called, and at the head of his regiment
challenged the colonel of a French one to a duel, and seriously wounded
him.

It was apparently natural to Prince Puckler to live according to his
own pleasure, undisturbed by the opinions of his fellow-men, and this
pleasure urged him to pursue a different course in almost every phase of
life. I said "apparently," because, although he scorned the censure of
the people, he never lost sight of it. From a child his intense vanity
was almost a passion, and unfortunately this constant looking about him,
the necessity of being seen, prevented him from properly developing an
intellect capable of far higher things; yet there was nothing petty in
his character.

His highest merit, however, was the energy with which he understood
how to maintain his independence in the most difficult circumstances in
which life placed him. To one department of activity, especially, that
of gardening, he devoted his whole powers. His parks can vie with the
finest pleasure-grounds of all countries.

At the time I first met him he was sixty-nine years old, but looked much
younger, except when he sometimes appeared with his hair powdered until
it was snow-white. His figure was tall and finely proportioned,
and though a sarcastic smile sometimes hovered around his lips, the
expression of his face was very kindly. His eyes, which I remember as
blue, were somewhat peculiar. When he wished to please, they sparkled
with a warm--I might almost say tender-light, which must have made many
a young heart throb faster. Yet I think he loved himself too much to
give his whole affection to any one.

A great man has always seemed to me the greatest of created things, and
though Prince Puckler can scarcely be numbered among the great men of
mankind, he was undoubtedly the greatest among those who surrounded
him at Branitz. In me, the youth of nineteen, he awakened admiration,
interest, and curiosity, and his "You are a poet" sometimes strengthened
my courage, sometimes disheartened me. My boyish ambitions in those days
had but one purpose, and that was the vocation of a poet.

I was still ignorant that the Muse kisses only those who have won her
love by the greatest sufferings. Life as yet seemed a festal hall, and
as the bird flies from bough to bough wherever a red berry tempts him,
my heart was attracted by every pair of bright eyes which glanced kindly
at me. When I entered upon my last term, my Leporello list was l