Pilgrimages to the Spas in Pursuit of Health and Recreation / With an inquiry into the comparative merits of different mineral waters: the maladies to which they are applicable, and those in which they are injurious

by James Johnson

LEIPZIG.

Having had a good deal—perhaps too much—to do with books, I had some curiosity to see this great mart of buckhandlungs—at once the cradle and the grave of literature! The first thing that strikes the stranger is the eternal “buckhandlung” over every second door in the city. The next, is the paucity of carriages—a drowsky or a private vehicle being rarely visible. The third object is perpetually reminding us, not without sighs and groans, of the smooth trottoirs over which we were wont to glide in modern Babylon. Of all the towns through which I have limped and hobbled in my journey of life, Leipzig bears the palm for maiming and laming the unfortunate visitor, by means of its sharp stones and uneven pavée. I wonder that the seven-leagued and iron-shod boots of the students, together with the innumerable tomes of heavy literature that are biennially carted through the streets of Leipzig, have not ground off the angles from the said stones. Yet they have not.

As I was unwilling to do the penance of Peter Pindar’s pilgrim, I directed my steps to the observatory, and mounted its highest balcony, when Leipzig and its contiguous battle-field lay stretched beneath me. The astronomer kindly pointed out the topography of the city and its vicinity, with minute details of the great combat which he himself had witnessed. Leipzig is a curious compound of the modern and the antique—one side being new and the other old. But in every street, bustle and business went on, while on every countenance thought and reflection were so visibly painted that one would suppose the whole of the books that came to the two fairs were studied by the inhabitants. The demolition of the fortifications has secured the Leipzigers two things—the presence of healthful walks, and the absence of bloody sieges—blessings and curses which the Parisians seem neither to desire nor dread. Cities should never be converted into fortresses. The extent of the works and the number of the people are causes of weakness and not strength. A fortress should only contain soldiers, who can lay in provisions against long investment, and on whom, not on citizens, the horrors of war should fall.

I have said that this city is the cradle of literature. No biblio-parturient author in Germany would think of being confined, and delivered of his bantling of the brain, without the aid of a Leipzig accoucheur. Whether his cerebro-gestation may have lasted nine months, or, as Horace directs—as many years—

“Nonum prematur in annum,”

Mr. Brockhaus, or some of his obstetrical brethren in Leipzig, must usher the “nouveau né” into light.

But I have also said that Leipzig is the grave as well as the cradle of literature, or rather of its authors. At every fair there is a number of fairies on the look out for every promising birth, which is immediately kidnapped—wrested from its lawful parents—and sold in distant markets! In other words:—whenever a work of merit, or apparent merit, appears in the Leipzig fair, it is pounced upon by literary sharks and vultures from Frankfort, Wirtemburg, and other places, and instantly reprinted for the benefit of those who have gone to no outlay in brains or money! It is in vain that authors and publishers complain. The former are told that, although they have pocketed nothing by their long literary toil, they have earned reputation, which is greatly superior to sordid gold; while the publishers are laughed at for their foolish speculations! Hence it is, that authors of the most splendid talents and universal renown, are often forced to publish by subscription—a mode that would damn, or at least, degrade them in the eyes of a British public. It may be said that—

“All partial ill is universal good,”

and that, though authors and booksellers are defrauded, the public are gainers. But private industry is as deserving of protection as private property—and there can be no doubt that many men of great talent and learning are discouraged by these piracies, and deterred from embarking in literary labours. This uncertainty too prevents all liberal outlay on paper and type, both of which are disgracefully bad in Germany.

Leipzig is not without interesting associations and reminiscences. But some of the historical are too remote—some too recent—to be dwelt on here. The poetical are too extravagant—and the literary too mystified for much notice in this place. Yet we cannot bid adieu to this cradle and grave of literature, without a passing thought on two of its magnates—Gottsched and Klopstock—the former, the father of modern German learning—the latter, the Goliath of the same. Gottsched was born to be a great man—for his stature was such that he abandoned, through pure modesty, his native land, and took refuge in Leipzig, lest he should be promoted to the rank of a grenadier in the army of Frederick the Great. There he claimed the character of an universal genius, acting, at once, the philosopher, grammarian, critic and poet. But his body was bigger than his brains, and he is now consigned to oblivion—perhaps unjustly so. His language then (1740-60) was just emerging from barbarism. It was a period of transition, and shewed no signs of vigorous life. “He introduced a more cultivated style—attacked pedantic extremes—and excited useful controversy.”

Passing over Schlegel, Gellert, and other literary lions of Leipzig, we must bear in mind that it was from this mart of learning that the great Klopstock, like a huge gymnatus electricus, caused Europe to vibrate by the birth of his Messiah. “It roused all Germany from Leipzig to its circumference; and Bodmer, from the valleys of Switzerland, hailed its author as the morning-star of a new æra.”

RETROSPECTIVE VIEW FROM THE TOWER OF THE OBSERVATORY.

He must be a stoic, or something more, who can stand on this time-worn tower, without recalling to mind those stupendous events which occurred a quarter of a century ago, around the base of the building. No event, ancient or modern, can at all compare with the battles around Leipzig, in Oct. 1814: whether we look to the magnitude of the armies—the discipline, valour, and enthusiasm of the men—the talents and skill of the commanders—or the momentous object for which they fought. Six crowned heads—three Emperors and three Kings—were present at these terrific conflicts, and witnessed the carnage and havoc among five hundred thousand soldiers engaged for several days and nights in mortal combat!! This was not the undisciplined rabble, or the effeminate retinue of an Oriental despot, crossing the Hellespont in pride and ignorance; but veterans from every country between the mountains of Norway and the mouths of the Danube—between the Atlantic on the West and Siberia in the East. These battles were not for mere victory, or to decide some political quarrel between two or more states. No. It was for the very existence of sceptres—for the independence or subjugation of every empire and kingdom in Continental Europe. The struggle was between the oppressor and the oppressed—between Napoleon the aggressor, and the allied Sovereigns, as defenders of their crowns, hearths, and altars. The one army had the disgrace of a hundred defeats to obliterate and avenge—the other the laurels of a hundred victories to preserve and sustain. The French fought for the glory of their country, or rather of their Emperor, and the conquest of Europe—the Allies, for the liberation of their soil from thraldom, and the repulsion, if not the deposition, of a tyrant invader.

Such a prodigious accumulation and concentration of martial hosts,—excited, agitated, and impelled by the fiercer passions of our nature—by ambition, hatred, and revenge—portended the approach of some great crisis in the affairs of the world. The feeling on both sides was, evidently, “aut Cæsar aut nullus.” The grand crisis was indeed at hand. The benignant Star of Peace and Justice was about to rise, in splendour, from the East;—while the malignant Meteor of War, that had scattered, for twenty years, plague, pestilence and famine over a groaning world, was about to descend from its bad eminence, and be extinguished for ever in the Atlantic surge.

Napoleon, with all his strength of mind, was superstitious; having some peculiar notions about fate, and destiny, and stars and fortune—as though these imaginary beings had any power to control the laws of Nature, or interfere between cause and effect, whether in the moral or physical world.

It is not improbable that, when, in the night of the 15th October, Napoleon saw three “death-rockets” rise from the southern horizon, streaming their pale but brilliant light high through the Heavens—and, when, immediately afterwards, he beheld four blood-red meteors springing up far far to the northward, indicating too plainly that the signal from the grand Austro-Russian army in the South was answered by the Swedo-Prussian in the North, his moral courage may have experienced a momentary depression, and his superstition an alarm! There was little time, however, for reflection. Action, action was soon required. At the dawn of day the Austro-Russian army attacked the whole southern front of the French position with great fury but no success. Six desperate attempts were reiterated, one after the other—but all failed! This was discouraging enough—worse remained behind. The moment of exhaustion among the allied troops was seized upon by Napoleon, who, by one gigantic effort, pierced and penetrated the very centre of the allied line, while Murat, Maubourg, and Kellerman, dashed through the gap with the whole of the cavalry! At this moment of frightful peril, when the torrent of French troops was pouring through the fatal breach with irresistible impetuosity, shouting and exulting in the successful exploit, Alexander called to his faithful Cossack guards, and pointing to the column of French cavalry that was thundering forward in the rear of the allies, addressed a few, and but a few words to them—probably not dissimilar from those of our own poet, at another terrific combat—

——on ye brave,

Who rush to glory or the grave—

Wave, Cossacks! all your banners wave!

And charge with all your chivalry!

The valorous Pulk right well fulfilled the emperor’s order. The “furious Huns” sprang, like tigers, on the “fiery Franks,” and not only charged and checked the headlong torrent, but rolled back the dense mass of cavalry at the point of their spears, with destructive carnage, through the opening by which it had penetrated the Austro-Russian line. Thus, at the moment when all appeared lost for the allies, a handful of semi-savages from the banks of the Don overwhelmed the finest body of French horse that ever paraded on the banks of the Seine—and that with the King of Naples at its head!

After this rebuff, the fickle goddess forsook her favourite child! The assailing armies hemmed in, closer and closer, the contracting circles of Napoleon’s troops, and after days of ineffectual struggles to revive a sinking cause, the hero of a hundred victories was obliged to sue for an armistice! No answer being returned, the mortified emperor prepared for retreat. But even here Fortune turned her back on him. The Saxon troops threw off their allegiance, and even fired on their former companions in arms, while endeavouring to extricate themselves from the western gate of Leipzig! The only bridge, too, by which they could escape, was blown up by mistake, while twenty-five thousand Frenchmen were left prisoners on the other side! Napoleon with difficulty reached the western bank of the Estler—Poniatouski was drowned in that muddy ditch—and a mere wreck of the Gallic army reached the Rhine. From that day, the star of Napoleon descended till its light was quenched for ever in the western wave! Of all the auxiliaries and mercenaries which various passions, propensities, necessities, or interests had attracted round the standard of the victorious emperor, one only remained true to its trust in the memorable retreat from Leipzig! Italians, Bavarians, Saxons, Swedes—

“All, all forsook the friendless guilty mind,

But faithful Poland lingered still behind.”

It may not require any great fortitude to meet the scowl or scorn of our enemy, whether conqueror or conquered; but he must have nerves of iron who can look in the face of friend betrayed. The sight of the gallant and deceived Poles, bearing nobly the hardships and miseries of a disastrous flight, might have wrung tears of remorse from Napoleon’s eyes. But he had no heart. Egotism was the nutriment on which even his ambition fed. What said he, when viewing the wretched remains of his army when it halted at Erfurt, on the 23d of October? “They are a set of scoundrels, who are going to the devil.” Retributive justice ordained that he himself should not be far behind them!

The Tower of the Observatory stands close to the Estler and the scene of the dreadful evacuation of the town, the death of Poniatouski, and the blowing up of the bridge. It also commands a view of most of the theatres of operations during the successive battles, besides an excellent bird’s-eye view of the town itself. No one should fail to visit this spot, and recall the mighty events which occurred around it.

MAGDEBURG to HAMBURG.

A good railroad whisks us along, through monotonous corn-fields, from Leipzig to Magdeburg, in three or four hours. This is the strongest fortification (always excepting Kœnigstein) on the Elbe—and contains more than fifty-thousand people, garrison and all. It is, or rather was, in Saxony; but, thanks to the auspices of Napoleon, in favour of his pet of Dresden, it is now Prussian, and likely to be long so. It is of immense extent, and would require thirty or forty thousand men to defend it—consequently double that number to invest it. As all great virtues are assailed by virulent abuse, so all strong cities are honoured with long sieges. The history of Magdeburg should be printed and posted on the gates of Paris. It has had its ups and downs in its day. It was besieged many a time, and sometimes taken. Although it repulsed the famous Count Wallenstein, in the thirty years’ war, it fell, after two years’ siege, before the magnanimous Tilley (1631), who sacked the city; but in his humanity, spared the whole of the inhabitants—except thirty thousand, whom he massacred, without distinction of age or sex!! These are among the “splendid miseries” to which fortified towns and cities have been entitled, time immemorial—from the days of Alexander and Titus, to those of Napoleon and Wellington—from the sacred heights of Solyma, to the sandy plains of Haerlem! This doubtful glory—this dangerous pre-eminence, appears to be the height of a great people’s ambition—though it is probable that a nation’s strength has more in its moral courage and physical energies, than in dead walls and deep ditches.

A steamer starts at five o’clock every morning from Magdeburg to Hamburg, and when the Elbe is not very low, the passage may be performed in one day. But fortunately, or unfortunately, we had not had a wet day, or hardly a cloud in the sky, from the day we left London, till our return to that metropolis, and therefore the river was so shallow, that we were forty-eight hours on the voyage. There never was a vessel that had a greater partiality for the ground than ours—and when once her keel and the sand came in contact, it was as difficult to separate them as to disengage two furious mastiffs joined in mortal combat. Our captain, too, had a singular method of loosening his vessel from her hold on the shoal. Instead of carrying out an anchor astern, and dragging her off in that direction, as we drag dogs from one another by their tails, he invariably took the anchor out a-head, and after prizing the vessel as far forward on the bank as possible, he then tried the retrogressive plan, and, of course, succeeded, though sometimes after two or three hours’ delay. At length we came to a dead stop—for there was not three feet water in any part of the river; so we were obliged to shift into another steamer, “below bar” and jogged along, as above the barrier, but more of our time passed aground than afloat. However, we had a very pleasant society on board—people from various countries—very good table-d’hôte—but, as the weather was fine, and the berths close and crowded, I picked out the softest plank I could find on deck, and slept in the open air, during our descent of the Elbe. There is little or no improvement of the scenery between Dresden and the mouth of the river. The Elbe pays a heavy fine in the shape of monotony for its short but romantic route through Saxon Switzerland!

HAMBURG.

From the muddy wharves and quays, we scramble up through steep streets, every second house having an inscription, or rather an advertisement in English on its walls or over the door Of the Babel tongues that salute the ear in every part of this city, the English seems to hold the next rank to German and Dutch. Whether it was from the lowness of the Elbe, and the long drought, I know not, but the canals that penetrate far up several of the streets, appeared abominably filthy and malodorous. Three-fourths indeed of their bottoms were bare of water, and only exhibited reeking mud, well impregnated with all kinds of animal and vegetable debris, and admirably calculated to spread pestilential disorders through the city.

At length we got to what might be termed “the West End,” though it is here the North or North-East quarter, and the scene is entirely changed. We find ourselves, all at once, on the borders of a spacious lake, which is narrowed in the middle, and spanned there by a bridge, exhibiting on its surface numerous pleasure-boats, and on its banks a succession of handsome buildings. Shaded walks and terraces are constructed along the shores, so that these lakes (for they may be considered as two formed by a bridge) really present a most refreshing picture to the eye in Summer, and furnish a magnificent skating-plain in Winter. The levelled fortifications are now converted into superb and extensive promenades, gardens, and shrubberies, exhibiting a pleasing contrast to the endless batteries, fosses, and bastions of Magdeburg and other fortified towns. No city or town on the Continent, that I have seen, presents anything like the bustle of business that is going forward in every street of Hamburg. Leipzig is nothing to it, since it wants all the elements and materiel of maritime commerce. The great hotels face the lake (which, by the bye, is a monstrous dam formed by a dribbling stream, the Alster) and the Salles-a-Manger there, shew us that we are almost clean out of Germany, and nearly in the heart of old England. The table-d’hôte is at four o’clock, where good substantial joints and dishes dance merrily round the table, and are eagerly demolished by stomachs sharply whetted on the exchange, the bureaus, warehouses, and shops of this most singular entrepôt of European merchandize; The Hamburghers and Leipzigers appear to belong to the class of ruminating animals, who flock to the table-d’hôte for the purpose of swallowing, or rather bolting their dinners, dispensing entirely with the process of mastication, and leaving the triple functions of rumination, digestion, and calculation to go on simultaneously, not successively, by which many hours of valuable time are daily gained for the dispatch of business. I will not maintain that this bolting system, followed by the hard labour of two important organs, the head and the stomach, at one and the same time, is equally as well calculated for the preservation of health as for the accumulation of wealth; but probably it is not more insalubrious than the ennui, the inertion, the eternal pipe, and the poisonous dishes of the noncommercial Germans in general.

It is upon the same principle of economy of time, and division of labour, that the Hamburghers hire professed mourners to weep and wail over their deceased relatives. By this ingenious procedure the business of the living is not interrupted by the departure of the dead—perhaps not even on—

The first dull day of nothingness—

The last of suffering and distress!

When the Hamburghers levelled their fortifications to the ground, they took care to leave certain portals or barriers standing, by which they might be enabled to levy contributions on—“the stranger within their gates,” as well as on those who are outside. The nocturnal tax on ingress and egress increases with every hour after sunset, and the bustle and confusion occasioned by the embarkations and debarkations of steam-travellers with their luggage, baffle all description. The drowskies and their cads, the porters and their wads, the janitors, the police, and the watermen—all jumbled in the darkness of the night about the water-gate of the city—all vociferating in the most discordant jargon; but all united in the strictest harmony of action, as to one operation—the patriotic endeavour to empty the passengers’ purses of every stray mark that might be encumbering their pockets—such a scene is not easily delineated, nor will it be forgotten!

A good steamer, fair weather, and a pleasant company, rendered a forty-eight hours’ run to modern Babylon an agreeable variety in the chequered scenes of a long tour.

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CHARACTERISTIC TRAITS
OF
GERMANY AND THE GERMANS.

Having now brought my various perambulations (at various times) through Germany to a close, it might be thought possible that a traveller could form some definite idea—or draw some distinctive character of the people themselves. This is more easy in theory than in practice. If an intelligent Japanese were conveyed through the air to Connaught or Kerry, and dropped there for a month, to observe the manners, habits, and character of the inhabitants:—if he were thence deposited in Yorkshire, for an equal time—then among the mountains of Wales—and finally in the Highlands of Scotland: and if, after all this, “he returned to the place from whence he came,” and was asked for some characteristic sketch of the British nation, he would be not a little puzzled. In the first place, he would assert that he had visited four nations, differing as much from each other as the shamrock differs from the rose, or the thistle from the leek. They differed in appearance, language, dress, manners, diet, drink, avocations—soil—climate—and, for aught he knew, in religious creeds. If pressed for some one characteristic common to all, he might be tempted to reply that the only one thing in which they all agreed was—to eat potatoes. However varied were the other component parts of their food, they all ate potatoes. Now if, within the narrow boundary of the British Isles, we find such diversity among their inhabitants, what may we expect in that huge democracy of autocracies that stretches from the Baltic to the Adriatic—from the banks of the Rhine to the confines of the Russ—which extends over a surface of fifty thousand square miles—bears a population of 38 millions of souls—and, what is still more remarkable, sustains a weight of 38 sovereignties, of all shapes and sizes, from Imperial Austria, of 12,000 square miles, down to the principality of Lichtenstein, covering the enormous area of ten or eleven! Throughout these vast and varied territories, there is diffused all the varieties of physical organization, moral temperament, and intellectual capacity, characteristic of the great European family. And yet there is a certain degree of family likeness in these 38 sovereignties, that can hardly be mistaken.

——Facies non omnibus una,

Nec diversa tamen.——

1. Physiognomy.—The large head, the square face, the blue eyes, the honest countenance, the solemn gait, the modest mein, and the punctilious manners of the German, are everywhere conspicuous.

2. The Language.—This, it must be confessed, is grating enough to the ear; but it is far more disagreeable to the eye! When will Germany discard that barbarous, or at least Gothic system of hieroglyphics, by which bad paper is disfigured by worse type! There is something so singular, not to say startling, in the German language, that if a mummy who had slept in one of the Pyramids since the days of Sesostris were to awake among a mixed company of antiquarian unrollers, the German tongue would surely be the first to tickle its withered ears.

3. Ideology.—The Germans are great dreamers—magnificent dreamers. The Italian may imagine, the Frenchmen invent, the Spaniard may ruminate, and the Dutchman may calculate; but it is the German who can dream while wide awake. A German will dream you a dream, as long (to use a nautical phrase) as the main-top-bow-line; or rather as an epic poem, and as full of reality as the latter.

4. If the four British races were unanimous only in one thing—the eating of potatoes;—the 38 sovereignties beat them in this respect. All ranks and classes smoke tobacco—and both sexes devour sour-krout, grease, and vinegar.

5. The Patience of the German is proverbial. He is patient in politics, affliction, adversity—and, what is still more commendable, in prosperity. Hence he wins and loses at the gaming-table with more equanimity than any other man.

6. In Religion, Germany presents nearly as many creeds as principalities. These, however, shoot forth from the Reformed Church. Popery is too poor a soil for the growth of “heresies and schisms.” It will not bear a plurality of faiths. If Catholicism be not the true belief, we must admit that Catholics are the true believers. Of all the deviations from the Protestant Church in Germany, Rationalism and Scepticism are the most prominent and dangerous. Speaking of the latter, Dr. Hawkins observes:—“We must anticipate, however reluctantly, that, not only in Germany, but in some other parts of Europe, the heaviest calamity impending over the whole fabric of society is the lengthening stride of bold Scepticism.” And, after describing the tenets of the Rationists, the same authority remarks:—“They consequently disclose to us the frightful fact, that all the essential doctrines of Christianity are unreservedly rejected.” A question might here be asked: is this widespreading state of no belief—of no religion—preferable to Catholicism, mixed up with a few superstitions and errors?

We hear constant complaints that Popery is on the increase. How can it be otherwise? Where and when was union not a source of strength, and division of weakness? The Protestant High Church is like a brilliant meteor shooting through the air in splendour and brightness; but constantly detaching from its own body some vital elements of its own existence. The Catholic Church, on the other hand, is like a snow-ball rolling along the ground, with apparent humility, a dense and cohesive mass, alike tenacious of that which it possesses, and attractive of that which falls in its way.[93]

7. Affability.—I have before remarked, and it is remarked by all travellers, that, in no part of Europe or the world, are affability, amenity, and suavity of manners, in social intercourse, more conspicuous among all classes, orders, genera, and species of society, than in Germany; or a more complete absence of all prominent or repulsive distinction of ranks. I endeavoured to account for this by education, habit, and example. But there is one other cause adduced by Dr. Hawkins, which I overlooked—the numerous sovereignties and states into which Germany is divided, the very inter-collisions of which tend to preserve a smoother surface, and a greater equilibrium of urbanity, than under one great monarchy, or even republic. I shall attempt to illustrate this moral phenomenon by a physical one. Let us take two small and tranquil lakes, one to represent England, and the other Germany. Let a large stone be dropped into the centre of the former, and we shall quickly observe a series of waves or undulations, rolling in excentric circles to the remotest edges of the water, in every direction—all parallel, all close to each other, but never touching or mingling. This exactly represents the gradations of rank, classes, professions, and avocations in England. They diverge from the central monarchy in parallel lines down to the peasant—always in close approximation; but never touching or amalgamating.

Into the other lake, let 38 stones, of various shapes and sizes (corresponding with the 38 sovereignties) be precipitated in as many different parts of the glassy mirror. What shall we see? Not the series of distinct waves rolling from centre to circumference—but a chequered surface where one undulation is broken, crossed, or neutralized by another, and where large or definite circles of waves are nowhere perceptible. The application of this simile to German society requires no explanation.

8. Education.—It is acknowledged that, in no other country is education so cheaply and amply provided as in Germany. It is remarked by Dr. Hawkins, that the results of education in Germany and in England, are very different. In the former, the student is almost entirely engrossed by the physical and practical sciences—whilst the English one is very much occupied with theology, morality, classics, poetry, and rhetoric. “Yet in the end, the Englishman becomes most practical, and the German the most theoretical and sentimental.” With all due deference to Dr. Hawkins, I doubt or rather deny the fact, that the practical education of the German renders him theoretical: or that the theoretical education of the Englishman makes him practical. Will Dr. H. maintain that a good education in the physical and practical sciences would convert an Englishman into a theorist or sentimentalist? No, it would not. It is not the education, but the different circumstances in which the two people are placed, after leaving the schools, that produce the contrast noticed by Dr. Hawkins. A complaint is made that this facility of education leads to surplus candidates for professional honours; and the German governments endeavour to divert the aspirants into other channels than the learned professions. But where is there not this surplus? In England, where education is expensive enough, the ranks of the church, bar, and medicine, are crowded to suffocation. Two causes of this operate in Germany. The cheapness of education—and the cheapness of living afterwards.—Two or three in England—the redundancy of population, and the choaking up of the war-channels, those waste-pipes and safety-valves of society. To these may be added the restless ambition of the shopocracy to push some of their sons into the carriage from behind the counter.

A considerable portion of the English consider that education (among the lower classes) without a particular creed, is worse than no education at all. The real, though not the acknowledged meaning of this is, that education, or knowledge, is, in the abstract, or per se, an evil rather than a good. It would be much better to openly and candidly maintain this doctrine at once, than mystify it under the term “religious instruction,” that is, instruction combined with a particular creed. An ingenious casuist might easily shew—perhaps prove—the truth of the anti-education doctrine. Beginning with the Garden of Eden, he might quote Scripture that knowledge first

“Brought death into this world, and all our woe.”

And descending along the stream of time, he might adduce proofs that, in exact proportion as nations advanced in knowledge, they became discontented, refractory, immoral, and irreligious. But though it is maintained by the High Church party in England, that a particular creed, without knowledge, is preferable to knowledge without a particular creed; yet it is confessed that the latter is not always an infallible corrector of the evil inherent in learning. We too often find sin and science in those academic bowers where the thirty-nine Articles are regularly inculcated, and implicitly believed.

Be this as it may, in Germany, reading, writing, and arithmetic—Greek, Latin, and mathematics—astronomy, geography, and navigation—anatomy, physic, and surgery, &c. &c. are taught in public seminaries without reference to any other creed than that of the general truth of Christianity as contained in the New Testament.

Some few particulars of the system of education in Prussia, may not be uninteresting.

Every department has a board of education, which employs school-inspectors, residing in the chief towns. Every circle and parish has also its school-board—and every school its proper inspectors. The clergyman of the parish is, ex officio, one of the inspectors. The whole system is under the cognizance and control of the Minister of Public Instruction, assisted by a Council. The seminaries are divided into—1. Elementary or Primary Schools—2, Burgher, or Middle Schools—3, Universities.

Parents unable to prove that they can give their children a competent education at home, are compelled to send them to school at the age of five years. Masters are obliged to give their servants and apprentices a suitable education between the seventh and fourteenth year. No child can be removed from the school till examined by the inspectors. Poor parents are furnished with the means of sending their children to school. The schools are supported by endowments—tax upon property—and contributions from the affluent. The schools are built in healthy places, with playgrounds, gymnasiums, &c. “The first law of every school is to train up the young so as to implant in their minds a knowledge of the relation of man to God—and to excite them to govern their lives according to the spirit and precepts of Christianity.” The daily occupations begin and end with a short prayer and some pious reflections. The New Testament shall be given to those who can read. The more advanced scholars shall have the Bible. “This book shall also be used for the religious instruction in all the classes of gymnasiums (or middle schools.)” “Clergymen are to seize every opportunity, whether at church or on visits of inspection, of reminding teachers of their high and holy mission, and the scholars of their duty towards the public instructors.” There are numerous “normal schools” for training up schoolmasters. Of all the children in Prussia, between the age of seven and fourteen years, it is calculated that thirteen out of every fifteen, are educated in the national schools.

9. Learning.—That depth of erudition should be a necessary sequence of cheap education may admit of question, or, at least of cavil; but one thing is certain, that, whether as a post hoc, or a propter hoc, this article is more abundant in Germany than in any other country. Germany is, in fact, the great European granary of learning—a granary sadly infested with rats and mice from poorer soils—whole shoals of these vermin being seen crossing the Rhine annually, with all the voracity evinced by their forefathers, when in pursuit of the Bishop of Maintz!

But Germany is also a vast minery, where thousands are digging in the dark, during the best years of their lives, extracting the most precious literary lore from the masses of rubbish in which it lies concealed. Around the mouths of these mines are always hovering certain birds of prey, of passage, and of furtive propensities, which, under cover of the night, commit depredations on the shining ore that is rescued from its grave by the laborious miner. Among these are the literary cormorant, the gull, the daw, and the magpie, who no sooner get crammed with the German spoils, than they fly off to their roosts and nests to exhibit them as the legitimate produce of their own industry. I have known more than one, two, or three of these daws who, having plumed themselves in German feathers, strutted as proudly as if their habiliments had been of genuine indigenous growth!

The German seems to court, and to cultivate learning for the sake of itself, rather than of its attendant advantages. He climbs the rugged steeps of science—wanders over the flowery fields of literature—or explores the dark and mysterious labyrinths of metaphysics—with little hope, and less prospect of reaping more than empty fame,—and that too often posthumous! Yet the German is as modest in the profession, as he is industrious in the pursuit of knowledge. In his patient researches, he is hardly ever led aside to the right or to the left, by ambition, vanity, or avarice. Truth is his object—accuracy, impartiality, and laborious research, are the channels through which he reaches it. Not that he is insensible to honours of all kinds. On the contrary, like the whole of his countrymen, a ribbon, a cross, or a star, is to him not only a symbol of distinction but an object of worship.

The German illuminati, whether literary, philosophic, or scientific, immersed in their libraries and laboratories, far removed from the excitement of politics, commerce, arts, or manufactures, not seldom lean to the speculative, rather than to the practical—to the mysterious, rather than to the obvious.—Hence the transcendental dreams and extravagant experiments, which daily rise, like meteors, from this land of ideality and metaphysics, soon to dissolve in air—thin air. Yet these eccentricities are not attributable to peculiarity of education, or idiosyncrasy of constitution; but to those extrinsic circumstances in which the German is placed.

10. The Press.—The freedom with which this powerful engine is wielded in the different states of Germany, varies very much. Between Vienna and Leipzig-liberty of the press, there is nearly as much difference as between Negro freedom in Virginia and London. But the censorship exists everywhere. The manuscript of volume, magazine, or newspaper must first undergo the revisal of the phlegmatic and inexorable Censor, who strikes out or alters every passage or paragraph which has any tendency to exercise the imagination, excite the feelings, or appeal to the passions. This at least, is the policy of Austria. Now it would require but little ingenuity to prove—or at least, persuade, that this is the very ne plus ultra of good government. What engines are so potent in the origination and propagation of evil as imagination, feeling, passion? How praiseworthy is it in the Austrian Emperor to stifle and suppress all combustible materials of this kind!—How beneficial would the Censorship prove in England! Take, for instance, the subject of libel—so well calculated to introduce all kinds of hatred and ill-will amongst Britons. The Age or the Satirist might, without the possibility of prevention, assert that “the Queen was—anything but a gentlewoman:”—and that “the Chancellor of the Exchequer was lately detected in picking the pocket of one of his neighbours on the treasury bench!!” Now if such paragraphs came before an Austrian Censor, that redoubtable official would either erase them entirely and cite the audacious editor before one of the tribunals, or substitute something like the following:—“From all parts of the country congratulatory addresses are pouring in upon her Majesty, in consequence of the recent happy event.” And in respect to the alleged pick-pocket, it would probably run thus:—“The recent financial measure of the Chancellor of the Exchequer (the imposition of a tax on rent-gatherers), has given universal satisfaction to all classes of the community—with the exception, perhaps, of Daniel O’Connel, M.P., who opposed the measure so stoutly in parliament.”

But the prevention of all sources of excitement and irritation amongst the community, so much preferable to the punishment of them afterwards, would not be the only advantage of a shackled, that is, a censored press. The great majority of writers, who, being defective in imagination, feeling, and passion—in other words, of genius—are now consigned to oblivion, would, under the paternal Austrian system, spring up in myriads, and greatly tend to render the Plumbean rule of authority a veritable wand of Mercury, soothing the great mass of society into soporific torpor, and silencing effectually those turbulent spirits of the age, who stir up men’s minds to mischief! Away then with those hot-headed enthusiasts who prefer a “libertas periculosa” to the Austro-patriarchal system of “servitudo quieta,” where the fiat of the sovereign is the fate of the subject!!

Then think of the incalculable benefit that would accrue to society from the suppression of those myriads of critical and political reviewers, trimestral, mestral, hebdomadal, and diurnal, who batten and fatten on the vitals of authors, scattering their quivering members to the winds, or flinging them about, like firebrands, to inflame the passions of the community! In fine, till princes muzzle the press, there will be no millennium between them and their people.

11. Domestic Manners.—A treatise on the domestic manners of the French and Germans, is like an essay on the rail-roads of the Alps in the days of Hannibal—or steam-navigation in the voyage of Nearchus—or the mariner’s compass in the Periplus of Hanno. Let us hear the testimony of one who resided long in Germany, and was intimate with their habits and language.

“The Germans are not so domestic as the English, yet perhaps more so than the French. The taste of the middle and lower classes carries them necessarily to public gardens, coffee-houses, the table-d’hôte, and the theatre. A large portion of the male population dine daily at the table-d’hôte, and here a considerable portion of their time is dissipated. The higher orders, in addition to the theatre, derive one of their chief gratifications from a Summer visit to some of the mineral springs; and here they live all together in a family manner—entire families at these bathe dine and sup, and even breakfast in public.”—Bisset Hawkins.

It is really no paradox, therefore, to say that an insight into domestic manners in Germany, will be best acquired in public—where all classes, high, middle, and lower orders “live and move and have their being!”

12. Women.—Perhaps in no country of Europe (as indeed the preceding section would indicate) are the barriers around female honour more feebly raised, or less vigilantly guarded;—yet in no country is female virtue more free from stain. “Here the temperament of woman is cast in a happy mould. Gentle, kind, unambitious, unaffected, she is less intent upon adorning herself, than in administering to the happiness of those around her. She is fenced round with few artificial restraints; and, in society, she often meets with too much laxity of opinion and usage. Her full and confiding heart requires a helpmate on whom to lean through life. This support granted to her, she generally exhibits all the domestic virtues in their vernal bloom.”

To this it has been objected that, the number of children born out of wedlock in Germany, is infinitely greater than in England. Thus, in the great city of Prague, more than a third of the children born annually are illegitimate. But mistresses may be virtuous without being married—and they may be married without being virtuous. In many countries marriage is only a civil, and not a religious rite. The neglect of that ceremony, therefore, in such countries, involves neither sin, nor crime, nor disgrace. The slender liaison of affection is often stronger and more durable than the massive chains of matrimony. The frequency of these liaisons, therefore, is to be attributed to the influence of public sentiment, rather than to depravity of the female heart. The facilities, indeed, of effecting divorce in many Protestant States of Germany render the tie of marriage little more than a nominal bond that can be conveniently cancelled, when passions cool, tempers clash, or interests predominate!

13. Morality.—Although there can scarcely be genuine religion without morality; yet there may be great display of morality without religion. Germany affords a proof and illustration. In no other country is there less of religion—in none is there less of crime. The apparent paradox is easily solved. Crime is punishable by the laws of man, in this world;—irreligion is punishable by the laws of God, in another. In a country where little or no religion prevails, and consequently where there is little or no belief in future rewards and punishments, it may readily be supposed that the fear of the magistrate is much more efficient than the fear of the Lord.

14. Socialism.—Smoking is not so sociable an affair in Faderland as in some other countries. In this respect, indulgence in tobacco presents a great contrast to that in tea. If you visit a cigar divan in London, or an estaminet in Paris, you will find “the flow of soul,” if not the “feast of reason,” in conjunction with the fumes of the “cursed weed.” Not so beyond the Rhine. The German shrinks within the cloudy atmosphere of his pipe, like a snail within its shell, and there remains imperturbable, immoveable, and insensible to the external world. Meanwhile the soul retires to some remote nook or corner of the brain—probably the pineal gland—and there taking its metaphysical siesta, dreams of all imaginable and unimaginable things! This appears to be the real explanation of the idealism, mysticism, and transcendentalism of the German character.

15. Time.—By half the world or more—by all who have much to do, whether by the head, the hands, or the feet—time is regarded next to health, as the most valuable article: by the other half—or a large portion of it—time is looked upon as little better than a drug, and readily bartered away for the merest trifles!—Nay, it is often voted to be a great bore, and a thousand ways and means are invented to kill the bore. In Germany time is not over-rated, on the one hand, nor despised or hated, on the other. All Germans have something to do (for who is without his pipe), and few have very much work on hand. The German, therefore, takes everything leisurely and coolly—never permitting himself to be hurried or flurried—even by the sound of the dinner-bell, or the march to the table-d’hôte. It is seldom of any use to bribe the waiter or the postillion to increased velocity. The cook and the horses not being participators of the douceur, are not at all inclined to assist in the completion of the implied contract between the other parties. The German never attempts to “kill time,” well knowing that in such a conflict the enemy must be ultimately victorious. But he daily and hourly offers him a narcotic, by which his scythe may be blunted, and his ravages obscured.

Of all the mythological divinities, Time is most familiar to us, through the medium of his works:—for he himself is invisible, inaudible, intangible. Time is cloathed, on one side, with flesh and blood:—the other is a naked skeleton. In his right hand he holds a wand, by which he calls into existence, every instant, countless myriads of beings throughout the animal and vegetable world—leading them forward to maturity and age. His skeleton hand is clenched on a crooked falchion, with which he smites, destroys, and annihilates everything which he had previously created—thus realizing the fabled monster that eternally devours its own progeny![94] It is a melancholy spectacle—but it could not have been otherwise! It is possible that the Almighty could have created a single pair immortal—but the power of multiplying could not have been conferred without the penalty of death!

Tyrannical, inexorable, and pitiless, as he is, yet Time is not without some redeeming qualities. 1mo. He is strictly impartial. He slackens not his pace at the command of the monarch—he hurries not his steps at the prayer of the slave. 2do. Time mitigates every moral ill that is unattended with culpability or remorse: and although he too often aggravates physical maladies, yet he invariably diminishes our sensibility to pain, and thus tends to reconcile us to our lot of suffering. 3tio. He is sure to remove from the sphere of their operations all tyrants, oppressors, and evil-doers; thus giving the world a chance of better successors. 4to. Time is a great enemy to personal beauty, of feature or form—apparently deeming such qualities to be dangerous accompaniments to length of years. On the other hand, he is more favourable to virtue, honour, morality, and religion, of which time alone never deprives the individual till the curtain falls.

On time past, hallowed in memory and mellowed by distance, we look back as on an old and valued friend, whom we did not sufficiently appreciate while living, but who is now lost to us for ever.

Time present we too often contemplate through the haze of prejudice, passion, or impatience; underrating his value, overlooking his flight, and neglecting the advantages which he offers, till, all at once, we find that time present has changed into time past, and vanished from our grasp!

Time to come—is that fairy-land of promise—of air-built castles—of hopes that are seldom to be realized, of fears that are generally exaggerated—of phantoms, good and evil, conjured up by imagination on the dim horizon of our mental vision, which dissolve as we approach, or fly as we follow!! Yet these phantoms of futurity form the solace and the misery of half the world!

16. Titles, Decorations, &c.—From the savage, with the ring in his nose—the serjeant, with the tassel on his shoulder—the prince, with the star on his breast—up to the monarch, with the diadem on his brow—all and every of the human race, are nearly insatiable in the pursuit of honours, titles, distinctions, or decorations. I do not presume to determine what nation or people most desire these pomps and vanities; but I think it will be allowed that the Germans are not behind their neighbours in the display of them. The French may dispute the palm on this point; but I doubt whether they will gain the victory. John Bull appears to be the least ostentatious of the European family, often pocketing his stars and garters, when travelling, by which he saves in money what he loses in eclat.

After all, this weakness of the German and Frenchman is very pardonable. Those who have fairly earned honours are under no obligation to conceal them; and those who have not done so, are not called upon to proclaim the secret—especially as so many of their friends and neighbours are always ready to kindly perform that office gratuitously.

17. Aerophobia.—From one end of Germany to the other, among all ages, ranks, and professions, an AEROPHOBIA, or dread of fresh air, universally prevails! If you take a seat in the diligence or eilwagen, your German neighbour in the corner closes the windows immediately, lest a breath of pure air should enter the vehicle. On arriving at the hotel, half poisoned by the disoxygenated atmosphere of the coach, and enter your chamber, you find all the windows securely fastened, and the air of the apartment a mass of heavy mephitic vapour, like that which issues from a long unopened tomb. If you descend to the spies-saal, where the air is still farther vitiated by the fumes of tobacco, and throw open a window, you are stared at by the ober-kellner, the under-kellner, and every “gast” in the “haus,” as a person deranged. I had long puzzled my brains to account for this aerophobic phenomenon, and, at last, traced its cause to the German stove—that black brewery of mephitism, which, bearing a mortal antipathy to the fresh air of Heaven, imbues every one who sits near it with the same prejudice. In fine, the German exhibits as great a horror of oxygen, as he does a mania for azote!

And what is the consequence of this?—Why, that the Germans are ten times more susceptible of colds, rheumatism, face-aches, and tooth-aches, than the English, who live in a far more variable, wet, and ungenial climate. This aerophobia is one of the causes too, of that sallow, unhealthy aspect which all Germans, who are not forced to be much in the open air, exhibit. It is no wonder that they swarm like locusts round their numberless spas, in the Summer, to wash away some of those peccant humours engendered by their diet, and fermented by their stoves.

18. Female Peasantry.—Among a barbarous people, we always find that the weaker sex have the harder work. It is not very flattering nor yet creditable to the pride of civilization, that in many parts of Europe, and even in Germany, the female peasant is little more than a beast of burthen, with worse food and more care than the ox or the horse. Wherever we see three persons employed in agricultural labour, two of them are sure to be women. They cut the corn, and thrash out the grain—dig the potatoes, and carry them home—whilst the large baskets on their backs are filled with everything that requires transportation from the fields to the house, or from the house to the fields. One of the most revolting instances of this female slavery which I have seen, was in Belgium, where, on the line of the railway, we observed women sitting with large panniers on their backs, into which the men were shovelling the earth, gravel, and stones, to be carried away by the females—many of them young women! Every time that the earth or gravel was thrown into the pannier, the shock caused a violent vibration of the whole female frame, from head to foot! The sight was really disgusting.

In travelling through many parts of Germany we are often surprised at the paucity of men, and cannot help wondering where they are, or what they are doing! Women are the universal drudges here!

19. Status quo.—Among all ranks and classes of Society in Germany, from the prince to the peasant, there is, or there appears to be, a complete amalgamation, approximation—in fine, an equalization in one thing—politeness. But the approximation goes no farther than the hat, the cap, and the bow. It would be almost as easy for a Pariar in India, or a Ladrone in China to break the boundaries of his cast, and rise through the ranks above him, as for a German of low grade to mount into the circles of the nobility. Each ascending series is all but hermetically sealed against the inferior one! What is impossible to be done, is not therefore attempted—perhaps it is scarcely desired. All this is reversed in England. Here we have but very little reciprocity of external and formal civility among the different ranks; but the barriers between them are to easily—or at least so frequently overleaped, that almost every individual has an ardent wish, and is engaged in a constant struggle to rise above the grade in which Nature or accident placed him at birth. It is evident that this contrasted state of things, quite independent of politics, must produce tranquillity, if not content, in the one country—commotion and even strife in the other. At the same time it generates industry, energy, and enterprize in England.

20. Locomotion.—It is passing strange that the mercurial brains of our French neighbours should never have infused any quicksilver into the heels of their horses! No. There they go at the old jog-trot of five miles an hour, over the “long rough road,” which seems as if it had been stretched out over hill and dale, by some invisible and gigantic apparatus, into a straight and narrow line, which is as tiresome to the eye of the traveller as it is to the limbs of the horses. In plodding Germany, however, we do not expect velocity in man or beast—or that the schnell-post should go at any other rate than the snail’s pace. In that country time and space seem to be confounded or amalgamated;—a league signifying an hour, and an hour a league, the word “stunde” (derived no doubt from “stand”) being applicable to either or both.

There are several reasons, indeed, for the tardiprogression of a German vehicle, independently of the breed and the build of those animals that draw it along. First. The German never does anything in a hurry. He has more time on his hands than any other man. His days are longer—his nights are longer (though his beds are shorter) than those of an Englishman. Why then should he hurry over the pleasant journey, or curtail the salutary range of travelling exercise?—Secondly. A German’s luggage is twice the size and weight of an Englishman’s, besides the huge crate in which it is stowed above or behind the carriage. Thirdly. There is an outlay of time, labour, and expense in frequently cleaning the harness of the horses—the body, the wheels, or the leather of a carriage. This outlay is prudently avoided by the German, who trusts to the winds and rains for disencumbering his harness and eilwagen of some layers of those weighty and numerous incrustations that have slowly formed on their surface. Fourthly. There are no Collinge’s patent axletrees in Germany, which will hold oil for a month; and although the post-master charges some kreutzers for “grease” at every station, small is the portion of that lubricating article which reaches the hot and creaking gudgeons of the ponderous locomotive!

But the primary and fundamental cause of tardiprogression in Germany may be traced to the roads themselves, which, though much improved in many places, are still villainously bad, and require the hardest and heaviest wood and iron to withstand the tremendous succussions which the vehicle is destined to experience at every step. Besides, as the German chaussée marches straight forward over hill and dale, without deigning to wind round the one, in order to evade the other, so the schnell-post must necessarily go at a snail’s pace to the end of the chapter—or, at all events, to the end of the journey.

21. The Burschen.—Perhaps no country, except Germany, could generate, or would tolerate a large class of the rising generation—students by profession, but demi-ruffians by habit—who are organized in clubs, and banded in clans, for no other purpose but the violation of all law, order, decency, and morality! The supreme felicity of the Burschen is to swill beer, smoke tobacco, and fight duels. If they submit one hour in the twenty-four to the rule of the professor, they rule him, and tyrannize over others during the remainder of the day. Most of the hours that can be spared from duelling, fencing, and dancing, are dedicated to what they term “renowning”—that is, of working all kinds of mischief—enacting all sorts of absurdities—attracting everybody’s attention—and earning every one’s contempt and detestation. The evening and much of the night are spent in the ale-house, where the summit of the Burschen’s ambition is, who can drink most beer, smoke most tobacco—and vociferate with the loudest voice—

“Though wine, it is true, be a rarity here.

We’ll be jolly as gods with tobacco and beer.

“Vivallerallerallera.”

While bellowing about liberty, justice, honour, and truth, the Burschen will tyrannize over others with the most despotic sway—break the sword of justice over the victim’s head—trample on the laws of honour—and violate the sacred truth!

“Full of lofty unintelligible notions of his own importance—misled by ludicrously erroneous ideas of honour—the true Bursche swaggers and renowns, choleric raw and overbearing. He measures his own honour by the number of scandals (duels) he has fought; but never wastes a thought on what they have been fought for. He does not fight to resent insolence; but he insults, or takes offence, that he may have a pretext for fighting. The lecture-rooms are but secondary to the fencing-school. That is his temple—the rapier is his god—and the “comment” (the Burschen laws) is the Gospel by which he swears.”[95]

Such is the Burschen, or collegiate youth of Germany. The fraternity itself is called the “Landsmannschaften”—a confederation of various clans for the double purpose of fighting among themselves, and defending the corps against the Philistines, as the rest of the world is called! Fortunately for society, this odious freemasonry which is forced on the student at first, is dropped with the cap, long hair, uncouth coat, and Jack-boots, the moment he bids adieu to Alma Mater—and he settles down among his brethren the Philistines, discharged from the Landsmannschaften, like an old soldier from the army, with nothing but honorable(?) scars to remind him of the days of “renowning” and “scandalizing,” in Gottingen, Jena, Leipzig, or Heidelburg. It is said, but I doubt the assertion, that this three years’ training in habits the most objectionable, seldom, if ever, exerts any influence on the citizen in after-life—and that he becomes as peaceable, civil, and obedient to the laws, as those who had never set foot within the walls of a university.

Be this as it may, it becomes a serious question whether initiation into the Eleusinian mysteries and eccentric, not to say barbarous, habits of the Burschen, be conducive to the welfare of British youth? The effects of English universities are not always thrown off with the cap and gown! Let parents ponder on the Landsmannschaften.

22. German Cookery.—I am not going into a disquisition on continental cookery in general, nor on German in particular. Man has been characterized as a “cooking animal,” and if refinement in this noble art and science be a proof of civilization, our Gallic and Saxon neighbours must stand unrivalled. The New Zealander, who roasts his hog, his dog, and his prisoner in the same oven, sinks very low on the gastronomic scale—not on account of his canine or cannibal predilections, but because he cannot so mystify and transform the original materials of his laboratory—the genera and species of his animal and vegetable stock—as to defy Orfila himself to ascertain whether they had been inhabitants of the air, the earth, or the “waters under the earth.” As I think I have made a small discovery that may prove of some importance in the cuisine of my native land, I shall here communicate it, pro bono publico.

In almost all the cities, towns, and even villages of Germany, we find on the bill of fare certain dishes that are great favourites with John Bull—namely, beef-steaks—mutton-chops—veal cutlets—pork-chops—lamb-chops, &c. To be sure the titles are not very easily pronounced; but the kind host is always ready to furnish you with rind-fleisch, schwein-fleisch, lamms-fleisch, kalbfleisch, or hammelfleisch, without doubt or delay. When these come on the table, they are so nicely browned, and crusted over with bread-crumbs, flower, butter and other mysterious compounds, that, except by the external figure, and the protuberant rib, no discrimination between the different dishes could possibly be made. Nor will the taste detect schweins-fleisch from any of the other fleshes. All agree, however, in the tenderness, flavour, and delicacy of the steaks, chops, and cutlets. Then, again, they remark, how well the fat is taken off, leaving nothing but the meat; while the bone comes out as easy and as clean as if it had been boiled and scraped in a separate vessel! These eulogies attracted my attention, and I began to examine the chops and steaks accurately. A very slight dissection demonstrated, beyond a doubt, that all was a composition. A few further intrusions into the cuisines explained the whole matter, without difficulty. The cold meat, of every description, is pounded in a mortar, with pepper, salt, and spices. When wanted, it is pressed into moulds (like butter) according to the shape required—an old rib or bone is thrust into one end of the chop—the whole is well covered with crumbs of bread, flour, or other habiliments—made smoking hot in the oven—and brought to table as most delicious mutton-chops, veal cutlets, pork-chops, beef-steaks—or—anything you please to demand.

Do I blame or criticise this ingenious manufacture? Far from it. The pounded and compounded chops and steaks are better than original ones—are easy of digestion—require little or no mastication—are savoury to the taste, and warm to the stomach—and, what is of some consequence, they are economical, and always ready for dressing at any hour of the day or night. The only part of the compound to which I object, is the bony-part. These bones remain in the kitchen, like heir-looms, serving from generation to generation, as far as I know, and if the cook takes the trouble to wash them daily, with the spoons’ and forks, my objection vanishes at once. The above discovery explained an enigma which often puzzled me when travelling on the Continent—namely, the impossibility of getting cold meat at a hotel—even a few hours after the most splendid table-d’hôte.

I can have no reason—or at all events no right, to question the taste of our continental neighbours in the preparation of their food. To German cookery, German spas, German baths, and German waggons, I owe the loss of fifteen pounds in weight, and that in a late tour of two months. But then the lost flesh was London fed—and I gained in strength far more in proportion than I lost in weight. This may prove a valuable hint to the race of aldermen, and many others besides.

23. Gallic and German Patriotism compared.—The temperature of a Frenchman’s patriotism seldom reaches the boiling, or even the fever point, unless he is, in act or imagination, the aggressor or agitator. It requires the fuel of pride, ambition, glory, revolution, or conquest, present or prospective, to keep up the steam of national enthusiasm among our Gallic neighbours. Not so beyond the Rhine. A German’s patriotism rises in proportion as “Faderland” is borne down by misfortunes, or trode upon by the foot of the haughty foreigner. The flame of devotion to country never burns with greater intensity in a German’s breast, than when it is apparently extinguished by the pressure of the victorious enemy. Both these propositions are proved by history. Every one knows the sacrifices which the people of France made in the late war, while Napoleon was trampling on the liberties of Europe. Yet, when the tide of his glory ebbed, and the energies of Germany and other countries carried forward the contest into the heart of France—the French nation sunk into apathy, stupor, or indifference. So, on a recent occasion, when the thunder of British cannon demolished the ramparts of a Syrian despot—a vice-regal slave-driver—and reverberated from the pyramids to Montmartre, the flame of patriotism glowed in every Frenchman’s breast, from the Mediterranean to the Moselle—and already the Marsellaise hymn depicted the Eagles, as pluming their wings and wafting their flight over the Alps and the Rhine—over the Tyber and the Thames! For, although the word “patriotism” means, in all other languages, the love of natal soil, yet in the French vocabulary, it signifies the love of revolution at home, or of conquest and spoliation beyond the limits of France.[96] The wanton and threatening insult, though only prospective and intentional, which she lately held out to Europe, called forth a “German Marsellaise,” tuned to true patriotic principles, and containing no menace—no allusion to former invasions of France, and capture of her capital. The whole burthen of the song, and conclusion of each verse, breathed only the firm resolution to resist aggression, and preserve their “Faderland” independent.

“No, never shall they have it, our free-born German Rhine,

Till deep beneath its surges, our last man’s bones recline!”

German patriotism, in the long run, will prove superior to Gallic ambition. The love of country is a nobler and safer passion than the love of conquest.[97]

The French tell us that the English are detested on the Continent—but to adduce any reason for this, would be quite unlike a Frenchman—whose assertion needs not the vulgar auxiliary of proof. The only plausible cause which he might urge for this anti-Britannic hatred, is the fact that the English assisted the continental nations to drive the French back over the Rhine, and up to the Boulevards—hence the detestation of Germany, Russia, Spain, &c. against England! This is quite the Gallic style of ratiocination.

24. Prisons.—There would seem to be two, if not more, kinds of liberty—political and personal; or national and individual. They do not always run parallel. When our Gallic neighbours placed the Cap of Liberty on the head of a Courtezan, and worshipped her as a Goddess, the prisons were overflowing, and most of the inmates lost their caps—in which their heads happened to be at the time! No one will contend that Germany is overburthened with political liberty—but I believe that the proportion of out-door to in-door prisoners there, is as great as in this country. To say the truth there are not many temptations to take up free quarters within the walls of a German prison—for although Howard, that great practical reformer of “proved,” that is to say, approved abuses, was there; yet the hard labour, low fare, bastinado for men, and whip for women, afford little encouragement to transgression of the laws. To the honour of Austria be it said, that the functionaries are strictly enjoined to apply the whip and bastinado, with all due regard to the moral feelings of the prisoners, and with the most scrupulous attention to the forms and ceremonies prescribed for those occasions!

In respect to food, the following is the Austrian dietary. “The prisoner has one pound and a half of bread per diem—a farinaceous dish with milk thrice a week—and on Sundays a soup, with a quarter of a pound of meat, and the farinaceous dish again.” Hawkins. This, it must be confessed, is meagre fare; but half of what the prisoner can earn, beyond his daily task, is given to him for the purchase of additional comforts.

Instruction, both religious and lay, is provided by the state—consisting of reading and sometimes of arithmetic—but not writing, as that might lead to correspondence not entirely composed of love-letters or letters of love! It is clear, indeed, that the Emperor of Austria (though himself a Papist) has no great faith in the dogma of a Pope—

“Heaven first taught letters for some wretch’s aid.

Some banished lover, or some captive maid.”

At all events, Prince Metternich has not recommended his master to follow the example of Heaven in teaching his subjects to write letters; nor is it likely that the veteran and wily minister will introduce a penny postage, to enable the subjects of the whip and bastinado to—

“Waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.”

Nevertheless there are many good points about German prison-discipline. The classification of the prisoners—the separation of the juvenile from the hardened offenders—the law of rendering labour the only means of procuring anything like comfortable diet—the regularity of religious instruction and duties—the laudable exertion of Government to reinstate the liberated and punished prisoner in the social position previously occupied—not forgetting the humane injunction never to hurt the feelings of the flogged—are all worthy of praise and imitation.

25. Beds and Bed-rooms.—A German sleeping-room presents a real paradox—beds that are at once plural and singular—plural in number, but singular in office. One would suppose that all the men in that country were monks, and all the women nuns. You look in vain for the large and comfortable bed, on which John Bull and his spouse are accustomed to repose when at home. Nothing of the kind will you see here! From the moment that a married couple set foot on the Continent, the wife is divorced, if not “a mensa” at least “a thoro.” I have said that the German beds are singular. They are so in every sense of the word! In other countries, they are designed to promote rest and sleep. In this they act like strong coffee or green tea taken at ten o’clock. In a German bed, the two extremities of the victim are “perched up aloft,” while the body is “under hatches.” The only personage who can attain anything like horizontality in these cribs, is the corporation gourmand after a good eight o’clock table-d’hôte. If he turn in, or rather turn over on his face, with his feet on the taffrail, and his stomach stowed in midships, he will be able to bring his head, his spine, and his heels into something approaching a right line. In this position he will have the great advantage of sleeping on his supper, and thus evading the pressure of the night-mare. When the woolsack is laid over the traveller’s body, the whole resembles the old moon in the lap of the new.

It is very fortunate for John and Jane Bull that before they sojourn long in Germany their travelling constitutions will have begun, like new clothes, to suit them—and, which is of greater consequence, they will have got rid of the most inconvenient article, by far, of their luggage—(and that is saying a good deal, when a lady’s baggage is in transit)—namely the—idea of comfort—an article which even the douanier never searches for, as being not only out of his beat, but out of his mother tongue!

Many circumstances had, long ago, impressed me with a high sense of the value of a travelling constitution, as a kind of Mackintosh against “skiey influences;” but none more so than an occasional glimpse at the mysteries of the laundry. If a traveller happens to forget some valuable article at his hotel, and hastens back to his chamber about mid-day, he will be rather surprized to find the bed-linen on the floor, nicely sprinkled with water, preparatory to a squeeze under a high-pressure engine, which renders it of a glossy smoothness, and diffuses the watery element so equally, that it feels delightfully cool to the next—and even to the tenth tenant of the caravansera! I fear that this is often the case nearer home, and where there is no “travelling constitution” to resist the vapour-bath of exhalent sheets in our foggy and cold atmosphere! The contracts between masters and chamber-maids for the supply of damp linen to hotels, are too often contracts for the supply of coughs, consumptions, and rheumatisms to travellers—greatly to the advantage of doctors, druggists, and undertakers afterwards!

Tourists who can afford space for leather sheets among their luggage, should take these useful articles with them, as there are more maladies than colds and rheumatisms contracted in caravanseras, and for which there is no provision made in the contract between host and passenger.

It must be acknowledged, however, that, of late years considerable improvements have taken place in the bedding line. In several parts of Germany, in the Autumn of 1840, we found very comfortable mattresses, blankets, coverlets, and sheets, to our no small joy and surprize.

26. German Stove versus English Chimney.—That a room heated by invisible caloric—with an atmosphere stagnant as the dead sea, humid as a Scotch mist, and odoriferous as a slaughter-house—should prove more congenial to the lungs of persons in the first or last stage of consumption, than an apartment with a blazing fire at one end, a large column of hot air rushing up the chimney, and a thousand tiny streams of cold air stealing in through the chinks and crevices of doors and windows, I do not, for a moment, deny. But, that the general balance of salubrity is on the side of the German stove, and against the English fire-place, I very much doubt. I admit that the air of an English room, heated by fire, is frequently changing the degree of its temperature, not only as a whole, but in different parts of the same chamber. This is the alpha and omega of Continental objections to the English plan—and it would not be difficult to show that this variability of heat, so much complained of, is a powerful preservative against atmospheric disorders in general. Nothing is more certain than that the most effectual way of counteracting the effects of sudden changes in the temperature of the air around us, is to habituate ourselves to these vicissitudes. It is in this way, that daily sponging of the face, throat, and other exposed parts of the body, first with hot, and then immediately with cold water, generally prevents face-aches, ear-aches, tooth-aches, and catarrhs, by habituating those parts to changes of temperature. And it is on this principle, that a person who has been for some time in an English room, where variations prevail, goes out into the open air afterwards, with far less risk than he who has been for an equal time in an actual sudatorium, at a high and unvarying range of temperature. But let us look a little more closely into the affair. In the room heated by a German stove and consequently where there cannot be a free ventilation, every individual is breathing the identical air that has circulated through the lungs of every other individual in the same place—through the air-cells of the scrofulous, the scorbutic, the asthmatic, the consumptive, &c.—air that is not only deprived of its oxygen, but loaded with animal effluvia of a very questionable character! Add to these the malodorous essence of tobacco, much of which must drip down the throat, as well as into the receptacle below the bowl of the pipe, during the day, to be exhaled in poisonous gases through the rooms at night! All must have experienced the debilitating effects of disoxygenated air in crowded rooms, even where there were various facilities of ingress and egress for the breath of Heaven. But where these facilities are wanting, the depression of the vital energies is indescribable. In short, I am of opinion that nothing can compensate for the ventilation produced by the English chimney. Those who stand or sit near a partially opened door, or a broken pane of glass, may catch cold, or face-ache, or rheumatism, it is true; but if I am to die or to suffer from atmospheric influence, let me do so in pure, rather than in mephitic air!

I have grounded these reasonings on salubrity alone—leaving comfort out of the question—as indeed it must be round the German stove! Why, the very sight of a cheerful fire in a Winter evening, is worth a German stove with the table-d’hôte thrown into the bargain! In a good fire we have company, conversation, and even meditation. I do not wonder that the Persees adore fire, as an emanation from the sun itself. I much doubt whether the Egyptians would have worshipped a German stove, even when they were so over-godly as to deify cats and crocodiles! But, to give the devil his due, the German stove is not without some good qualities. It is cheap—it does not set fire to ladies’ dresses—nor cause chilblains by scorching the fingers and toes in frosty weather. But as a drawback upon these negative good qualities, it renders the Germans a race of hot-house plants, who shiver in the blast whenever they issue from their vapour-baths, and are infinitely more liable to take cold than if they had come from an English room.

The introduction into this country of the Anglo-Germanic stove—that unsightly and unsocial laboratory of sulphur and suffocation—will not, I think, succeed. It is bad enough in Germany, where the Dutch tiles with which it is covered, emit no bad smell, and have a comparatively light and cheerful appearance; but here the hybrid iron mass—that dark lantern, “cui lumen ademptum”—is positively a nuisance. It may be borne, and even prove useful, in large halls, where there are constant currents of cool air. In a sitting-room or other chamber, it is very offensive—at least to my senses, from its metallic and sulphurous emanations. I had rather pitch my tent in the crater of Vesuvius, the valley of Solfatera, or the hut of a charbonnier in the Maremma, than in the vicinity of that sable distillery of “Northumberland diamonds,” from which every ray of light has been previously extracted by the gasometer.

27. Verlobung, or betrothing.—The German system of affiance appears to me to be a long courtship, and “something more.” It is a kind of “little-go,” or ante-marriage contract, attended with form, ceremony, and sequences. The affianced pair send out their cards bound together in the silken bonds of Hymen, in perspective—are waited on and congratulated by their friends,—are always invited together to parties, where they sit next each other at table, engross each other’s conversation, and appear like—or rather unlike, man and wife. At page 24 of this volume, I ventured some observations on the danger and the miseries that often attend on affiances, or long-promised marriages. Notwithstanding the approval of Mrs. Jameson, I still hold my opinion. That lady indeed, is not blind to some of the consequences of the verlobung. One of them will be sufficient. “As the bridegroom is expected to devote every leisure moment to the society of his betrothed—as he attends her to all public places—as they are invariably seated next each other,—they have time to become tolerably tired of each others’ society before marriage, and have nothing left to say.” This is a charming prospect for matrimony! The soft looks, the fine speeches, the glowing sentiments, nay even the pretty riens, are all expended during the protracted affiance, and when, at last, the knot is tied indissolubly, the gallant gay lothario is, as Rosalind says—“gravelled for lack of matter.”

But Mrs. Jameson says that this long state of probation enables the parties to study well their respective characters, and detect failings and faults which a short courtship would be apt to over-look. Now the affiance is either binding or not binding. If the latter, of what use is it? If the former, it is small consolation to the bride or bridegroom to ascertain the causes of future misery before even Hymen lights his torch! But who is unaware that courtship is a kind of warfare, in which the belligerents take good care to mask their weak points and magnify their strong positions. The Germans themselves, indeed, have an adage that runs in little accordance with the tedious verlobung.

“Early woo’d and early won,

Was never repented under the sun.”

28. March of Population.—Nothing exhibits a greater contrast between England and the Continent than the progress of population. I believe it goes on at least three times as fast in the British Isles as in France and Germany. Many causes may be assigned for this disproportion. The immense outlet for redundant population in our colonies—the prodigious extent of our commerce and manufactures—the early period of marriage, especially in Ireland—these are among the chief causes of the rail-road speed at which the multiplication of mankind goes on in this country. On the Continent, it is just the reverse. The pace of population there is quite “a la schnell-post.” But lest this degree of velocity should endanger the state waggon, government (in many parts of Germany) has affixed a drag to the wheels, in the shape of a law prohibiting matrimony, unless the high contracting parties can produce proof of their possessing ways and means for supporting themselves and families. If this regulation obtained in Great Britain, it would stop one half of the marriages in Scotland, two-thirds of those in England, and nine-tenths of those in Ireland. Here is a hint for the Poor Law Commissioners, that may induce them to bring a Bill into Parliament for the prevention of imprudent marriages, which would be more effectual in checking pauperism than the terrors of the workhouse.

But, when we consider that colonization and commerce carry off an immense redundancy of British population, how are we to account for the permanent or domiciliated population of these islands increasing so much more rapidly than that of the Continent, where the safety-valves are of such narrow dimensions? There are some causes of these different rates of progression, which are little known in this country; but the chief cause must be the greater degree of prudence exercised by the people of France and Germany than by the people of Great Britain.

29. Poetry.—The transition from population to poetry is not so abrupt as might at first appear; for although we may have population without poetry, we shall rarely have poetry without population. Looking at the words of the German language, a stranger to that language would be apt to conclude that it must be as difficult to mould them into music or poetry, as to convert hob-nails into ivory teeth—the bristles of a boar into the ermine of a judge—or the rocks of Iona into columns of crystal. Yet nothing would be a more erroneous prejudice than this conclusion. The German, like the English language, is so rich in synonimes, as to afford every facility for the intonations of the musician, and variety of expression of the poet. The poverty of the French language in this respect, presents a remarkable contrast to the German and English. French poetry must have the jingle of rhyme to make it bearable by the ear. A French poem in blank verse, would be like a monkey striding along on huge stilts, exciting roars of laughter from the spectators. But this poverty in synonims, renders the French language more precise, and the individual words less equivocal than in any other. Hence its universal advantages in diplomatic communications, where the synonims of other tongues would give rise to perpetual ambiguity and quibble.

A curious, not to say ludicrous, attempt has lately been made by an American author to transplant the poetry of Goethe and Schiller into English by literal translation, the said author maintaining that poetry will be poetry still; and that the more close and servile the traduction, the better will the spirit of the original poetry be preserved! The following rather favourable specimen of this attempt to clothe German ideas in English words, is quite a “curiosity of literature,” and worth preserving.

“TO A NATURALIST.

“‘What Nature hides within’—

O thou Philistine!—

‘No finite mind can know.’

My friend, of this thing

We think thou needest not

So oft remind us:

We fancy: Spot for spot

Within we find us.

‘Happy who her doth win

The outmost shell to show!’

Now that these sixty years I’ve heard repeated,

And, oft as heard, with silent curses greeted.

I whisper o’er and o’er this truth eternal:—

Freely doth nature all things tell;

Nature hath neither shell

Nor kernel;

Whole every where, at each point thou canst learn all.

Only examine thine own heart.

Whether thou shell or kernel art.”[98]

Now if any Transatlantic Philistine can crack the shell of this German nut, and extract an eatable kernel, he must possess a manducator pretty considerably stronger than that with which Sampson cracked the skulls of the ancient Philistines in the Holy Land—the jaw-bone of an ass.

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