gladiator in the service of the Tories, when he at last shook off the chains of mental slavery, rose in all the majesty of his inborn citizenship, and, to the terror of his former patrons, like a Spartacus of Downing Street, proclaimed municipal and ecclesiastical freedom for all mankind, and won for England every liberal heart, and with it preponderance in Europe.
At that time all was dark in Germany—nothing but owls, censor's edicts, prison vapours, romances of resignation, night-watch or military parades, bigotry and stupidity; and when the gleam of Canning's words shone from afar on us, the few hearts which still felt hope rejoiced. As for the writer of these words, he kissed farewell to his loving and most loved ones, embarked, and went to London to see and hear Canning. There I sat whole days in the gallery of the Chapel of St. Stephen, and lived in his sight and drank the words from his mouth, and my heart was intoxicated. He was of middle height, a handsome man, who had a nobly formed and open countenance, very high forehead and somewhat bald, lips curving in a good-natured expression (wohlwollend-gewölbte), soft persuasive eyes, but a man vigorous enough in his movements when he now and then struck on the sheet-iron box which was before him on the table for documents. Yet, even in moments of excitement and passion, he was always
