Your Magnificence," even though his name be inscribed in large characters on the milk cart which stops daily at your door,)- the "magnificent" senators walk proudly by the poor little inhabitants of "the old town," and feel, with reason, that they stand higher in the scale of creation, while the rickety and undersized creatures stop in their painful walk, to gaze with envy on their fellow mortals, who by the "accident of birth are placed so infinitely above them.

It was Sunday, and the Jungfernstieg (the fashionable promenade of the Hamburgers) was crowded with company. Gentle and simple, Jew and Gentile, bond and free, were on the wide walk together. The little race, of whom we have begun to speak, were also there,-the pigmy creatures who live, or rather vegetate, in damp cellars, and who crawl out on warm Sundays, to air themselves and their clothes on the sunny Jungfernstieg. And there was Katerina; and she must be described, for a stranger little being in form, feature, and mind, could hardly be imagined. She lived in one of the darkest and narrowest streets in the oldest part of Hamburg. The houses there are very high, and a sluggish canal crosses its confined limits; over it is a small bridge, from which the passenger looks down in dismay and disgust on the deep black waters, and pities the forlorn beings who are dragging out their existence within its unwholesome influence.

It is said that rich men own the houses in that melancholy street, on which the sun never shines, and where the stream of life seems to stand still. It is said that those rich men heap up their gold above the heads of the forlorn dwellers in the damp cellars beneath, and that there the utmost extremes of wealth and poverty are to be found. It may be so, but of that wealth Katerina knew but little, to judge from the abject appearance of herself and all belonging to her. Underground, and

close to the canal, was her abode; and from that home she never stirred, except on Sundays; and now she is on the promenade, taking her weekly recreation. Short as she was, her legs must have been disproportionately diminutive, judging from the rate at which she progressed, for she did not compass more than one mile an hour. Her head was large, and adorned with one of the large white caps with flapping borders, worn by the Hamburg maid-servants; her dress was of coarse brown stuff, of which she took amazing care, scrupulously lifting up the petticoat when accident obliged her to cross a puddle. Her height was that of a well-grown child of two years old, and her breadth exceeded her stature. Add to this description that she was at least sixty years of age, that her complexion was of a dirty yellow, and her countenance most forbidding, and Katerina Bürger is before you.

Though Katerina never begged, she gained more in charity than all the mendicants in Hamburg put together: and as she had been in the habit of taking fees for many a long year, the chances were that she had a "pretty considerable" strong box somewhere.

Katerina went back to her cellar, and others to the rich men's feasts; the champagne flowed freely; the havannahs were smoked, and Hamburg luxury was at its height; when at eight o'clock a distant but loud report of a cannon was heard. "Poor people!" said one or two of the more feeling among the company. All knew the cause why that warning-shot was fired. The tide was high, and the underground inhabitants of the old town must leave their wretched shelter, or be drowned.

"Poor people!" they might well say; the night was cold—as March nights generally are, especially in a climate so cold as that of Hamburg. The frost had only just broken up, and detached masses of ice were floating on the canals in those parts of the town where the sun's influence was not felt. It was not much of furniture, or warmth, or dryness of which Katerina's cellar could ever boast; in short, she had more of the water-rat in her nature and habits than of a human being, but the floor and the walls were beginning to dry after the last high tide had saturated them with moisture, and now they would be colder and wetter than ever, and her bed, and table, and chair, must be removed up higher. In short, Katerina was in despair.

Immediately above her, on the ground floor, lodged two good, peaceable, but very poor women. They were worse off than Katerina, as to money, and only less to be pitied, inasmuch as they were safe from the incursions of the flood. They were Mecklenburghers, and stood in the mutual relations of mother and daughter. Their natural protector was dead; and the poor destitute widow, oppressed with grief and want, was dying.

nervous,

Clärchen, the daughter, was sitting motionless beside the narrow curtainless bed on which her mother lay. To her, poor girl, those hours seemed long ages, as she watched, with eyes fixed in fearful earnestness on the fast changing face of her only friend. The bright sunny day had passed away: Clärchen knew that it was bright, for she looked up very high, above the roofs of the opposite houses, and she saw that the sky was clear and blue. But the sunny day was gone, and in its place was a thick covering of fog, which wrapped up the evening light as in a blanket. At length night came, and poor Clärchen felt frightened, for she could not see her mother's face. She was very cold; but she could not stir, for the sick woman's hand was clasped in hers, Clärchen was very unhappy, and now she felt nervous too as peasant girls can ever feel. She longed for sound, for a light, for anything to break the solemn stillness of the room. She bent her head over her mother's face, and gently whispered the words, " Meine mutter." There came no sound,-for life was too far gone for words, but the fingers of the dying woman closed more firmly round her daughter's hand. The mother's heart responded to the last; Clärchen's words were felt and answered there. But the hand grew colder, and Clärchen felt it. "Mein Gott!" she said, "she's dying!" and the agonising scream of the terrified girl was heard through every corner of that gloomy, spacious house. But with it came another sound the warning gun. Clärchen's feelings were wound up to the highest pitch

of excitement; and, as another and another scream broke upon the stillness of the night, the cannon's heavy voice was again heard.

The sounds of distress at length brought the other lodgers to Clärchen's room, lights were produced, and eagerly held towards the bed. There were many voices talking loudly and all together in the harsh accents of the Plat Deutsch, but all this Clärchen neither heard nor saw; she felt that her mother was gone; she knew that she was left alone, and she threw herself on the bed and wept.

It was at this juncture that Katerina, who in the obscurity of her cellar had been ignorant of any event having taken place, was heard ascending the stairs from her subterranean abode, and asking in a querulous tone for the assistance of her neighbours. The frau Rücker and her daughter had always been the friends to whom she had looked in similar cases of misfortune, and now she was come to claim a renewal of their kind offices. "What der Teufel is the matter?" was her exclamation as she saw the unusual crowd collected in the widow's little chamber.

"The frau Rücker is dead," said the foremost of the group, regardless of the feelings of the mourner, and only anxious (as too many very worthy people are,) to be the first to announce a misfortune.

Katerina was a woman of decision, and she saw at a glance that something must be done. Every one was afraid of her, small as she was; and all felt that it was no joke to affront Katerina. In the twinkling of an eye one damsel of powerful frame was despatched for her bedding, another for her table, while a third was told in a summary manner to bring all she could find. In the short space of a quarter of an hour the room was cleared, the fire was lighted in the stove, and Katerina established herself for the night.

Midnight approached, and the long and deep silence (for Katerina had fallen asleep,) became more and more terrible to the bereaved Clärchen. Trembling with superstitious fear, she crept softly to Katerina's side. She did not expect sympathy from her strange neighbour, and it was merely a vague wish for communion with the living, which led her there. Her stool was drawn towards the stove, and in hopeless despondency she seated herself close very close to Katerina. A small attenuated hand was thrown round her neck, and she was drawn nearer still to her whose protection she had come to seek: a kiss was impressed upon her forehead, and the " Arme Mädchen!" which burst from the lips of the dwarf, went straight to the heart of Clärchen. She wept long, but her tears were not so bitter, as she pillowed her aching head on Katerina's lap.

Morning at length sent light into the forlorn room, and much was to be done; but we will not enter into the details of the funeral, nor of the subsequent arrangements made by the orphan and her friend Katerina. It is sufficient to say that they agreed to live together, and in the apartment occupied by the Rückers; that Clärchen was the best and most grateful of human beings; and that she worked hard in order that she might not be a burden to her who had come to share the shelter of her roof. Katerina was even more strange in her character and habits than Clärchen had anticipated. She was irritable, capricious, and hard to please, though warm-hearted and true to the one she loved.

One fine Sunday in early spring Clärchen was more than usually

depressed, for she had much to endure from the irritability of the old woman, and, though she toiled incessantly, was in fact half starved. The young year brought no joy to her, and the knowledge that the sun was shining (but not for her,) made her feel sadder still. Katerina had left her with an order that she should prepare for their supper the frugal meal of sauer kraut, which, with a little beer, was their Sunday's repast. Not a few tears had poor Clärchen shed while making the necessary arrangements, and she was beginning to wonder that Katerina did not return, when the door was gently opened, and a man's head presented itself before the eyes of the astonished girl. Clärchen did not scream, for, to say nothing of the fact that she was not of a nervous temperament, there was really nothing to make an outcry about, the new comer being young, very good-looking, and the respectable son of equally worthy parents, lodging in the house. Clärchen's eyes sparkled, and the colour mounted to her cheek, so that Wilhelm Martin thought her very pretty; and if he had not been a Northern German he would have told her so. Now Clärchen had been occasionally in the habit of receiving small civilities at the hands of Wilhelm; he had carried her basket for her, and had even gone the length of assisting her across the dirty street when he had met her returning from her work in the evening. Clärchen was not vain, but she was affectionate, and had a foolish habit of attaching herself to any creature, man or beast, that showed her kindness; and when she missed Wilhelm for a week, she wished him very much to return, and found herself often wondering whether or not he ever thought of her. Wilhelm Martin was a humble assistant clerk in a small mercantile house; he was steady and industrious; and by his earnings contributed mainly to the support of his aged parents. His father had arrived at that touching and painful period of human life, second childhood; his mother was a good bustling housewife, too old to do much work, and fretting because she could not do more. Between the two her son had rather a hard time of it, and (not being a woman) he could not be expected to display the patience and fortitude with which Clärchen supported her vexations. Still he was a good son, and his mother loved him dearly, as dearly as his father would have done had he possessed the knowledge of his existence.

Wilhelm had been absent from home for several days, his employer had despatched him on some distant business, and he was but just returned. All this was soon explained, and Clärchen felt very happy. The day was all sunshine to her now. Wilhelm sat down on Katerina's stool, and watched her as she pursued her household employment, for the old woman was coming home, and her supper was not ready, so poor Clärchen was obliged to devote herself to dressing sauer kraut instead of to love-making. At length Katerina returned. The young people were too much occupied to observe her entrance, and the "Mein Gott!" of surprise which escaped her lips as her eyes fell upon Wilhelm was the first intimation they received of her presence. The little woman had returned in high good humour, the supper was well arranged; Wilhelm was particularly civil and attentive to her, and the evening passed most harmoniously away.

Clärchen and Wilhelm were soon betrothed. They were both poor, but they were young, healthy, and industrious. It was settled that they were to be married in a month. Clärchen had recovered her good looks, and her cheerful spirits; her prospects were brightening; and

if she sometimes thought of the kind mother, who would have loved to look upon her happiness, it was with a quiet and chastened sorrow,— for time had done its work, and the bitterness of grief was past. The only one of the party who was not quite pleased was Katerina; she scarcely knew why (for Clärchen had promised to do as much for her as ever), and yet she had an undefined idea that her interests would suffer by the introduction of Wilhelm into the family. She had nothing to complain of in him personally. On the contrary, he was very kind to her, nearly as kind as her own Clärchen; and then he often brought her little presents, a sausage, or some stewed plums, dainties of which Katerina could quite appreciate the merits. Still she was not satisfied.

It chanced one afternoon (it was Sunday, and Katerina was on the Jungfernstieg,) that as Clärchen and her lover were sitting together by the side of the old table which formed one of the principal articles of furniture of which the room could boast, a small tap was heard at the door. Permission to enter being given, a singular figure presented itself. It was that of a tall man, in the dress of a Ritters Diener, as they are called in Hamburg. These men are synonymous with the mutes at an English funeral, and their costume is most remarkable. It consists of a full powdered wig and bag, a large white ruff round the throat, a short black cloak, from which protrudes a sword; and black breeches, with shoes and buckles. This dress is always worn at funerals, and on Sundays and holidays. Herr Pruss, who occupied the room next to Wilhelm's, had come merely to beg a light for his pipe. He apologised for his intrusion, and Clärchen rose in haste to supply him with a piece of burning wood from the stove. Owing to some awkwardness or inattention on her part, the table, which was between her and the new comer, was disturbed from its equilibrium by her rapid movement; and ere any one of the party had time to prevent it, fell to the ground. Herr Pruss, who was a quiet man in all his movements, deliberately stepped towards the prostrate table, and with the assistance of Wilhelm, replaced it in its proper position. As they did so, a sound a clinking, rattling sound - as if there was gold within, fell upon their ears. Neither spoke; but it was evident to both that the treasure which Katerina had long been suspected of concealing, lay hidden within a secret drawer of that harmless, unpretending-looking table.

The Herr Pruss (he was a good, peaceable man, who minded his own affairs, and did not trouble himself about his neighbours,)- the Herr Pruss took his leave, and Clärchen resumed her seat at Wilhelm's side. He was silent and thoughtful; but Clärchen felt he was occupied with her, as her thoughts were all of him, and she allowed him to muse on without interruption.

"Very strange!" he said at length,-"very strange about that table."

"Not at all strange," said poor Clärchen, rather piqued that he should have wasted so much reverie about a table. "I was very awkward, but Katerina will not mind, for it is not the least hurt by the fall."

"My dear Clärchen, I am not thinking of the fall of the table, but of the noise. Did not you hear the noise?

"I heard the table fall," said Clärchen meekly, for Wilhelm's vehemence startled her.

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