These two extraordinary men were joined by others who possessed all the qualities essential to a reckless life, together with real and headstrong valour.  One of them, named Stelzer, a regular Berserker out of the Nibelungenlied, who was nick-named Lope, was in his twentieth term.  While these men openly and consciously belonged to a world doomed to destruction, and all their actions and escapades could only be explained by the hypothesis that they all believed that inevitable ruin was imminent, I made in their company the acquaintance of a certain Schroter, who particularly attracted me by his cordial disposition, pleasant Hanoverian accent, and refined wit.  He was not one of the regular young dare-devils, towards whom he adopted a calm observant attitude, while they were all fond of him and glad to see him.  I made a real friend of this Schroter, although he was much older than I was.  Through him I became acquainted with the works and poems of H. Heine, and from him I acquired a certain neat and saucy wit, and I was quite ready to surrender myself to his agreeable influence in the hope of improving my outward bearing.  It was his company in particular that I sought every day; in the afternoon I generally met him in the Rosenthal or Kintschy’s Chalet, though always in the presence of those wonderful Goths who excited at once my alarm and admiration.

They all belonged to university clubs which were on hostile terms with the one of which I was a member.  What this hostility between the various clubs meant only those can judge who are familiar with the tone prevalent among them in those days.  The mere sight of hostile colours sufficed to infuriate these men, who otherwise were kind and gentle, provided they had taken the slightest drop too much.  At all events, as long as the old stagers were sober they would look with good-natured complacency at a slight young fellow like me in the hostile colours moving among them so amicably.  Those colours I wore in my own peculiar fashion.  I had made use of the brief week during which my club was still in Leipzig to become the possessor of a splendid ‘Saxon’ cap, richly embroidered with silver, and worn by a man called Muller, who was afterwards a prominent constable at Dresden.  I had been seized with such a violent craving for this cap that I managed to buy it from him, as he wanted money to go home.  In spite of this remarkable cap I was, as I have said, welcome in the den of this band of rowdies:  my friend Schroter saw to that.  It was only when the grog, which was the principal beverage of these wild spirits, began to work that I used to notice curious glances and overhear doubtful speeches, the significance of which was for some time hidden from me by the dizziness in which my own senses were plunged by this baneful drink.