A little old man, a professor in Tibsingen, who had joined our circle some days before, and passed his time in quiet, silent enjoyment, enlivened by an occasional deep conference with the Rhine wine, had kept smiling to himself during what he called our “comparative anatomy,” and twirling his huge snuff-box between his fingers with such skilful rapidity, that it revolved like a coach-wheel. “I cannot longer refrain from a remark I wished to make,” exclaimed he at last. “Under your favour, gracious lady, I do not look upon him as being precisely the Wandering Jew, but still as being a very strange mortal. As long as he was present, the thought would, it is true, now and then flash up in my mind, ‘You have seen this man before, but pray where was it?’ but these recollections were driven away as if by magic whenever he fastened upon me those dark wandering eyes of his.” “So was it with me--and with me--and with me,” exclaimed we all in astonishment. “Hem! hem!” smiled the Professor. “Even now the scales seem to fall from my eyes, and I see that he is the very same person I saw in Stuttgart twelve years ago.” “What, you have seen him then, and in what circumstances?” asked Lady von Thingen eagerly, and almost blushed at the eagerness she displayed. The Professor took a pinch of snuff, shook the superfluous grains off his waistcoat, and answered--“It may be now about twelve years since I was forced by a law-suit to spend some months in Stuttgart. I lived at one of the best hotels, and generally dined with a large company at the table d’hôte. Once upon a time I made my first appearance at table after a lapse of several days, during which I had been forced to keep my room. The company were talking very eagerly about a certain Signor Barighi, who for some time past had been delighting the other visitors with his lively wit, and his fluency in all languages. All were unanimous in his praise, but they could not exactly agree as to his occupation; some making him out a diplomatist, others a teacher of languages, a third party a distinguished political exile, and a fourth a spy of the police. The door opened, all seemed silent, even confused, at having carried on the dispute in so loud a tone; I judged that the person spoken of must be among us, and saw--” “Who, pray?” “Under favour, the same person who has amused us so agreeably for some days past. There was nothing supernatural in this, to be sure, but listen a moment; for two days Signor Barighi, as the stranger was called, had given a new relish to our meals by his brilliant conversation, when mine host interrupted us suddenly--‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘prepare yourself for an unique entertainment which will be provided for you tomorrow.’