SCHLANGENBAD.
The extensive cook-shop and laboratory under Wisbaden have communicated no small portion of caloric to the air, as well as to the waters of that place. We no sooner begin to ascend the slopes or ridges of the Taunus than we experience a remarkable transition from languor and oppression to vigor and elasticity—not confined to the physique, but extending also to the morale. Of the two roads from Wisbaden to Schlangenbad, we preferred the mountainous, or inland route, to that along the Rhine, for the sake of a bracing air and a boundless prospect. We trotted merrily along the hills and vales of the Taunus, over a Macadamized road, till, in two hours, we found ourselves, all at once, in a romantic dell or valley, bounded on both sides, by densely wooded mountains rising nearly perpendicular, from the narrow space between. In this small compass rise three or four huge buildings, white as snow, and each having more windows than there are days in the year. I set them down as manufactories of cotton or cutlery, but the absence of all clanking of machinery or hissing of steam, soon undeceived me. On driving into a little square between the two principal Hoffs, all was silent as Pompeii—and not a human being was seen in any direction. There was no competition here between the two chief hotels—both belonging to one master—and he the sovereign of the country. As it was about 12 o’clock, all true Germans were in their holes and corners, meditating on, and preparing for the grand business of the day—the onslaught of the couteau and fourçhette at the mittag table-d’hôte. To the Serpent’s Bath, the intervening hour was dedicated. The cosmetic and renovating qualities of the Schlangenbad are nearly as far-famed now as the cauldron of Medea was, in days of yore. The Old Man of the Brunnens dipped his pencil in prime copal varnish, when he embellished the baths of this sequestered valley. The description is a real bijou of its kind,—a diamond of the first water—equally profitable to the pen of the painter and the purse of the royal proprietor!
“The baths at Schlangenbad are the most harmless and delicious luxuries of the sort I have ever enjoyed; and I really quite looked forward to the morning for the pleasure with which I paid my addresses to this delightful element. The effect it produces on the skin is very singular; it is about as warm as milk, but infinitely softer: and after dipping the hand into it, if the thumb be rubbed against the fingers, it is said by many to resemble satin. Nevertheless, whatever may be its sensation, when the reader reflects that people not only come to these baths from Russia, but that the water in stone bottles, merely as a cosmetic, is sent to St. Petersburg and other distant parts of Europe, he will admit that it must be soft indeed to have gained for itself such an extraordinary degree of celebrity: for there is no town at Schlangenbad, not even a village—nothing therefore but the real or fancied charm of the water could attract people into a little sequestered valley, which in every sense of the word is out of sight of the civilised world; and yet I must say, that I never remember to have existed in a place which possessed such fascinating beauties; besides which, (to say nothing of breathing pure dry air,) it is no small pleasure to live in a skin, which puts all people in good humour—at least with themselves. But besides the cosmetic charms of this water, it is declared to possess virtues of more substantial value: it is said to tranquillize the nerves, to soothe all inflammation; and from this latter property, the cures of consumption which are reported to have been effected, among human beings and cattle, may have proceeded. Yet whatever good effect the water may have upon this insidious disorder, its first operation most certainly must be to neutralize the bad effect of the climate, which to consumptive patients must decidedly be a very severe trial, for delightful as it is to people in robust health, yet the keenness of the mountain air, together with the sudden alternations of temperature to which the valley of Schlangenbad is exposed, must, I think, be anything but a remedy for weak lungs.
“The effect produced upon the skin, by lying about twenty minutes in the bath, I one day happened to overhear a short, fat Frenchman describe to his friend in the following words—‘Monsieur, dans ces bains on devient absolument amoureux de soi-même!’ I cannot exactly corroborate this Gallic statement, yet I must admit that limbs, even old ones, gradually do appear as if they were converted into white marble. The skin assumes a sort of glittering, phosphoric brightness, resembling very much white objects, which, having been thrown overboard, in calm weather within the tropics, many of my readers have probably watched sinking in the ocean, which seems to blanch and illuminate them as they descend. The effect is very extraordinary, and I know not how to account for it, unless it be produced by some prismatic refraction, caused by the peculiar particles with which the fluid is impregnated.
“The Schlangenbad water contains the muriates and carbonates of lime, soda, and magnesia, with a slight excess of carbonic acid which holds the carbonates in solution. The celebrated embellishment which it produces on the skin is, in my opinion, a sort of corrosion, which removes tan, or any other artificial covering that the surface may have attained from exposure and ill-treatment by the sun and wind. In short, the body is cleaned by it, just as a kitchen-maid scours her copper saucepan; and the effect being evident, ladies modestly approach it from the most distant parts of Europe. I am by no means certain, however, that they receive any permanent benefit; indeed, on the contrary, I should think that their skins would eventually become, if anything, coarser, from the removal of a slight veil or covering, intended by nature as a protection to the cuticle.
“But whether this water be permanently beneficial to ladies or not, the softness it gives to the whole body is quite delightful: and with two elements, air and water, in perfection, I found that I grew every hour more and more attached to the place.”
This glowing description of the Old Man has worked a greater miracle than that of changing water into wine. It has actually transmuted the spring of Schlangenbad into liquid gold—aurum potabile! If the author be accused of “exaggeration”—(now a dangerous term)—he may quote the sentiments of the Esculapius—the Apollo of the place.
“Never did bath produce such delightful sensations as the Serpent’s Bath at Schlangenbad. These salubrious waters exert on the body an agreeable and gentle pressure—voluptuously expand the limbs—and tranquillize the nerves and the blood. You rise from the waters of Schlangenbad like a Phœnix from its ashes. Youth becomes more beautiful—more brilliant—and old age is imbued with new vigour.”[20]
Well done Dr. Fenner! You have beaten the “Old Man of the Brunnens” fairly out of the field! Why the very waters themselves must have blushed when they saw the account of these their miraculous qualities—and the serpents must have waltzed merrily round the pine trees that overhang the source of the magic Brunnen.
And yet the whole is little more than an ingenious romance, closely allied to the legends of the neighbouring Rhine—as the story of the Drachenfels, for example. It is unnecessary to comment on the Phœnix of Dr. Fenner. That fabulous bird speaks for itself; but Sir F. Head’s account requires some remark. In the first place, the appearance of the limbs and body of the bather, is precisely the same as in other clear and tepid waters, as those of Wisbaden, Baden-Baden, Wildbad, &c.—or, indeed, in plain water. The “glittering phosphoric brightness,” and the blanching and illumination of sinking bodies in tropical seas, are all the offspring of a fanciful or poetical imagination. Then again, the soapy, satiny, and unctuous feel communicated by the Schlangenbad waters, is not peculiar to them. The first time I ever bathed in the Ems waters, many years ago, I remarked this, and can never forget the sense of bien-être which I then experienced. And no wonder, for the waters of Ems are infinitely more alkaline—especially in the baths—than those of Schlangenbad. The effects, however, of these last on the skin, appeared to me more marked and pleasant than those of Wildbad, Wisbaden, or Baden-Baden. The tranquillity and sedative qualities of the Serpent’s Bath are somewhat exaggerated by the “Old Man,” and outrageously so by Dr. Fenner; but nevertheless they possess these influences to a considerable extent.
And here I must say that my friend Dr. Granville appears to have viewed poor Schlangenbad with a jaundiced eye.[21] The waters of the Kochbrunnen may have stirred up the bile—for assuredly the waters of Schlangenbad are clearer, and the mountains are higher, and the trees are larger than he has represented them. The very description of Captain Head proves the transparency of the waters—and the following passage from Mr. Lee, which I can corroborate, will remove the stigma from the baths themselves.
“The bathing-cabinets, notwithstanding the depreciating terms in which Dr. Granville has spoken of them, are exceedingly convenient, more so, indeed, than at most other baths, and infinitely superior to the closets for undressing adjoining the piscinæ at Wildbad. They are for the most part lofty and well ventilated, and are divided into a dressing-room and a large and spacious marble baignoire capable of containing five or six persons; though it is only intended for a single person; bathing in common not being the practice at Schlangenbad. The bather consequently is not obliged to lie down in water about two feet deep, but has ample space to play or move about, the water being admitted in large quantity, so as to rise nearly breast-high; the temperature can also be increased by the bather, at pleasure, by admitting more warm water, though some persons, in the height of summer, prefer bathing in the water at its natural temperature,—about 22° Reaumur. A bath of this water, like others of the same class, imparts softness to the skin, with a pleasurable sensation while it lasts, and a feeling of bien-être for the remainder of the day.”[22]
The waters of Schlangenbad contain only about six grains of solid substances in the pint—half of which is carbonate of soda—and very little carbonic acid gas. Small as these ingredients are, they are larger than those in the waters of Wildbad, or Pfeffers. They are, as Captain Head observes, safe waters, both for bathing and drinking. The temperature being about 86°—something higher than Buxton, they may be used by many people without any artificial increase. But, generally speaking, it will be prudent to raise them ten or twelve degrees for gouty and rheumatic patients. Every body knows—or has been told—that the medicinal virtues of Schlangenbad waters were discovered by a hide-bound heifer—and proved by a young lady under a similar state of skin. Whether this story be true or fabulous, I cannot tell; but I apprehend that its cosmetic and satinizing properties are those which draw most of its foreign customers from the shores of the Baltic, and the banks of the Thames. Captain Head justly suspects the durability of the satin skin—and there is little doubt that if half a pound of soda or potash were added to a common warm bath in England, the same softness of surface would be the result.
I do not much wonder that the “Old Man” should have become enamoured of Schlangenbad, considering the disposition which he evinced for solitude, contemplation, and reflection. The locality is well adapted for all these. Society is so concentrated in this little valetudinarium, and so quiet withal, that human nature may be studied with a kind of “microscopic eye,” and all its modifications, peculiarities, and eccentricities noted without distraction or bustle. On the mountain’s romantic brow, under the shade of the sombre pine, and in the stillness and serenity of the forest, the mind has ample time to meditate on, and inwardly digest the observations made in the little miniature world below.
As one o’clock approached, the solitude of Schlangenbad began to exhibit some symptoms of change. From various points of the compass isolated individuals, bearing the marks of illness, were seen carefully picking out the softest—or, at all events, the smoothest stones of the pavé, over which to wend their way, towards what an Irishman would call “three centres” of attraction. Soon afterwards, we heard three or four bells simultaneously sounding, when immediately the solitary videttes were succeeded by whole columns marching to their appointed rendezvous. Never did veteran Roman phalanx advance with more steady pace—more death-like silence—or more inflexible resolution, to the assault of barbarian foe, than does a German corps—men, women, and children—to the work of demolition at a mittag table-d’hôte.
Falling into the ranks of the largest column, we soon found ourselves in the salle-a-manger of the New Bad Haus, where about one hundred sat down to dinner. There was a fair proportion of English—full an eighth of the whole. There is little difficulty in distinguishing the German from the Britannic guests. The sallow complexion, black and broken teeth, matted locks, extravagant mustachios—and transcendental salutations at meeting and parting—are some of the most prominent features of distinction; yet there are many others of a minor cast.[24] An inferiority in the cloth of the coat—a peculiarity in what a sailor would call “the cut of the jib”—enormous rings on the fingers, and brooches in the breast, are characteristic of our German neighbours. Independently of these, you may smoke a German in any part of the room—or scent him at a quarter of a mile’s distance in the open air, if the wind be favourable. For although he ceases to smoke when he begins to eat, yet from one pocket the reeking pipe is exhaling its odours—while from the other, a load of the “cursed weed” itself is diffusing its aroma in all directions. But I find that I have been mistaken in giving a truce to smoking during the act of eating. The fair author of “Souvenirs” has corrected me. “Yonder is an old gentleman actually eating and smoking at the same time—the long pipe being pushed into one corner of his mouth, so as to leave an entrance in front for the spoon or fork.” On reading this passage, I could not help feeling certain anatomical and physiological difficulties in the way of this triple function of mastication, smoking, and swallowing, being all simultaneous. I believe I can explain the phenomenon, however, without questioning the fact of the fair writer. Every person must have seen a horse eat oats and hay, with the bit of the bridle in his mouth. It was so with the old gentleman. All Germans have numerous vacancies among their grinders, and the one in question was able to keep his pipe ready lit for service between the courses, in one corner of his mouth. But it is certain that the triple or even double function of smoking and eating simultaneously, is next to impossible.
These external peculiarities of the German are probably not more striking to John Bull, than are the singularities of the latter to the German. As to internal qualities—moral and intellectual—my conviction is, that the German has far more head and heart than nine-tenths of his continental and insular neighbours.
In fine, the more I have seen of the Germans, the more I admire their honesty, zeal, single-heartedness, quietude, order, hospitality, learning, and humanity. These solid qualities leave the little personal peculiarities which I have sketched above, as “dust in the balance.”
It is not quite so easy to discriminate between the German ladies and those of our own country, as between the gentlemen of the two nations. One reason is, that the German ladies do not smoke long pipes, and wear long mustachios. I shall not libel the sex, as Pope has done, by making the colour of the hair the characteristics of women:—
“And best distinguished by black, brown, or fair.”
There is one peculiarity in the manners of the German fair (besides a certain “je ne sçais quoi,”) which is, their bowing instead of curtseying, on meeting or parting from friends—and that quite as low as their brothers, fathers, and husbands. This was the reason of my introducing the term “bussel-rending” in the description of a German salaam.
TABLE-D’HÔTE.
Not being deeply versed in the science of gastronomy and its nomenclature, I shall introduce the following order and succession of dishes as drawn by a fair countrywoman (Souvenirs of a Summer in Germany,) whose fidelity of description cannot be doubted.
“First, as usual, was the soup—then the invariable boiled beef, with its accompaniments of pickled cucumber, onions, or sour krout. After the beef, is a course of cutlets, sliced raw ham, omelettes, and vegetables. Then come partridges, chickens, sausages, ducks—all which are replaced by various kinds of fish—some so besauced and bedecked with garnishes, that they are hardly recognizable as belonging to the finny tribe—and pyramidical dishes of cray-fish. The puddings come next, with smoking boats of fruit and wine-sauce. Is this the finale? Not at all. The pudding is a kind of æra, whence fresh courses take their date. A more formidable array of dishes next makes its appearance. Roast joints—req, (a kind of deer,) geese, turkeys, hares, &c. &c. with innumerable satellites of preserved pears, plums, cherries, salads, &c. This substantial course is followed by sweets—cherry tarts—enormous cakes, all spices and vanille with a snowy summit of powdered sugar—custards, creams, &c. The dessert and bon-bons close the proceedings.”
Now, it is to be observed, that this was the bill of fare at Schwalbach or Schlangenbad, where nine-tenths of the guests are notoriously invalids. It would scarcely serve for a dejeuner a la fourçhette at the sumptuaries of Baden or Wisbaden. The fair authoress admits that the German partakes of every dish; but argues that he does not eat more in the aggregate than the Englishman. This statement is so decidedly contrary to all observation, that I can only account for it by supposing that the fair lady noted more accurately the compliments to “la belle Anglaise,” proceeding out of the mouths of her favourite Germans, than the provender which proceeded in a contrary direction. Is it likely that the keeper of a German hotel would dress more dishes than are generally consumed, seeing that the price of the whole dinner is under two shillings? Not he indeed. The fact is undeniable that the Germans—indeed all the continentals who can afford it, eat not only a greater variety and complication of “dishes tortured from their native taste,” but a greater quantity in the aggregate. The question naturally arises—what is the consequence? Compare the complexions of the Germans and English. No one will attempt to deny that the contrast is most striking. The tints of health predominate in the looks of the Islanders—pallor and sallowness in those of the Continental. But the lady may reply—“nimium ne crede colori”—complexion, like beauty, is only skin-deep. Be it so. We shall look deeper. Let us follow the example of the horse-dealer, and examine the teeth. If my fair countrywoman has preserved any “souvenirs” of these important actors in the drama of human life, she will not be inclined to maintain that a German is like an elephant—with a mouth full of ivory. I never saw the hearty laugh of an honest German, without thinking of a temple—whose portal consisted of broken columns of ebony. If 40 Germans, at the age of 40, were compared with the same number of English, at the same age—all taken indiscriminately from the streets of Vienna and London—what would be the comparative number of sound teeth in the heads of the two classes? I shall attempt a calculation presently; mean time, it will be admitted on all hands, that the Germans are woefully afflicted with unsound teeth. What is the reason? A pair of mill-stones will grind only a certain quantity of corn—or last only a certain number of years. It is the same with the human mill-stones, or molares. They will only grind a certain quantity of food, or do a certain amount of labour, before they are worn out, like their namesakes in the mill. Now if the Germans eat one-third more than the English—and I firmly believe they do—then their teeth have one-third more of work, and ought to experience a corresponding degree of wear and tear. This, however, will not account for the premature decay of the teeth, but only for their wearing out sooner than under other circumstances. We must seek deeper for the causes. As the millstones are spoiled and rendered useless by allowing improper things to be mixed with the grain, as pebbles, &c. so the teeth are injured by the quality as well as by the quantity of our food. The oils, acids, tobacco, and other deleterious substances, for ever mixing with continental meals, must greatly injure the organs of mastication as well as of digestion.
The human frame is a congeries of organs, all in harmony, when in health, and each assisting the others. But when we deviate from simplicity and temperance, these same organs quarrel with each other, to the detriment, and sometimes to the destruction of the whole constitution. The stomach is one of those patient and willing organs that will work wonders for years and years; but at length it will rebel—and even retaliate. The teeth, which have long sent down immoderate quantities of food, too often of the most abominable composition, for the stomach to grind over again, become visited with pains and penalties by the offended organ, under the vain hope that less work will be done in the upper mill. The warning is unheeded; and then the stomach begins the process of demolition in good earnest. It is in this state of, what the geologists would call “transition,” that we see the teeth of the Germans—and, it must be confessed, of the English sometimes also—in a state disagreeable to the eye, offensive to the nose, and injurious to the health. The stomach, which has inflicted this punishment on the mouth, so far from being benefitted thereby, is still farther injured by the failure of mastication; and then the various organs and functions of the body become involved in the consequences of long-continued deviations from the paths of Nature, simplicity, and temperance!
If this penalty be still considered as imaginary, I shall adduce more cogent arguments. The bills of mortality contain very stubborn facts. Let us take the two capitals of Germany and England—Vienna and London. In the former, one twenty-fourth of the population goes to the grave annually:—in the latter (London) one-fortieth part only. In the language of the insurance-offices, “the value of life is more than one-third greater in London than in Vienna.” Now this difference will surely not be attributed to climate merely—since the continentals themselves anathematize the climate of England, and the fogs of London, as most “horrid.” Here then we have some clue to the comparative number of teeth in individuals of the same age, at home and abroad. We shall probably find the proportion of 24 to 40 (the ratio of mortality) as exhibiting a fair estimate of the number of teeth in equal masses of the population in Germany and England. Thus, for example, if the Englishman, at the age of 50, have twenty teeth in his head, the German, at the same period of life, will have only twelve, and so on.
But to return to the table-d’hôte. A glance round the “salle-a-manger” brought a strong conviction on my mind, that Fame had either exaggerated the virtues of the Serpent’s Bath, or had excited hopes that would seldom be realized. A majority of the guests were females; and not a few of these were of a certain—or rather of an uncertain, age. Of the males, the greater number were evidently dandies in decay. I never remember to have seen, in the same compass, a greater variety of feature and complexion—indicating a re-union, in this sequestered spot, of individuals from various and remote regions. But however diversified in external physiognomy, there was one point in which there was a wonderful coincidence and similarity—that point was—not the point of beauty. It is with mortification, I confess, that the English portion of the guests did not form a prominent exception to the general rule. To say the truth, the whole company exhibited sorry samples of the great European and Transatlantic family;—and if appetite was any index, the majority had met here, partly for health, but principally for—re-creation. How far the transmutation from age to youth—from decrepitude to vigour—from the wrinkled skin to the polished surface, was effected by plunges in the Serpent’s Bath, I had not time to ascertain. I candidly acknowledge that I never saw a real phœnix—but if these were specimens of Dr. Fenner’s phœnixes, “rising from their ashes,” then I must say that they very much resembled a batch of old cocks and hens roosting at Schlangenbad during the molting season.
The first impression which a stranger receives, while prying through Schlangenbad, is that the waters have an uglifying rather than a beautifying effect on the human frame. This is erroneous. We do not go through the wards of an hospital to search for samples of rude health—neither ought we to go to Schlangenbad for specimens of smooth skin and delicate complexion.
We rambled through winding and umbrageous paths up the mountain behind the Old Bad-haus, to its summit—and I think there are few places in the world better adapted to profound meditation, while, at the same time, inspiring the most pure, bracing, and salubrious atmosphere. I descended in a contemplative mood, when I stumbled into a long kind of gallery or hall, which looked like an enclosed promenade. There the accursed roulette-table met my eye and excited my choler. What! In this valley of Rasselas—in this asylum of health—in this peaceful retreat from the stormy passions of the city—to find the symbol of Hell, and the instrument of the devil, was more than I could bear with patience! True, it was deserted. Not a human being was seen in the place; but its presence indicated too surely the work of destruction that would go on in the evening. Julius Cæsar, I think, observed that the Germans, in his time, were so passionately addicted to gambling, that, when they had lost all their money and goods, they would stake their wives and children! It therefore seems to be impossible to eradicate this dreadful propensity from the German mind. Still the public exercise of it might be prevented. The King of Saxony prohibits and prevents smoking in Dresden! If such a miracle as this can be wrought in Germany, we need not despair, even of gambling!