with closed eyes,
and at the same time press your nose between your fingers. In the
evening I got to Perleberg, and walking wearily up the old, irregular
High Street, established myself at the Londoner Schenke--the London
Tavern. I found the parlour pleasant and almost private, the hostess
quiet and lady-like. While she was getting coffee ready for me, I paid
my call of duty upon the police; for though my passport had been _vised_
to Berlin in half a dozen places, the law required that I should not
sleep in a new kingdom without first announcing my arrival.

At the upper end of the market place I found a red brick building with a
gloomy door, opening upon a broad stone staircase, by which I mounted to
the magistrate's room. That was a lofty hall, badly lighted by two
little windows, and scantily furnished with a few seats. Behind a
railing sat the magistrate in a velvet skull-cap and black robe; a short
fat man with a satisfied face, but unsatisfied and restless eyes. Two
armed soldiers shared with him the space beyond the rail. Two townsmen,
hat in hand, were patiently waiting for their passes. Having mentioned
my business, I was told that I might wait; standing, of course. The
heavy quiet of the room was broken presently by the entrance of two young
workmen in clean blouses, bound upon an errand like my own, who hovered
in a tremulous condition near the doorway.

The magistrate of Perleberg, after awhile, looked at my passport, and
asked "Have you the requisite amount of travelling money to show?" I had
not expected such a question, but the two gold ducats were still in my
fob, and I produced them with the air of a fine gentleman. One of the
soldiers took them in his hand, examined them and passed them to his
comrade, who passed them to the townspeople. "They are good," said the
soldier, as he put them back into my hand.--"Is that enough?" I asked, as
though there had been thousands of such things about other parts of my
person, for I saw that I had made an impression. "That will do," said
the magistrate, "you may sit down." O miserable homage before wealth!
They would not keep me standing.

It had grown dark, and a lighted candle had been placed upon the desk of
the chief magistrate, a most diligent man in his office, who, seeing no
description of my person in the passport, set to work with the zest of an
artist upon the depiction of my features. Examining each feature
minutely with a candle, he put