the hour and the state of the weather; besides beginning, to Franz’s great consolation, to sing an evening hymn directly under his window. Had he not feared that the man would be terrified away, if he heard himself spoken to from the haunted castle, he would gladly have entered into conversation with him.
In the midst of a populous town, when a man is harassed by silly people, it may appear a pleasant relief to retire to some solitary spot, and philosophize on the charms of solitude. He then represents it as most soothing to the mind; he multiplies its advantages, and sighs for its enjoyment. But where such solitude is,—as in the island of Juan Fernandez, where one poor shipwrecked sailor lived many years quite alone,—in a thick forest at midnight,—or in an old uninhabited castle, where damp walls and unexplored vaults create apprehension and horror, and where nothing gives signs of life, but the mournful ruin-loving owl,—there solitude is hateful, and companions pleasant, especially if the solitary person, like Franz, should expect every moment to see some horrid spectre. In such a situation, a conversation from the window, even with the watchman, may appear more entertaining than the most interesting book, were it even a dissertation on solitude. Had Zimmermann been in Franz’s place, in the castle of Rummelsburg, on the frontiers of Westphalia, he would then probably have planned as interesting a work on the pleasures of society, as troublesome people provoked him to write on solitude.
The midnight hour is said to be the time when the spiritual world begins to live and act, while the more coarse animal kingdom enjoys repose. For this reason, Franz wished to go to sleep before the critical hour arrived; he shut the window therefore, surveyed once more every corner of his room, and quickly threw himself on the soft couch, greatly to the delight of his wearied limbs. Sleep, however, came not so soon as he wished. A palpitation, which he ascribed to the wine he had drunk, kept him awake for some time, during which he repeated his prayers more fervently than usual; at length he fell soundly asleep. After a short time, he awoke with a sudden start, when, on remembering where he was, he heard the town clock strike twelve; which news the watchman soon afterwards loudly proclaimed. No other noise was, however, heard. Franz listened for some time, and, turning round, was again relapsing into sleep, when at some distance he heard a door opened, and immediately afterwards shut with a loud crash.
“Woe! woe to me!” whispered fear, “here comes the ghost!” “It is the wind, nothing but the wind,” replied courage. But the noise approached nearer and nearer, like the heavy steps of a man, rattling his chains as he moved, or like the chamberlain of some old castle, wandering about his domain clanging his bunch of keys. This could not be the wind—courage vanished, fear
