Paris, the dream of every youthfulvaurien, strongly attracted him. In the meantime he started on his travels once more, and again reached Constantinople, from whence he travelled on to Athens, defraying his expenses by clever thefts. One fine day, however, he found himself in the Grecian capital without funds and once more applied to theRoumanian legation to be repatriated. This request being refused, he drew his revolver, put it to his breast, pulled the trigger and fell down senseless. He was removed to a hospital, and although the ball could not be extracted, he did not die, as the surgeon expected. While he lay there, he attracted much sympathy and received several gracious visits from Queen Olga of Denmark, who was at that time in Athens. Her kindness so touched him the first time she came that he burst into tears. She caused him to be removed to the best room in the hospital, defrayed his expenses, and when he recovered ordered him to appear at the Greek court. Subsequently she provided the means for his journey home where, as before, he remained but a short time.
In July, 1888, his love of adventure again drew him away and eventually he managed to reach Paris, where he established himself in the Latin Quarter. His family agreed to make him a small monthly allowance, provided he should adopt some reputable means of livelihood. But the attempt was half-hearted, and as he soon found himself straitened in his means, he eked them out by thefts committed at the Bon Marché, Louvre and other great department stores. His tricks and fraudulent devices were ingenious and varied and may be passed over. He soon aimed at higher game and began stealing unset precious stones from jewellers’ shops, by which he realised plunder to the value of about5,000 francs monthly. He hired a beautiful villa in the rue François I, lived in luxury, kept race horses and was well received by members of fashionable society, in whose exclusive homes he was made welcome as the supposed son of a rich father, and where he gambled on an enormous scale, often losing large sums. One fine day, however, fate overtook him and he was arrested for thirty-seven thefts to the aggregate value of 540,000 francs. He was thus dashed from the height of prosperity into an abyss of misfortune, and in 1890, when still barely nineteen years of age, he was sentenced to four years’ imprisonment. After his release, he was again sent home to Bucharest, where as usual he remained only a short time.
He now visited various countries, including Japan and the United States. In Chicago, where many bankers are of German extraction, he was invited everywhere, partly because his German was so perfect and also because he adopted the title of Duke of Otranti and so made an impression by his imaginary high rank. Rich marriages were proposed to him, but the parents of a beautiful girl whom he desired to make his wife discredited the proofs he offered of his wealth and exalted rank. He continued his thefts and was twice imprisoned during this period of his career. But as we are chiefly concerned with his German experiences, we shall take up his life again at the time of his marriage to a German countess of an ancient Catholic familywhom he met travelling in Switzerland. He managed to procure the consent of the girl’s mother, but the rest of the family were averse to the match. The young people were genuinely in love, and this marvellous adventurer never ceased to love his wife and was a tender, though not very faithful husband while they remained together. There were so many difficulties to be overcome and so much to be concealed that the marriage seemed hardly possible. But Manolescu procured his papers from Roumania and the couple were married by the bishop of Geneva, the Roumanian vice-consul being present, though the bridegroom, to add to other complications, belonged to the Greek Church. He travelled a great deal with his wife, and in 1899 visited some of her aristocratic relations at their fine country schloss, where he was warmly received. Later on the young couple settled in a lovely villa on the Lake of Constance, where their only child, a girl, was born.
Of course Manolescu was soon short of money, and he decided to start for Cairo to try to procure for himself a position there as hotel manager. The parting between husband and wife, although they supposed it would only be temporary, was most pathetic. They never lived together again. He never reached his destination, for when out of reach of his wife’s good influence, his thieving proclivities again overmastered him, and at Lucerne, one of his stopping places, he entered the rooms of a marriedcouple staying at his hotel and stole most of the contents of the lady’s jewel case which he found in the first trunk he opened. In the husband’s trunk he also found valuable securities which he appropriated, and with this rich booty he escaped to Zurich. At the Hotel Stephanie there, he robbed the bed-room of an American gentleman, making off with bank-notes and French securities to the amount of 70,000 francs. Shortly after this coup he was arrested at Frankfurt and taken to a police station. A brief description given in his own words of some of his experiences there may be of interest.
“At the prison I was given in charge of the inspector. This man, wishing at once to assert his authority, ordered me in a brutal tone to strip where I stood, on a stone floor in a cold corridor where there was a terrible draught from the open windows. I submitted, knowing this measure to be usual at most prisons, though it does not take place elsewhere in a corridor, but in rooms specially arranged for this purpose; also prisoners are generally allowed to keep on their under-linen and shoes. I, however, had to divest myself of everything except my shoes. My garments were carefully searched one by one. During this time the inspector stood in front of me with an evil smile on his face, swaying himself from side to side. I begged him civilly to allow me to keep on my shirt, whereupon he replied that I was well protected from cold by my shoes. Beside myself with rage, I took themand flung them at his head. He threw himself upon me and tried to strike me with his bunch of keys, but I seized his wrist and twisted it, forcing him to drop them. Two warders now appeared at his call, and he ordered me to put on my clothes. To these irons were to be added, but I resisted, and a fight took place in which I came off the victor. The attempt to put me into irons was given up, and I was moved up into a small but airy cell, where I was securely locked up. Later, however, the chief inspector came to see me; he spoke to me kindly and begged me to behave quietly and he would see that I was not maltreated in any way.”
Manolescu’s attempt at escape, his simulation of madness, and the interviews with his wife, who came to Frankfurt that she might see him, need not be detailed at length. It is enough to say that he was extradited to Switzerland, tried and sentenced to only six months’ hard labour. Having regard to the strictness of the Swiss laws, this was a mild sentence, but Manolescu was not considered by the authorities to be in his right mind.
In September of 1900, after his release, he crossed once more to America, where he carried out a large robbery successfully, and returning to Paris, again lived on the very crest of the wave, frequenting the same fashionable circles and attributing his long absence from France to family affairs. He now assumed the title of Prince Lahovary, and had a neat prince’s coronet printed on his visiting cards.He posed as a bachelor, looked about for a wife, and proposed to a young American widow whom he met at Boulogne, where she was staying with her father and brother. She evinced some inclination to accept him and some of her relatives favoured the “prince’s” suit. At the end of three weeks’ courtship they parted, agreeing to meet later on in Berlin. Lahovary, as we must now call him, returned temporarily to Paris, where he literally wallowed in luxury. The large sums he spent he managed to provide for the time being by play, for he was a most inveterate gambler, although not usually lucky, as he calculated that he had lost altogether 1,800,000 francs at cards during his career. In November he arrived, as agreed, in Berlin, accompanied by a secretary and valet, and made his entry into the proud German capital as “Prince Lahovary,” a great personage by whom all Europe was presently to be dazzled and who was to be the subject of endless talk. He established himself with his suite at the Kaiserhof, still falsely pretending to be unmarried, and continued his courtship of the young widow. But his resources soon melted, and he was forced to undertake a fresh robbery on a large scale, which led to his undoing. On the evening of this theft he left Berlin for Dresden, where he sold some of the jewelry he had stolen to a court jeweller for 12,000 marks, and then returned to Berlin to take a temporary leave of his American friends, explaining to them that importantaffairs called him to Genoa. The father of the young widow proposed that as he and his son and daughter were shortly to sail for America from that port, they should all meet there, and they arranged a rendezvous for January 10, 1901. Now occurred a dramatic little incident in the life of this strange man worth recording.
On January 1, 1901, he left Berlin and went to the place where his wife lived with her child. He wanted to see them once more before proceeding to Genoa to sail from thence to the new world, although he had fully determined to marry the other woman, if possible, and settle down to a properly regulated life in America. He reached the town on January 2nd, at 9 o’clock in the morning, hired a carriage and drove to a shop to buy toys for his child and presents for his wife. He then drove to the villa where his wife lived and stopped at the gate, which he rang five or six times. No one answered or came to open the gate for him. His wife lived on the ground floor and from the window she could see any one who came without being seen. When she recognised her husband, she would not open the door, having promised her aunt never to resume relations with him. He was not to be gainsaid, however, and continued to pull the bell unceasingly. At last the outer door was unlocked and his wife came out as far as the garden gate, but this she did not open. With a trembling voice she asked him what he desired of her. He could hardlyspeak from emotion, and held out to her his presents, which she refused, saying she did not know with whose money he had bought them. He implored her to let him in to see their child, but she firmly declined. Then he fell into a passion and threatened to return with a representative of the law to help him claim his paternal rights. To prevent a scandal, she promised to show him the child from the window. At last he agreed to this compromise; she returned to the house and presently appeared at the window with the child in her arms. The little child looked at her father with uncomprehending eyes; he stared at his daughter for several minutes, then turned, hurriedly drove away and never beheld his wife or child again.
On reaching Genoa shortly afterward, he was arrested, as the police authorities in Berlin had discovered his theft, and he was sent back there and detained in the well-known Moabit prison. He was placed in a cell where he remained for nearly a year, until May 30, 1901. The examining magistrate was a humane and just man and the lawyer whom Manolescu retained for his own defence was a celebrated barrister. He had no hesitation in confessing his crimes. As doubts of his sanity existed, the medical reports from the Swiss prison, expressing uncertainty as to his mental state, were examined by the doctor of Moabit. Although the identity of the medical officer was suppressed, Manolescu guessed it by intuition and simulated madness socleverly that he was sent to the infirmary in connection with Moabit, where he was kept under observation for six weeks. He was then taken back to the prison in December, 1901, armed with a certificate drawn up by specialists, stating him to be completely deranged, though this was doubted by the crown solicitor-general. At last, on May 28, 1902, he was brought before the criminal court, where he had some difficulty in maintaining his pretence of madness. The solicitor-general pressed for a conviction as an impostor, but a verdict of insanity was pronounced; he was acquitted as irresponsible, and transferred to the lunatic asylum at Herzburg.
Fourteen months later he escaped. He attacked and pinioned his warder, took forcible possession of his keys, locked him into his own cell, and then quietly left the institution by climbing over the garden wall. With the help of a lady, a member of the Berlin aristocracy, who was a friend of his, he was able to cross the Prussian frontier and to enter Austrian territory. As the papers, however, were full of his exploits, he was arrested at Innsbruck some time later and taken to Vienna, where he still feigned madness. The Austrian doctors supported the views of their Prussian colleagues, and he was acquitted also by the Viennese court of justice. Following this acquittal, Manolescu was sent to Bucharest, where he went determined to reform and to earn his bread honestly. He could find no employment until a publisher suggested he shouldwrite his memoirs in the form of an autobiography, from which this summary of his career has been taken. By this occupation he supported himself for a time. As he could find no other means of making his livelihood, he decided to emigrate to America, where he declared every industrious man could find work. He ends his autobiography with these words: “I do not bear my countrymen any grudge. I only wish that the unfortunate prejudices of the egoistic Roumanian form of civilisation which prevented them from holding out a hand to a repentant sinner may soon be removed. Thus ends the autobiography of George Manolescu, alias Prince Lahovary.”
We fear his career after leaving Bucharest was not all it should have been, as the following paragraph appeared in January, 1906, in theDaily Express.
“George Manolescu, the celebrated swindler, has lately escaped from the prison of Sumenstein in Germany by feigning madness and pretending to be General Kuropatkin.”
Another impostor, Leonhard Bollert, has stated that he was born in 1821. His father served as sergeant-major in the fifthchevau-legersregiment, and soon after the birth of the boy left the army, married the boy’s mother and settled with his family in his own birthplace, a small town in lower Franconia, where he gained his livelihood as a provision merchant. The boy, who was greatly gifted,was apprenticed to a shoemaker at Würzburg, where he learned the trade thoroughly. After serving six years in the same regiment as his father, he went to foreign parts, incidentally embarking upon a life of criminal adventure which lasted nearly forty years. While in the service of one of his employers, he was sentenced, for embezzlement, to a term in prison, which he served in Würzburg, a town which seems to have been at that period a high school for criminals. He then successively progressed, with longer or shorter intervals between the terms, through the prisons of Plassenburg, Kaisheim, Lichtenau, Diez in Nassau, the house of correction in Mainz and the Hessian penal institution, Marienschloss. By his aptitude and his thorough knowledge of shoemaking, he everywhere earned for himself recognition and good results. How he employed his time when at large could not be definitely established. At one time he served a Hungarian count, with whom he made long journeys. It must have been then that he acquired his refined manners and his aristocratic bearing. Why he left his employer at the end of six months is not clear. Probably some of his master’s coin found its way into his own purse. Bollert used to relate to a small and select circle of friends the more startling incidents of his career with great pride,—such as his appearance at Wiesbaden as an officer and bogus baron. He also served in the papal army for a short time until it was defeated and dissolved. Hewas not indifferent to the fair sex and, as a handsome man, claimed to have had many successes.
During his last period of liberty in 1870, Bollert followed the profession of burglary and swindling on a large scale. The scene of his activity extended from Munich to the Rhine. He was clever at disguises and used a variety of costumes, wearing false beards of different hues; he possessed the complete uniform of a Bavarian railway guard, in which he once got as far as Bingen without a ticket. He plied his nefarious trade in Frankfurt, Würzburg, Heidelberg, Darmstadt, Nürnberg and Augsberg. At hotels he managed by means of false keys to enter the rooms of people who were absent, and often carried away all the articles of value he could lay hands on. In Frankfurt he was once arrested, but succeeded in breaking out of the prison. In Würzburg he was again caught and here the Court of the Assizes sentenced him to thirteen years’ penal servitude.
No one would have taken Bollert for a dangerous and bold burglar. In spite of his fifty-one years, he presented a handsome appearance, had a great charm of manner and looked well even in a convict’s dress. His expression was gentle, his address was civil and conciliating, but not in the least cringing; his bearing toward the officials was never too submissive, but always polite. Ladies, whose feet he measured in his capacity of chief shoemaker, were never tired of describing the elegant manner inwhich he bowed, and they took a great interest in the history of this attractive convict. He was entrusted with the purchase of all the leather required by the board of management of the prison, and not only acquitted himself of this task to their entire satisfaction, but also cut out the most perfect shoes the officials’ wives had ever worn. He was a Catholic and soon became an acolyte, serving the mass with a fervour never before manifested by a convict in prison. In his intercourse with the other prisoners he was always reserved, and he was and remained the “gentleman”—they always spoke of him as “Herr” Bollert. He never descended to frauds or low tricks, he never betrayed any one; but openly expressed his contempt for the behaviour of many of his companions in misfortune, without their daring to resent it. If he was offered a glass of wine or beer in the house of one of the officials, he never mentioned the circumstance. How was it that a man capable of thus altering his conduct, one may say his whole character, for a series of years, fell back into the old vicious course of action, upon being freed from restraint?
Bollert completed his thirteen years in prison, grew somewhat paler and older, but preserved his erect, graceful carriage. His end was never definitely known; no information reached the prison after his last release. Before his departure, the chaplain presented him with an old great-coat which he had repaired and remade, and he wore it withsuch a grand air that an acquaintance of the chief superintendent who had accompanied Bollert to the railway station, asked, “Was not that the attorney-general?”
Andrew Bichel, the German “Jack the ripper,” murders many women for their clothes—John Paul Forster murders a corn-chandler in Nürnberg and his maid-servant—Mysterious circumstances cleared up by clever inferences—Circumstantial evidence conclusive—Sentenced to perpetual imprisonment in chains—Rauschmaier, the murderer of a poor charwoman, detected by his brass finger ring—Sentenced to death and decapitated—The murder of August von Kotzebue, the German playwright, by Karl Sand, to avenge the poet’s ridicule of liberal ideas—Wide sympathy expressed for the murderer and strange scene at the scaffold.
A chapter may be devoted to some of the especially remarkable murders recorded in German criminal annals, which go to prove that the natives of northern regions, while outwardly cold-blooded and phlegmatic, will yield readily to the passions of greed, lust and thirst for revenge. The case of Riembauer, the abominably licentious priest, who murdered the victims he seduced, and who long bore the highest reputation for his piety and persuasive eloquence, rivals any crime of its class in any country. Germany has also had her “Jack the ripper,” in Andrew Bichel, who destroyed poor peasant women for the pettiest plunder. Murders have beenas mysterious and difficult of detection as that of Baumler and his maid-servant at Nürnberg, and conversely, as marvellously discovered as by the telltale brass ring inadvertently dropped by the murderer Rauschmaier when dismembering his victim’s corpse. The murder of the poet Von Kotzebue by the student Karl Sand was a crime of exaggerated sentimentalism which attracted more sympathy than it deserved. Quite within our own times the killing of an infant boy at Xanten unchained racial animosities and excited extraordinary interest.
Let us consider first the case of Andrew Bichel, a Bavarian who lived at Regendorf at the beginning of the nineteenth century. He was to all outward seeming well-behaved and reputable, a married man with several children and generally esteemed for his piety. But secretly he was a petty thief who robbed his neighbours’ gardens and stole hay from his master’s loft. His nature was inordinately covetous and he was an abject coward, whose crimes were aimed always at the helpless who could make no defence. No suspicion was aroused against Bichel for years. Girls went to Regendorf and were never heard of again. One, Barbara Reisinger, disappeared in 1807 and another, Catherine Seidel, the year after. In both cases no report was made to the police until a long time had elapsed, and a first clue to the disappearance of the Seidel girl was obtained by her sister, who found a tailor making up a waistcoat from a piece of dimity which she recognisedas having formed part of a petticoat worn by Catherine when she was last seen. The waistcoat was for a certain Andrew Bichel, who lived in the town and who at that time followed the profession of fortune-teller.
Catherine Seidel had been attracted by his promises to show her her fortune in a glass. She was to come to him in her best clothes, the best she had, and with three changes, for this was part of the performance. She went as directed and was never heard of again. Bichel, when asked, declared she had eloped with a man whom she met at his house. Now that suspicion was aroused against him, his house in Regendorf was searched and a chest full of women’s clothes was found in his room. Among them were many garments identified as belonging to the missing Catherine Seidel. One of her handkerchiefs, moreover, was taken out of his pocket when he was apprehended. Still there was no direct proof of murder. The disappearance of Seidel was undoubted, so also was that of Reisinger, and the presumption of foul play was strong. Some crime had been committed, but whether abduction, manslaughter, or murder was still a hidden mystery. Repeated searchings of Bichel’s house were fruitless; no dead bodies were found, no stains of blood, no traces of violence.
The dog belonging to a police sergeant first ran the crime to ground. He pointed so constantly to a wood shed in the yard and when called off so persistentlyreturned to the same spot, that the officer determined to explore the shed thoroughly. In one corner lay a great heap of straw and litter, and on digging deep below this they turned up a quantity of human bones. A foot deeper more remains were found and near at hand, underneath a pile of logs by a chalk pit, a human head was unearthed. Not far off was a second body, which, like the first, had been cut into two pieces. One was believed to be the corpse of Barbara Reisinger; the other was actually identified, through a pair of pinchbeck earrings, as that of Catherine Seidel.
Bichel made full confession of these two particular crimes. The Reisinger girl he had killed when she came seeking a situation as maid-servant. He was tempted by her clothes. To murder her he had recourse to his trade of fortune-telling, saying he would show her in a magic mirror her future fate, and producing a board and a small magnifying glass, he placed them on a table in front of her. She must not touch these sacred objects; her eyes must be bandaged and her hands tied behind her back. No sooner had she consented than he stabbed her in the neck, and after completing the hideous crime, appropriated her paltry possessions.
A complicated and for a time mysterious murder committed at Nürnberg in 1820 may be inserted here, as it throws some light upon the prison system of those days. A rich corn-chandler named Baumler was violently put to death in his own housein the Königstrasse late one evening, and with him his maid-servant, Anna Schütz, who lived with him alone. It was noticed that his shop remained closed one morning in September much later than five o’clock, his usual hour for beginning business. With the sanction of the police, some of his neighbours entered the house through the first floor windows by means of a ladder. They came upon a scene of wild disorder; drawers and chests had been broken open and ransacked with all the appearances of a robbery. Descending to the ground floor, the corpse of the maid-servant was discovered in a corner close to the street door, and soon the body of Baumler was found lying dead in the parlour by the stove.
There was little doubt that the master had been killed before the maid. She had been last seen alive the night before by the baker near-by, whose shop she had visited to purchase a couple of halfpenny rolls, and in answer to a question she had said there were still some customers drinking in Baumler’s shop. Corn-chandlers had the right of retailing brandy and the place was used as a tavern. The murderer was almost certainly one of those drinking in the shop, and the last to leave. The maid must have been attacked as soon as she returned, for the newly purchased rolls were picked up on the floor where she had evidently dropped them in her fright. She had apparently been driven into the corner of the shop and struck down. Baumlermust have been killed first, for he would certainly have come to the maid’s rescue when she gave a first cry of alarm. His body was found near the overturned stool on which he sat of an evening smoking his pipe, which lay under him with several small coins fallen out of his pocket when rifled by the murderer. The drawers and receptacles of the shop had been thoroughly ransacked and a large amount of specie had been removed, although a repeater watch and other valuables were overlooked.
The murderer had evidently acted with much circumspection. The entrance to the shop during working hours was by a glass door which was unhinged at night and a solid street door substituted, usually about eleven o’clock. The change had been made three-quarters of an hour earlier than usual, and the place had been closed, no doubt to prevent premature discovery of the bloody drama. All was dark and quiet by half past ten, although the miscreant was still inside, seeking his plunder, washing off the bloodstains and changing his clothes. He had taken possession of several of Baumler’s garments, and this imprudence, so frequently shown by murderers, contributed to his detection.
Suspicion soon fell upon a stranger who had visited the shop at an early hour in the evening and had remained there alone after nine o’clock, when the other guests had left. All agreed in their description of him as a man of about thirty, dark,black haired and with a black beard, who wore a dark great-coat and a high beaver hat; he described himself as a hop merchant and sat with a glass of red clove brandy before him, his eyes fixed on the ground, saying that he was waiting for a friend. He was easily identified as a certain Paul Forster lately discharged from prison, whose father was a needy day labourer with vicious daughters. The son Paul lived with a woman named Preiss, in whose house he was arrested, together with the woman, and a substantial sum in cash was found on the premises. Next day Forster was recognised by the waiter at an inn as the man who had entrusted an overcoat of dark gray cloth to his keeping. The coat when produced was seen to be soaked in blood. Forster himself was wearing another, a blue overcoat, which soon proved to have belonged to Baumler.
On reaching Nürnberg, both prisoners were confronted with the bodies of the two murdered persons. Forster viewed them with great unconcern, but the woman Preiss was visibly shocked. Forster’s movements on the night of the crime were traced, and he was shown to have visited his father’s house just after the murder, also it was proved that his sister had given him an axe some time before to take into the town to be ground, and this was found in his house lying behind the stove wrapped in a wet rag, and visibly stained with blood.
The circumstantial evidence against Forster wasconclusive. The blood-stained great-coat, the possession of Baumler’s property and clothes, and his presence at the scene of the crime were significant facts. The accused felt that all this surely tended to convict him, but he thought out a line of defence in the quiet of his prison cell. He sought to throw the blame upon others. He invented two persons, relatives of the murdered Baumler, who, he said, invited him, Forster, to go with them to Nürnberg where they promised him work, and from them he got, as a gift, the incriminating clothes. This fictitious story could not be sustained. The two relations did not exist and they had had no dealing, as pretended, with Forster. The whole defence was a failure, but not the less did the accused persist in his denials of guilt and fight strenuously with the examining judge. He was questioned on thirteen separate occasions and replied to thirteen hundred questions, after being confronted with innumerable victims. No confession could be wrung from him, and without it no sentence of capital punishment was admissible in the Bavarian courts. He held out obstinately to the last, under a well assumed cloak of calmness, gentleness and piety, as if submitting passively to a fate he did not deserve. He must have seen toward the end of his trial that the truth could not be overcome by his fables and cunning evasions, but he remained unmoved and, as his reward, escaped with his life.
The sentence passed upon him was perpetual imprisonmentin chains and it was endured in the fortress of Lichtenau in Hesse-Cassel. His behaviour in gaol was in keeping with his dogged, unemotional character. He bore his heavy punishment in impenetrable silence for years. His unbending obstinacy of demeanour was partly due to his callous, apathetic temperament, his unyielding power of physical endurance and his exalted personal pride. He liked to think that by stolid endurance he was proving his heroism. He boasted of his unbroken steadfastness of purpose, “Believe me,” he told a fellow prisoner, “I shall never confess; I shall resist all persuasion to do so until my last dying breath. I never gave way all my life in anything I undertook. I hug my chains.” He did so, literally, treating them as a badge of honour, a tribute to his constancy, and set himself in his leisure hours to polish them till they shone like silver. He delighted in the manifest admiration of his fellows, and at one time conversed with them freely, giving picturesque descriptions of his adventurous career and enlarging with evident pleasure on the details of his principal crime. He was often sullen and insubordinate and would do no work; no punishment would compel him or break his spirit; when they flogged him, he offered his back to the lash with the utmost indifference, taking the strokes without moving a muscle or uttering a sound, calmly protesting that they might do what they liked with his body, his spirit was unconquerable.
Forster’s countenance was vulgar and heavy, his face was long, with an unusual development of chin in contrast with a narrow forehead; this gave a harsh revolting animal expression to his fixed and unvarying features, in which the large prominent eyes alone showed signs of baleful activity.
In one of the remote quarters of the town of Augsberg, a charwoman of the name of Anna Holzmann lived in a shoemaker’s house. She was rather more than fifty years of age and, on account of her poverty, was in the habit of receiving relief from charitable institutions. It was thought by some, however, that she was not really in poor circumstances. She had good clothes and other possessions, for which she was envied. She evidently had more beds and furniture than she required for her own use, for she was able to take in two men as lodgers, who paid her rent and occupied a room next to her own. It was generally rumoured, moreover, that Mother Holzmann, although receiving alms, had put by quite a considerable sum and had a pot full of money saved.
On Good Friday, 1821, which fell on April 20th, Mother Holzmann was seen for the last time. From that day she disappeared and left no trace. Her two lodgers, after awaiting her return for several days in vain, vacated their quarters. One, called George Rauschmaier, was the first to go. His companion, who bore the name of Josef Steiner, waited rather longer, and then he, too, took hisdeparture. Believing the absent woman Holzmann would presently return, they had notified the fact of her disappearance only to the proprietor of her house who lived in the next street. This man took over all the keys which his tenant had left behind, but, seeing nothing particularly remarkable in the circumstance of the woman’s disappearance, he forbore to report it to the police until May 17th. The police immediately notified a magistrate, who caused Anna Holzmann’s nearest relatives, her brother and sister-in-law, to be questioned. The brother shared the prevailing impression that she had probably committed suicide. It was the general belief that she was a usurer who lent out money at high interest, and it was thought she had probably been defrauded of a large sum, and that when she found she could not pay her rent, she had no doubt drowned herself.
The seals which had been placed upon her property were now broken and an inventory made of her possessions. The brother and sister-in-law testified that the best articles were missing, and the pot of money which she was supposed to keep by her was not unearthed, nor any other hidden treasures. In all this there was nothing to arouse any suspicion of foul play, except a dreadful odour pervading the room, which greatly incommoded the persons engaged in drawing up the inventory. It was argued that a closer examination of the premises ought to be made, but for lack of any suspiciousevidence pointing to a crime having been committed, the further search was postponed. Nothing occurred until early in the new year, when it so happened that one day in January a laundress and her son wanted to dry linen in the attic of the house which Holzmann had occupied. In this attic, as was indeed the case throughout the wretched tenement, brooms and dustpans had never played a great part, and dust, old straw and other rubbish covered the floor and all the corners. Having kicked away some of the refuse with their feet, the two workers came upon something solid, which on closer inspection they discovered to be the thigh, leg and foot of a human body. Mother and son at once became convinced that these were the remains of the missing woman, and they hastened to acquaint the legal authorities with the facts of their ghastly discovery. A deputation from the courts of justice immediately proceeded to the spot and found, among the straw and refuse in the corner of the garret, a naked left thigh with the leg and part of a foot attached. About six paces further on, inserted between the chimney and the roof, was a human trunk without head, arms or legs. On closer search, an old petticoat with a bodice and a red neckerchief were disclosed, the whole thickly coated with blood. These garments were immediately identified by the persons living in the tenement as having been worn by the woman Holzmann.
The search was now pressed forward still moreenergetically, and under the floor, concealed by one of the boards and in close proximity to the chimney, a right arm was found. The rotten boards in the small room Holzmann’s lodgers had occupied were now further loosened and broken up, and a large bundle was uncovered. When the blood-drenched petticoat, which formed its outer covering, was unwrapped, there came to light a compressed right thigh with the leg and part of the foot, and separately enclosed in an old linen shirt, a left arm bent together at the elbow joint. All these limbs, as well as the trunk, were shrivelled like smoked meat and much distorted from long pressure. The process of decomposition had not set in, owing to the draught of air or from some other unknown causes. Now, with the idea of restoring them to their natural shape, the limbs were soaked in water for some days, then enveloped in cloths damped with spirits and stretched out as much as possible to prepare them for the autopsy, at which it was easily proved that all these members must have belonged to the same woman’s body. The deceased, moreover, must have had small bones and have been well shaped. The arms and thighs had been adroitly extracted from their sockets, and neither on the trunk nor the limbs was there a trace of any injury capable of having caused death. If therefore a wound had been inflicted, fatal to life, it must have struck that portion of the body which was missing, and in spite of all research couldnot be brought to light, namely, the head of the victim. But even without the head, the dismembered limbs were identified as having belonged to the vanished Anna Holzmann. This there was abundant evidence to show.
A sure clue was presently found with regard to the head. Near the house inhabited by the deceased, a canal passed, receiving its water from the Lech; there were several of these water courses and they flowed through Augsberg with strong currents. The overseer of a factory, situated on the bank of this canal, had found, as far back as the Whitsuntide of the previous year, a human skull in the water, which might have come from a charnel house. He had examined it, had showed it to his brother, and then had thrown it back into the water to avoid any troublesome investigations. The skull was small, entirely stripped of flesh and only two or three teeth remained in the jaw. This head corresponded with that of Anna Holzmann as described by her relations. Obviously, if she had been murdered and dismembered, the easiest way of disposing of the head was to fling it into the canal at night time. As the water from the canal flowed back into the Lech, it would be swiftly carried away.
Another possibly important clue had been obtained when the corpse was laid out for the postmortem. The doctor, in trying to straighten out the left arm, had seen a brass finger ring drop to the floor from the inner bend of the elbow. Thisring had not belonged to Mother Holzmann. No doubt it was the property of the murderer and, in the excitement of carrying on the dismembering process, it must have slipped off his finger unknown to him. The arm of the dead woman had caught and detained it. Here was conclusive evidence at first hand. But to whom did the ring belong? No one could say. Suspicion at once fell on the former lodgers of Anna Holzmann. They were the last persons who admitted having seen her and they had remained in the house without giving notice of her disappearance. Besides, who but they could have accomplished the dismemberment of the corpse, for which time and freedom from interruption were essential? Again, it was in the room occupied by them that a portion of the body had been disinterred. Rauschmaier had plainly prevaricated; he had stated on oath before the court of justice that his landlady had gone away on Good Friday with another woman, leaving him the keys of the lodging; yet this statement was, according to the clear evidence adduced, a distinct lie. It also developed that on the Saturday after Good Friday, Rauschmaier had, with the help of his sweetheart, carried off a part of Holzmann’s property and sold or pawned the articles. This was deemed sufficient ground for his arrest.
Rauschmaier had not left Augsberg and his lodging was well known. When apprehended, he behaved with a mixture of calm indifference andseemingly absolute ingenuousness. He denied all knowledge of any crime committed on the woman Holzmann and again declared that she had gone away on Good Friday with another woman whom he did not know, leaving her keys in his charge. When taken to the cemetery and shown the corpse with its dismembered limbs pieced together, he exhibited no emotion and declared that he did not recognise the body. After being detained till the end of January, he begged to be brought before a magistrate and requested to be set at liberty. On the following day, however, he admitted that he had allowed himself to be tempted to take possession of some of his landlady’s belongings during her absence. Yes, he was the thief. He also confessed that his sweetheart had removed the stolen goods with his knowledge and consent. With this frank avowal, all hope of further elucidation seemed at an end. There was nothing against him but that he had been the last to see the murdered woman; that he had omitted to report her disappearance; that he had excellent opportunities for murdering and dismembering her and that he was clearly a thief. But there were no witnesses to prove him worse.
The judge felt convinced of Rauschmaier’s guilt. Another circumstance told against him. Among his effects there was a paper of a kind well known to the police. It was printed at Cologne, was ornamented at the top with pictures of saints and purported to be a charter of absolution from all sinsand crimes however heinous, and it was claimed that it had been written by “Jesus Christ and sent down to earth by the angel Michael.” These worthless documents were often palmed off on the superstitious in those days.
The examining judge now proceeded with circumspection. Instead of making more searching investigations into the murder, he dropped it entirely and, pretending to be occupied only with the theft, questioned the culprit solely in regard to this. The woman Holzmann’s clothes were spread out before Rauschmaier, and he was inveigled into recognising all of them. But various little trinkets had been included, which had been found in his room and about the ownership of which some doubt existed. Among them were two earrings, two gold hoops and the brass ring already mentioned, which the corpse had tightly pressed in her left arm. The judge now seemed on the point of closing the examination, as though he took it as a matter of course that Rauschmaier, who had admitted so much, would not hesitate to confess that he had also stolen these trifling pieces of jewelry as well. “No,” the accused exclaimed, suddenly protesting against the supposed injustice, “these are mine, my own property.” The judge strongly urged him to make no mis-statements but to stick to the truth. Nevertheless Rauschmaier continued to assert with great violence that the earrings, the hoops and the brass ring really belonged to him. He declared thathe had always been in the habit of wearing the ring, and, as the judge still shook his head, Rauschmaier drew the ring on to show that it fitted the little finger of his right hand. It did so, but very loosely, and it could be twisted about from one side to the other. This betrayed him. He was further interrogated, and the judge laid much stress upon the suspicious circumstance, whereupon Rauschmaier broke down utterly and made full confession of his guilt.
He had been an idler from his childhood and, after serving in the Franco-Russian war, he deserted and was often an inmate of the house of correction at Augsberg. When free, he had supported himself in various ways in that city till he became a lodger in the house of the ill-fated woman Holzmann, whom he had resolved to kill on finding that she had so many valuable things and was supposed to possess much money. He was long undecided as to the method of doing the deed, but at last chose strangling as the easiest form of death and because it could be carried out without noise or leaving traces of blood; and he had heard doctors say that a strangled and suffocated corpse yielded little blood when dismembered. His opportunity came on the morning of Good Friday, when all the people in the house were at church and the lodger, Steiner, had gone out. Silence reigned in the tenement; he was alone in the upper story with the woman Holzmann. He stepped into her room and,without a word of warning, seized his victim around the throat with both hands and pressed his thumbs against her wind-pipe for the space of four or five minutes until he had murdered her outright. Then, when certain of the fact, he threw the corpse down and hastened to ransack her chest, which he found practically empty. Instead of a great treasure, he came upon only eight kreutzers and two pennies, and nothing more was brought to light after further minute search. He had strangled her for a few coppers.
Concealment was now imperative. After a quarter of an hour the corpse was cold, and he dragged it out through the door into the garret adjoining. He then proceeded to the ghastly work of dismemberment, and acquitted himself of the horrible task with the greatest adroitness, thanks to the knowledge he had acquired when campaigning, from watching the Russian surgeons at the same work. His labours occupied only a quarter of an hour. His plan for disposing of the limbs has already been described. Rauschmaier was condemned to be beheaded, but the additional sentence that he should previously stand in the pillory was remitted.
Besides Rauschmaier, his sweetheart and the other lodger, Josef Steiner, had been involved as suspects in the cross-examination. The woman’s guilt consisted only in her having assisted in selling the stolen goods, and she came off with a triflingpunishment. Steiner’s connection with the principal crime was looked upon in a different light and was more complicated. This man caused much perplexity to the judge. In point of education and intelligence he was far inferior to his late room-mate. He could not be sworn because, although thirty-four years of age, he could not be brought to understand the nature and meaning of an oath. The judge declared that Steiner was on the borderland of insanity and on the lowest level of intelligence. When interrogated, he at first denied any knowledge of the crime, but later he practically became a witness for the prosecution and his evidence helped materially to secure conviction. Steiner himself was acquitted.
At Mannheim, on March 23, 1819, August von Kotzebue, the eminent German playwright, author of the famous playThe Stranger, was stabbed to death by a hitherto unknown student named Karl Ludwig Sand. It was a murder of sentiment, not passion, and inflicted with cold-blooded calmness, to vindicate the liberal tendencies of the age exhibited by the so-called “Burschenshaft” movement, which Kotzebue had unsparingly ridiculed and satirised by his writings. Immense sympathy for the criminal was evoked in Germany; the heinous deed was approved by even the right-thinking, phlegmatic Germans, and tender-hearted women wept in pity for the assassin. His last resting place was decked with flowers, and he was esteemed amartyr to the cause of romanticism, while no one regretted the great dramatic poet.
As a youth, Sand suffered much from depression of spirits and pronounced melancholia. He was a patriot even to fanaticism, and showed it in his fierce hatred of the Napoleon who had enslaved his country. He could not bring himself to attend a review of French troops by Napoleon, lest he should attack him and so risk his own life. After the return from Elba, he entered the Bavarian service and narrowly escaped being present at the battle of Waterloo. At the end of the war he matriculated at the university of Erlangen and became affiliated with the “universal German students’ association,” the Burschenshaft, to which he vowed the most enthusiastic devotion. “It became,” says a biographer, “his one and all, his state, his church, his beloved.”
This guild did not develop very rapidly. But its leading members selected a meeting place situated on a hill in the vicinity of Erlangen. Here, after smoothing the ground and piling up stones to serve as seats, the students held a consecration feast at which punch and beer were freely indulged in. Hot discussions, followed by reconciliation, interrupted the proceedings. Dancing was indulged in around a fire, under the rays of the moon which shone through the pine trees, until the tired and probably somewhat intoxicated students, including Sand, lay down in different parts of the ground tosleep off their excitement. From Erlangen Sand moved to Jena, where he was a much less prominent student, and his life was uneventful, but when he left after eighteen months’ residence there, it was for Mannheim with daggers in his breast and a matured purpose of slaying Kotzebue. He had satisfied himself, after much inward conflict, that by killing the satirist he would be rendering a supreme service to the Fatherland. He was now possessed with a passion for notoriety. At Erlangen he had championed a good cause; at Jena his activity had perforce ceased, and the desire to do some remarkable deed had grown upon him. Constantly hungering for an opportunity to make himself celebrated, he resolved at least he would become a martyr if he could not be a hero.
No obvious reason existed for his attack upon Kotzebue. The poet had many foibles and failings, it is true, but he had done nothing to deserve to be struck down by the dagger of a fanatic in the cause of virtue, liberty and the Fatherland. He had indeed ridiculed the outburst of German national feeling which was now being developed, and thereby gave great offence to the youthful enthusiasts. He was employed as a correspondent by the Russian government, to report upon German conditions, literary, artistic and intellectual. Men of ability were often chosen in a like capacity by the Russian and other governments, and their calling was regarded as a perfectly honourable one. Kotzebue,however, wrote of Germany in a malevolent spirit. His vanity had been wounded by the public burning of his “History of the Germans,” and this, no doubt, inspired the bitter sarcasm with which he attacked the German character, though his strictures were taken much too seriously by the Germans of that day.
Before Sand left Jena for Mannheim, he had a long dagger fashioned out of a French cutlass of which he made the model himself. This was the dagger which actually penetrated Kotzebue’s breast. Sand called it his “little sword.” On arrival, he engaged a guide to take him to the house where Kotzebue lived. The poet was not at home. Sand gave his name as Heinrichs from Mitau to the maid, and she appointed a time between five and six o’clock in the afternoon for him to call again. Soon after five o’clock he stood once more in front of Kotzebue’s door. The servant, who admitted him at once, went up-stairs to announce him and then called to him to follow, and after some further preliminaries ushered him into the family sitting room. Kotzebue presently entered from a door on the left. Turning toward him, Sand bowed, of course facing the door by which Kotzebue had come into the room, and said that he wished to call upon him on his way through Mannheim. “You are from Mitau?” Kotzebue inquired as he stepped forward. Whereupon Sand drew out his dagger, until then concealed in his left sleeve, and exclaiming,“Traitor to the Fatherland!” stabbed him repeatedly in the left side. As Sand turned to escape, he paused to notice a little child who had run into the room during the progress of the murderous attack. It was Alexander von Kotzebue, the four-year-old son of the victim, who apparently had watched the proceedings from the open door. The boy shrieked and the murderer, who had been stupidly staring at him, was recalled to what was happening. But for this incident Sand would probably have escaped. A man-servant and Kotzebue’s daughter now rushed in and raised the wounded man, who still retained sufficient strength to walk into the adjoining room with their assistance. Then he sank down near the door and died in his daughter’s arms.
The house was in an uproar and for a moment Sand found himself alone. He fled downstairs but was interrupted; loud cries of “Catch the murderer, hold him fast!” pursued him, and being held at bay, he stabbed himself in the breast with his dagger. When the patrol appeared, he was carried on a stretcher to the hospital. For some hours after his arrival there he appeared to be sinking, but toward evening he revived sufficiently to be subjected to some form of examination. When questioned as to whether he had murdered Kotzebue, he raised his head, opened his eyes to their fullest extent and nodded emphatically. Then he asked for paper and wrote what follows:—“August vonKotzebue is the corrupter of our youth, the defamer of our nation and a Russian spy.” On being told that he was to be removed from the hospital to the prison, he shed tears, but soon controlled himself, ashamed, as he said, of showing such unmanly emotion. In gaol he was treated considerately and allowed a room to himself, being always strictly watched and allowed no communication with the outside world.
On May 5, 1820, the Supreme Court of the Grand-Duchy of Baden passed sentence on him in these terms: “That the accused Karl Ludwig Sand is convicted, on his own confession, of the wilful murder of the Russian counsellor of state, Von Kotzebue; therefore, as a just punishment to himself and as a deterrent example to others, he is to be executed with a sword,” etc., etc.
May 20th, the Saturday before Whitsuntide, was the day fixed for the execution. The place selected was a meadow just outside the Heidelberg gate. The scaffold erected there was from five to six feet high. In spite of precautions, the news of the approaching event spread far and wide so that crowds poured into Mannheim. The students’ association had agreed to mourn in silence at home. Most of the students, therefore, came to the fatal spot only when the bloody spectacle was over. Measures were taken to avoid disturbances by strengthening the prison guard, surrounding the scaffold with a force of infantry, using a detachment of cavalry toescort the procession from the prison, and providing a detachment of artillery under arms to call upon if necessary. Those of the educated inhabitants of Mannheim who felt sympathy for Sand did not show themselves outside their houses. Nevertheless, the streets were thronged, but in spite of this everything passed off quietly. When the scaffold was completed, the executioner appeared with his assistants. Widemann, the executioner, wore a beaver overcoat under which he concealed his sword, but the assistants were dressed in black. They are reported to have eaten their breakfasts and smoked their pipes on the scaffold. In the covered courtyard of the prison Sand was lifted into a low open chaise, which was bought for the purpose, as no vehicle could be borrowed or hired in Mannheim for such an occasion. Looking around, he silently bowed his head to the prisoners whose weeping faces appeared behind their grated windows. It is said that during the course of the trial they were careful when being led past his window to hold up their chains so that the rattle might not annoy him. When the door of the yard was opened and the assembled crowd perceived the condemned man, loud sobs were heard in every direction. Upon perceiving this Sand begged the governor of the prison to call upon him by name should he manifest any sign of weakness. The place of execution was hardly eight hundred feet from the prison. The procession moved slowly. Two warderswith crape bands round their hats walked on either side of the chaise. Another carriage followed, in which were town officials. The bells were not tolled. Only individual voices saying, “Farewell, Sand,” interrupted the pervading silence.
Rain had recently fallen, and the air was cold. Sand was too weak to remain sitting upright. He sat half leaning back, supported by the governor’s arm. His face was drawn with suffering, his forehead open and unclouded. His features were interesting without being handsome; every trace of youth had left them. He wore a dark green overcoat, white linen trousers and laced boots, and his head was uncovered. Hardly was the execution over than all present surged up to the scaffold. The fresh blood was wiped up with cloths; the block was thrown to the ground and broken up; the pieces were divided among the crowd, and those who could not obtain possession of one of these, cut splinters of wood from the scaffolding. According to other accounts, a landed proprietor of the neighbourhood bought the block, or beheading chair, from the executioner and erected it on his estate. Single hairs are said to have been bidden for, but the headsman protested against the accusation of having sold anything at all. The body and head were promptly deposited in a coffin which was immediately nailed down. After it had been taken back to the prison under military escort and its contentsexamined by the governor so that he might assure himself of the identity of the corpse, it was removed to the Lutheran cemetery where Kotzebue’s remains were also interred.
The biography of a German tramp—Miserable and neglected childhood—Becomes a professional beggar and thief—Committed to an industrial school—Joins a fraternity of beggars and becomes very expert—Meets with varied luck on the road—Arrested and punished—Gives some account of German prisons—Perpetrates a robbery on a large scale at Mannheim—Is caught with part of the stolen property in his possession and sentenced to penal servitude.
Germany has suffered grievously in recent years from the growth of vagrancy. The highroads are infested with tramps, and the prisons are perpetually full. Every good citizen is keenly desirous of reducing these scourges of society, but the progress of reform is slow. It is a difficult problem, but the first step toward solving it is to acquire a more accurate knowledge of the true spirit and character of these wrong-doers. One of the most unregenerate and irreclaimable has revealed the whole story of his life and transgressions, and some quotations from the account may throw light on the difficulties of the problem confronting the prison reformer.
“My name is Joseph Kürper and I was born at H. in the Palatinate on June 14, 1849. I was an illegitimate child and I spent my early years withmy mother. When I was four years old, she went to service and I, thrown on my own resources, was forced to beg for broken victuals from door to door. Sometimes I was driven away with hard words or the dogs were set on me. I cannot remember ever having owned a pair of shoes, and as a child I had no bed to sleep in. I suffered all kinds of hardships. When the time came for me to go to school, my troubles increased. As I was dressed in evil smelling rags and tatters, I was kept apart, treated like a leper and an outcast, and if I played truant I was cruelly beaten. Nevertheless, I managed to evade instruction almost entirely and did not learn much more than the alphabet. My life was that of a poor waif forsaken by God and man.
“At first I bore no ill-will to the well-to-do, and I had no quarrel with those who had treated me so harshly. Gradually, however, I realised my grievance against society and began to wage war on it by acts of pilfering, the first of which I committed in the house of a small farmer where my mother was in service. Tormented by hunger, I got in through a window and stole a loaf of bread and a few kreutzers. This was my first theft and it had bad results for me, for, when taxed with it, I confessed and was cruelly flogged by the farmer. Out of revenge I killed one of his fowls every day. Presently my mother again gave birth to an illegitimate child, a girl, and when the little thing was just able to toddle, she sent us out to beg in company,preferring this mode of support to that of working herself. We were beaten if we returned empty-handed to our hovel, so I became an expert thief in order to avoid the stick. My mother applauded me and my success was my ruin.
“At last, in the continued practice of stealing, I committed a theft that brought me for the first time within reach of the law. In the spring of 1860, when in my eleventh year, I laid hands on a watch in an empty house in the village of Kottweiler. I broke it up into its different component parts, which I sold separately to the children of our own village for pieces of bread. Though the watch was missed, I was not suspected and, growing bolder still, I soon after audaciously possessed myself of another watch hanging in a bake-house. This time I was caught red-handed, severely flogged, and then taken before the magistrate at Kusel. He put me through a cross-examination and I confessed everything. On my return home the village authorities vented their rage against me by beating me black and blue, and my little sister having let out the secret that I was also the thief of the watch at Kottweiler, I was again arrested and taken back by a police official to the magistrate at Kusel, who, on account of my youth, only sentenced me to two years’ detention at the industrial school at Speier. I was allowed to go home with my mother before being sent there, and when the police came to convey me, I ran away and managed to get over the Prussian frontier toSt. Wedel. Here I first begged and then worked for a small farmer in the neighbourhood. After a time I ran away again, taking with me the watch of this brutal man who had maltreated me. I now tried to live by carrying luggage at the railway station of the town. Here I found several opportunities for committing daring thefts and finally absconded, after helping myself to some money from the till of the refreshment room. After again intermittently working and stealing, I tried to set up as a highway robber, but without success, and was soon arrested by a police official who had a warrant out against me, and actually handed over to the authorities of the industrial school at Speier.
“Had this institution been the best in the world, I should not have felt at my ease in it, as I was like a young wild-cat or a bird of prey shut up behind iron bars. About one hundred Catholic children were confined there, all of them vicious and corrupt. Those who were unversed in criminal ways soon learned from the others. The majority, among whom I count myself, left the school worse than they entered. The system of education was perfectly worthless; we were constantly beaten and, being badly fed, we lost no opportunity of stealing broken victuals. I must acknowledge that I learned a great deal at school in regard to my trade, that of a shoemaker. But I had not been long in the place before I contrived to escape and reach the town of Lautern. Here I was taken into the houseof a worthy tradesman, to whom I told my real name and origin; but I concealed the fact that I had run away from Speier. He became fond of me, and I noticed that he now and then put my honesty to the test, which induced me to resist every temptation bravely. As he was childless and wanted to train me up as a tradesman, a happy future might have been in store for me, had not fate decreed otherwise.
“One Sunday my master proposed taking me to see my mother, and we started on our drive. I was so afraid that the authorities of the village would send me back to Speier that when we halted somewhere to dine, and my master had dropped asleep, I ran away. I wandered about homeless for a time until at Kaiserslautern I was caught and returned to Speier. There I soon became aware that nothing good awaited me, and my fears were realised, for I was deprived of my supper the first night and on going to bed was cruelly flogged with a knout until the blood streamed down my back. But, though specially watched, I again escaped to Kaiserslautern, where I was employed by an upholsterer who taught me a great deal. Once more I was discovered and sent back to Speier, where I was a second time welcomed with the knout. I now made no further efforts to escape and for the rest of my time possessed my soul in patience. The days passed monotonously, the only variation being that sometimes I was flogged more than usual. We rose early,dressed, washed, prayed and did our school tasks, breakfasted on thin soup, in which there was never a scrap of fat, and worked in the various shops until eleven o’clock, when we dined. After that meal came gymnastic exercises and drill. Then school or working at our trades alternately occupied the time until supper at seven, and we went to bed at half past eight. Sundays were more entertaining. In the afternoon, after service, we went to walk outside the town. On these expeditions we stole what we could in the way of edibles and took our booty to bed with us to eat it during the week, though, of course, we were flogged if our thefts were discovered, which, however, did not deter us from further efforts at pilfering in the institution itself. When the two weary years were over, I had grown into a tall, likely lad. I possessed a fair amount of schooling and I believed myself to be qualified to take a place as assistant to a shoemaker, being expert at my trade. I had received no religious impressions; principles I had none. I only longed for freedom and to enjoy life.
“My dreams of golden liberty were not to be fulfilled as yet. On being dismissed from the school, I was provided with two suits of clothes and sent to Lautern, where I had to present myself to a certain Herr Meuth, the president of a reformatory society. He placed me with a shoemaker. I had hoped I should be paid wages but, when claiming them with the other journeymen, I was told Ishould get what I deserved, and my master proceeded to take down a dog-whip from a peg where it hung and flogged me unmercifully. On the following Sunday he informed me that I was only an apprentice and should have to serve him in that capacity two years longer and could not escape it. At the end of that time he offered to keep me and pay me regular wages, but I refused, as he had so often abused and maltreated me. He gave me my indenture, which was, at the same time, a certificate of good conduct. I packed my possessions and wandered out into the world.
“As happy as a king, I started on my journey to Mannheim. I carried a satchel on my back and my road lay through the Rhine district where the trees were in full bloom. Arriving at my destination, I found occupation with a shoemaker who, however, declared that my work was not of a very high character and paid me only one gulden a week, with insufficient food. In everything outside of my trade I was left to my own devices and consequently, being of an undisciplined nature, I led anything but a decent life. Looking back to these days, I recognise how very much better it would be if every apprentice, at the outset of his wage-earning life, were forced to belong to a guild, so that he would be protected by a strict corporation of this sort and obliged to obey its laws. In those days I thought otherwise, but now that I am under prison rule I regret the license I was allowed then. I remained a year atMannheim but, as my master refused to raise my wages, I departed one fine day and walked to Karlsruhe, passing through Bruchsal and Heidelberg on my way.
“In Karlsruhe I likewise had the good fortune to find occupation without undue delay. The court shoemaker, Heim, took me into his house and gave me good wages and, as I did piece work, I sometimes earned from 12 to 15 guldens a week. On Sundays I used to dress myself in fashionable clothes, on which I spent my pay, and walk out with a glass in my eye and a cigar in my mouth, hoping to be taken for something far superior to a shoemaker’s assistant. I was a good-looking lad, and on a fine Sunday in summer I walked into a beer garden, where I made the acquaintance of a pretty young lady who was sitting at a table with a party of respectable people. I represented myself as the son of a rich man from Munich and said that my name was Junker, that I held a position in Karlsruhe as a confectioner and lodged in the house of the shoemaker Heim. The girl and her family believed my statements, and I was received with kindness as a visitor at their house. Of course, courtship in the guise of a rich man costs money, and I was soon obliged to pawn my watch. A Sunday came round on which I was unable to call on my sweetheart; I had to sit on my stool and draw my cobbler’s thread through shoeleather. My lady-love came to inquire for me, and saw me in my workinggarb. She turned and left the house, but I followed her and tried to excuse myself, whereupon she took out her purse and, pressing it into my hands, said, ‘Keep it and amend your ways. I do not quarrel with you for being a cobbler, but I am grieved that you should have deceived me.’ I returned to my room terribly ashamed and wrathful. I determined not to remain a moment longer in the town, so I paid my debts with the contents of my purse and took my departure. It was lucky for the respectable and decent girl that she discovered my swindling practices before it was too late.”
After this the tramp wandered to and fro, from Baden to Offenburg, leading a precarious existence, working as a shoemaker when he could find employment and living royally when he had the funds, but begging for food and half-starved when out of luck. At last he reached Darmstadt where he joined an organisation of professional vagrants. Their headquarters were at a low tavern where false passports and “legitimation” papers were manufactured to help in confusing the police as to the true antecedents of this semi-criminal fraternity. He continues: “The day after my arrival at the inn, my new colleagues joined me at breakfast and a plan of campaign was fixed upon. I was to take off my shirt and leave it at the inn, wind a cloth around my neck and button up my coat to meet it; thus attired, I was to start out, accompanied by one of the vagrants dubbed in familiar parlance ‘theBaron.’ He was to point out to me the most likely houses for our purpose. I was to enter the first of these and beg for a shirt, and having obtained it, repeat the process at other houses. Thus by evening we should have collected from twenty to thirty shirts, which we were then to sell. By pursuing this line of business we should have money in abundance and live at our ease. This is a fair picture of the mode of existence of large numbers of journeymen lads in Germany, the children of respectable parents who go to perdition, body and soul. My first attempt turned out most successfully as the Baron had foretold, and I became very expert in my new calling. We worked as follows: The Baron pointed out a house where I might hope to obtain something in the way of a gift and indicated a place where he would wait for me to rejoin him. When the servant answered the door, I gave him the envelope containing my false ‘legitimation,’ and a begging letter describing my miserable condition, and asked him to take it to his mistress. He soon returned with my papers and a thaler, explaining that this was the best the lady could do for me. Flushed with victory, I ran to find the Baron, who slipped my papers into another envelope. He always carried a supply of envelopes to replace those that had to be torn open. We next went to the house of the Bavarian envoy, where I received a gulden and a good shirt. We continued our successful round until the evening, when wereturned to the inn with our rich booty. Here every article was inspected, sorted, valued, and later, when the other habitués came in, the parlour was turned into an auction room. Among the buyers was a policeman and, as he had first choice, he selected the best of my shirts, some of which were quite new, for himself. Other purchasers followed, and at the end of the evening we had disposed of all our goods. Our ready money amounted to a good round sum and was divided into three portions. I had made more in this one day than I had ever been able to earn in a week.
“Our plans for the following day came to nought. I was arrested about four o’clock in the morning by four police officials who penetrated into my room, pinioned me when I offered resistance, and took me off to the police ward No. 2 on the charge of theft. Here I was interrogated as to what I had done with the articles I had stolen on the previous day. I denied indignantly that I had stolen anything at all, but I was next conducted across the market place to a jeweller’s shop and identified by the owner as the rascal whom he suspected. I was quite puzzled at the unwarranted accusation against me, although I remembered having been in the shop on the previous day. From the police ward I was carried to the prison and locked up in a cell, where I remained for three whole days, until interrogated, and, as the jeweller persisted in his accusation, I was detained for eightdays longer. Finally the jeweller, Scarth by name, appeared, full of apologies, and admitted that the knife he had believed to have been stolen had been found. The end of this incident was that Scarth compensated me handsomely for my long and unjust imprisonment. The next morning I packed my satchel and started for Frankfurt. I walked from Darmstadt to Frankfurt, and only remember that on my way I stopped at a farmhouse where, as I found no one about, I annexed a ham. Toward evening I reached the end of my journey and betook myself at once to a well-known ‘inn father’—for so we called our landlords—in the Judengasse. It is needless to state that a real vagrant has a perfect knowledge of all the disreputable haunts and low public houses of the whole German Empire. Next day I went direct to Baron Rothschild’s house, as he was the Bavarian consul, where I rang the bell, and, on being admitted to his presence, was told to produce my papers. I received two thalers and a free pass to the next place for which I said I was bound. This was all entered on my ‘legitimation,’ which was also impressed with an official seal, so that it became absolutely useless to me. As I now thoroughly understood the manufacture of these false documents, however, I made myself another one the same evening, entering myself as the sculptor Burkel from Messau and under this name and designation I spent ten months at Frankfurt without doing a stroke of work. Imade out a plan of the town and pursued my trade of begging from wealthy families in the principal streets, with great success. It is true that I was arrested several times, and put under lock and key for a few days now and then. Though warned to leave the place or to find work, I did neither, but ran the chance of being caught and identified.