My nights were sweet at Carlsruhe. My slumber was ushered in with
those delicious dream-sketches that lend their grace to folly. Each
morning I wondered what surprise the day would arrange for me.

The little wood was hidden from my window by an early fog: the birds
were silent. I was meditating on my singular position, in pawn as it
were under the care of Joliet's good daughter, when I heard my name
pronounced at the bottom of the stairs. It was Sylvester Berkley.

The briskness of our friendships depends on the time when--the place
where. To men in prison a familiar face is the next thing to liberty.

Some years ago I had an absurd dispute with a neighbor about a
party-wall at Passy, and was obliged to go to the Palace of Justice at
ten every morning for a week. My forced intercourse with those solemn
birds in black plumage had a singular effect on me. While among them
I felt as if cut off from my species, and visiting with Gulliver some
dreadful island peopled with mere allegories. As the time passed
I grew worse: I dragged myself to the Cité with horror, and before
returning home was always obliged to wash out my brains by a short
stroll in Notre Dame or amongst the fine glass of the Sainte Chapelle.
One day, pacing the pale and shuffling corridors of the palace,
waiting for an unpunctual lawyer, and regarding the gowns and caps
around me with insupportable hate, at the turning of a passage--oh
happiness!--a face was revealed in the distance, the face of a friend,
the face of an old neighbor. At the bright apparition I made an
involuntary sign of joy: the owner of the face seemed no less pleased.
We walked toward each other, our hands expanded. All of a sudden a
doubt seemed to strike us both at the same moment: he slackened his
pace, I slackened mine. We met: we had never done so before. It was