O Dorothea! you can't forgive me--you oughtn't to forgive me; but I love
you madly still.

My next flame was Ottilia: but let us keep her for another number; my
feelings overpower me at present.




OTTILIA.


CHAPTER I.

THE ALBUM--THE MEDITERRANEAN HEATH.


Travelling some little time back in a wild part of Connemara, where
I had been for fishing and seal-shooting, I had the good luck to get
admission to the chateau of a hospitable Irish gentleman, and to procure
some news of my once dear Ottilia.

Yes, of no other than Ottilia v. Schlippenschlopp, the Muse of
Kalbsbraten-Pumpernickel, the friendly little town far away in
Sachsenland,--where old Speck built the town pump, where Klingenspohr
was slashed across the nose,--where Dorothea rolled over and over in
that horrible waltz with Fitz-Boo--Psha!--away with the recollection;
but wasn't it strange to get news of Ottilia in the wildest corner of
Ireland, where I never should have thought to hear her gentle name?
Walking on that very Urrisbeg Mountain under whose shadow I heard