THE LAST HEADSMAN.
Ten years ago the ancient city of Hamburg was awakened into terror by the commission of a fearful murder. The cry of “Fire!” arose in the night; the nachtwächter (watchman) gave the alarm;
and the few means at command were resorted to with an energy and goodwill that sufficed soon to extinguish the flames. It was, however, discovered that the fire had not done the work it had been kindled for; it would not hide murder. Among the smouldering embers in the kellar or underground kitchen, where the fire had originated, was discovered the charred body of a poor old woman, whose recent wounds were too certain evidences of a violent death. It was also ascertained that a petty robbery of some few dollars had been committed, and the utmost vigilance was called into exercise to discover the perpetrator.
All surmises were in vain, till suspicion fell upon the watchman who had first given the alarm; and the first evidence of the track of guilt being thus fallen upon, it was not difficult to trace it to its source. Numerous little scraps of evidence came out, one upon another, till the whole diabolical plot was stripped of its mystery, and the guilt of the wächter clearly proved. He was convicted of the crime imputed to him, and condemned to death by the Senate. But on receiving sentence, the condemned man assumed a tone totally unexpected of him, for he boldly asserted that the punishment of death had fallen into disuse; that it was no longer the law of Hamburg; and concluded by defying the Senators to carry the sentence pronounced into execution.
It was indeed true that the ponderous weapon of the headsman had lain for two-and-twenty years rusting in its scabbard; nor without reason. At that period a criminal stood convicted and condemned to death. The law gave little mercy in those days, and there was no hesitation in carrying the sentence into effect. But an unexpected difficulty arose; the old headsman was but lately dead, and his son, a fine stalwart young man, was, from inexperience, considered unequal to the task. A crowd of eager competitors proffered their services in this emergency, but the ancient city of Hamburg, like some other ancient cities, was hampered with antiquated usages. Its profits and other advantages were tied up into little knots of monopoly, in various shapes of privileges and hereditary rights. The young headsman claimed his office on the latter ground; to the surprise of all, his mother, the wife of the old headsman, not merely supported him in his claim, but persisted, with a spirit that might have become a Roman matron but certainly no one else, that if her son were incapable, she herself was responsible for the performance of her husband’s duty, and would
execute it. The Senate was in consternation, for this assertion of hereditary right was unanswerable; and while they courteously declined the offer of the chivalrous mother, they felt constrained to accept the services of her son.
The fatal morning came; the scaffold stood erected; and pressing closely around the wooden barriers, stood the anxious crowd awaiting the execution. The culprit knelt with head erect, his neck and shoulders bared for the stroke, while the young headsman stood by his side armed with the double-handed sword, the weapon of his office. At a sign given, he swung the tremendous blade in the air, and aimed a fearful blow at the neck of the condemned; but his skilless hand sloped the broad blade as it fell, and it struck deeply into the victim’s breast. Amid a cry of terror he raised his sword again; again it whirled through the air, and again it failed to do its deadly work. The miserable wretch still lived; and a third stroke was necessary to complete the task so dreadfully began. Who can wonder that that fearful weapon had for years long rested from its service?
Influenced by this terrible scene, and, let us hope, as well by motives of humanity as by the conviction of the utter uselessness of such a spectacle as a moral lesson, the Senate of Hamburg had commuted the punishment of death into that of a life imprisonment. Yet now they were taunted with their unreadiness to shed blood, and dared to carry the law, as it still stood upon the statute-book, into effect. For a while it seemed that anger would govern the acts of the Senate, for every preparation was made for the execution. The headsman, whose blundering essay has been above related, was still living, but he had long filled the humble office of a messenger, and made no claim to repeat his effort. Among the many competitors who offered their services, a Dane was finally selected, and the inhabitants of Hamburg, excited to the utmost degree by the anticipation of the forthcoming spectacle, awaited the event with a morbid and gloating curiosity. They were, however, disappointed; humanity prevailed, and the guilty wächter was conducted to a life prison.
The Senate of Hamburg has not formally abolished the punishment of death; but the last hereditary headsman is now growing an old man, and the first and only stroke of his weapon was dealt thirty-two years ago.
CHAPTER IV.
workmen in hamburg.
Here amid the implements of labor, in the dingy werkstube in Johannis Strasse; lighted by the single flicker of an oil lamp, with the workboard for a writing-desk, let me endeavour to collect some few scattered details about the German workmen in Hamburg.
German workmen! do not the very words recall to your memory old amber-coloured engravings of sturdy men, with waving locks, grasping the arm of the printing-press, by the side of Faust, Schœffer, and Gottenberg? Or, perhaps, the words of Schiller’s “Song of the Bell” may not be unknown to you, and hum in your ears:
Frisch, gesellen, seyd zur hand!
Von der stirne heiss,
Rinnen muss der schweiss.
Briskly, comrades to your work!
From the flushing brow
Must the sweatdrops flow.
But your modern German workman is somewhat of a different stamp; he points his moustaches with black wax, trims his locks à la Française, and wears wide pantaloons. He tapers his waist with a leathern strap, and wears a blouse while at his labors. He discards old forms and regulations as far as he can or dare, and thus the old word “Meister” has fallen into disrepute, and the titles “Herr” and “Principal” occupy its place. Schiller, like a true poet, calls his workmen “gesellen,” which is the old German word meaning companion or comrade, but modern politeness has changed it into “gehülfe,” assistant; and “mitglied,” member. In some places, however, the words “knecht” and “knappe,” servant or attendant, are still in use to signify journeyman; as “schusterknecht,” shoemaker; “schlächterknecht,” butcher’s man; “muhlknappe,” miller; “bergknappe,” miner;
but these terms are employed more from habit than from any invidious distinction.
Well! we live and work on the fourth floor of a narrow slip of a house in Johannis Strasse. Herr Sorgenpfennig, our “principal,” occupies the suite of four rooms, and devotes a central one (to which no light can possibly come save at second hand through the door), to his “gesellen.” We are three; a quiet Dane, full of sage precepts, and practical illustrations of economy; a roystering Bavarian from Nuremberg, who never fails to grieve over the thin beer of Hamburg, and who, as member of a choral union near Das Johanneum, delights in vigorous and unexpected bursts of song; and myself.
Workmen in Hamburg are still in a state of villanage; beneath the roof of the “Herr” do they find at once a workshop, a dormitory, and a home. We endeavour so far to conform to the rules of propriety as to escape the imprisonment and other penalties that await the “unruly journeyman.” The table of Herr Sorgenpfennig is our own, and a very liberal one it is esteemed to be. Let me sketch you a few of its items: delicious coffee, “white bread and brown,” or rather black, and unlimited butter, make up our breakfast. Dinner always commences with a soup, usually made from meat, sometimes from herbs, lemon, sweet fruit, or other ingredients utterly indescribable. Meat, to be fit for a German table, must be carefully pared of every vestige of fat; if boiled it is underdone, unless expressly devoted to the soup, when the juiceless shreds that remain are served up with plums or prepared vegetables; if it be baked (roasting is almost unknown) it is dry and tasteless. Bacon and sausages, with their inevitable accompaniment, sourkraut, is a favourite dish; but not so unvaryingly so as some choose to imagine. Acids generally are much admired in German cookery. In nothing, perhaps, are the Hamburgers more to be envied, in a gastronomic view, than in their vegetables. Singularly small as are these products of the kitchen garden, they are sweeter and more delicately flavoured than any I ever tasted elsewhere. As entremets, and as accompaniments to meat, they are largely consumed. The Hamburgers laugh at the English cooks who boil green peas and potatoes in plain water, for here boiled potatoes are scarcely known—that nutritious vegetable being cut into slices and fried; while green peas are slowly stewed in butter or cream, and sweetened with fine sugar. But we “gesellen” have plebeian appetites, and whatever dish may
be set before us, as surely vanishes to its latest shred. The little patches of puff-paste, smeared with preserve, sent to us as Sunday treat, or the curious production in imitation of our English pie, and filled with maccaroni, are immolated at once without misgiving or remorse. If we sup at all, it is upon pasty, German cheese, full of holes, as if it had been made in water, or a hot liver sausage, as an extraordinary indulgence.
And our “Licht Braten?” Herr Sorgenpfennig rubs his short, fat hands, and his round eyes twinkle again, as he tells his little cluster of “Herren Gesellen” that there will be a feast, a sumptuous abendbrod, to inaugurate the commencement of candle-light. The “Licht Braten,” as this entertainment is called, is one of the old customs of Hamburg now falling into disuse. It would be doing Herr Sorgenpfennig an eternal injustice did we pass over it in silence, more especially as he boasts of it as real “North German fare.” Here we have it: raw herrings to begin with. Bah! I confess this does not sound well upon the first blush; but, then, a raw dried herring is somewhat different to one salted in a barrel. To cook it would be a sacrilege, say the Germans. And then the accompaniments! We have two dishes of wonderful little potatoes, baked in an oven, freshly peeled and shining; and in the centre of the table is a bowl of melted butter and mustard well mixed together. You dip your potato in the butter, and while you thus soften the deep-sea saltness of your herring, the rough flavour of the latter relishes and overcomes the unctuous dressing of your potato. I swear to you it is delicious!
But where is our “braten,” the “roast,” in fact? Oh, thou unhappy Peter! I see thee still, reeking over the glowing forge fire, cooking savoury sausages thou art forbidden to taste! I see thee still, struggling in vain to “bolt” the blazing morsel, rashly plucked (in the momentary absence of Sorgenpfennig), from the bubbling, hissing fat, and thrust into thy jaws. Those burning tears! those mad distortions of limb and feature! God pity thee, Peter, but it was not to be! Those savoury sausages are our “braten,” and they smack wonderfully after the herrings. If there is one item in our repast to be deplored, it is the Hamburger beer, which, however, is as good as it can be, I suppose, for the money—something under an English penny a bottle. But here is wine; good, sound wine, not indeed from the Rhine, nor the Moselle, but red, sparkling, French vin ordinaire, at a mark—fourteen-pence the bottle.
Truly, Hamburg, thou art a painstaking, industrious, money-making city, with more available wealth among thy pitch and slime than other towns can boast of in their trimness and finery, but spendthrift, and debauched, and dissolute withal art thou!
Punch, du edler trank der Britten!
Punch, thou noble drink of Britons—
the outburst of some exhilarated poet—should be inscribed upon thy double-turreted gate, good Hamburg! The odorous steam of rum and lemon contends in thine open streets with the fumes of tobacco; the union of these two perfumes make up thine atmosphere; while thy public walks are strewn with the unsmoked ends of cigars, thick as the shrivelled leaves in autumn.
Seriously, the Hamburger toils earnestly, and takes his pleasure with a proportionate amount of zeal. His enjoyments, like his labours, are of a strong and solid description. The workmen trundle kegle balls in long, wooden-built alleys; and down in deep beer cellars, snug and warm, do they cluster, fondling their pipes like favoured children; taking long gulps of well-made punch, or deeper draughts of Bairisches beer. If they talk, they do so vehemently, but they love better to sit and listen to some little troop of harfenisten—street harp-players—as they tone the waltzes of Lanner, or sing some chivalrous romance. Sometimes they form themselves into bands of choristers, and sing with open windows into the street, or play at billiards as if it were for life, or congregate in the dance-houses, and waltz by the hour without a pause. In all they are hearty, somewhat boisterous, but never wanting in good temper.
As marriage is out of the question with the workman in Hamburg, whether stranger or native—unless indeed the latter may have passed through the probationary course of travel and conscription, and be already on the verge of mastership—so also is honourable courtship. His low wages and dependent position form an impassable barrier to wedlock, and a married journeyman is almost unknown. By the law of his native city he must travel for two or three years, independently of the chances of conscription, and thus for a period at least he becomes a restless wanderer, without tie or home. No prudent maiden can listen to his addresses, and thus it is that Hamburg swarms with unfortunates; and this it is which gives them rights and immunities unknown in any other city.
CHAPTER V.
plays and piccadilloes.—“hamlet” in german.
It is Sunday again. Soberly and sedately do we pass our morning hours. We waken with the sweet music of bells in our ears; bells that whisper to us of devotion; bells that thrill us with a calm delight, and raise up in us thoughts of gentleness and charity.
There is no lack of churches; we see their tapering steeples and deep gable roofs rising above the general level in many places, and there is a Little Bethel down by the water’s side on the Vorsetzen, for the sailors. There are two or three Little Pandemoniums in its immediate vicinity, or at least by that classical title are they designated by the Bethlemites over the way; but salt-water Jack and fresh-river Jack give them much simpler names, and like them a great deal better, more’s the pity. We have heard the little jangling bells in the church pews, and they will not ring in tune, although they tell the deeds of charity; we have marched staidly home, and joined in Herr Sorgenpfennig’s blessing over the midday meal;—Herr Sorgenpfennig delivers it with the presence and intonation of an Eastern patriarch, standing among his tribe;—and the delicacies of German cookery having fulfilled their purpose and disappeared, with a whispered grace and a bow of humbleness, we sidle out of the room, and leave the “Herr Meister” to his meditations and his punch. And so ends the service of the day.
The blond-headed Bavarian begins to hum the last Tafelliêd, and our quiet Dane smiles reservedly. “Whither, friends, shall we bend our steps?” No! by the eternal spirit of modesty, we will not visit the dance-houses to-day! Those vile shambles by the water-side, growing out of the slime and filth of the river, and creeping like a noxious, unwholesome weed, up the shaded hill, and by narrow ruts and gullies into the open country. No! Those half-draped, yet gaping doors, have no attractions for us; those whining notes of soulless music find no echo in our ears or hearts. There, in their hideous blandishments, the shameless sit, miserable in their
tawdriness, their painted cheeks peeling in the hot sun, which they cannot shut out if they would. Throughout the long day the wearied minstrels pant over their greasy tubes of brass, or scrape their grimy instruments with horny fingers, praying for the deep night; and there, through the long day, does the echoing floor rebound with the beating of vigorous feet; for salt-water Jack is there, and fresh-river Jack is there, and while there is a copper pfennig in their pockets, or a flicker of morality in their hearts, doomed are they equally; for what can escape spoliation or wreck among such a crowd?
Yet from such commodities as these does the merchant spirit of the Senate of Hamburg draw huge profits; indeed, it is said that the whole expense of police and city, and what is worse, yet better, the tending of the sick, the feeding of the poor, and the succouring of the helpless and desolate, are alike defrayed from the produce of the city’s vice; and let us add, the Senate’s fostering care of it.
And if we wandered out beyond the walls to the right or to the left, what do we find? On the one hand, “Peter Hund’s;” on the other “Unkraut’s Pavilion;” mere dance-houses, after all, though for “the better sort.” “Peter” has a tawdry hall, smeared with the escutcheons of all nations, where music and waltzing whirl through the dense air, hour after hour; and what is at least of equal consequence to him, Peter holds a tavern in the next room, where spirits, beer, or coffee are equally at the command of the drouthy or the luxuriant. And so also if we followed the road which passes through Stein Thor, away across the leafy fringing of trees and shrubs which ornament the city’s outline; and still on through the shady avenues of youthful stems, when we come upon a great house with deep overhanging eaves, square-topped chimneys, and altogether with a Swiss air about it. There are idlers hanging about the door, for this is “Unkraut’s,” and the brisk air of musical instruments streams out of the open portal. Within all is motion and uproar. A large salle de danse occupies the greater part of the ground floor, the central portion of which is appropriated to the waltzers, while a broad slip on each side, beneath an overhanging gallery, running round the whole of the apartment, remains for those who drink, or take a temporary repose. Sometimes, however, the flood of waltzers pours in upon the side-tables, amid the clatter of chairs, the ringing of glass and china, and the laughter of the spectators. Gentlemen are not allowed to dance with their hats on; (where else, in Heaven’s name, can they place them?) and must lay their heavy pipes and cigars aside, as
smoking is permitted only in the gallery above. The company is of the “better sort” in the salle below; that is to say, that vice, shameless and unveiled, is not allowed to flaunt without a check; but there is taint and gangrene among all; feeble wills and failing hearts to bear up against the intoxicating stream of music, and giddy heads for thought or reason amid the whirl and swimming of the dance.
“Unkraut’s” has, however, attractions apart from the ball-room. By a quiet stair at the end of the gallery, through muffled doors that close upon you as you enter, and shut out like walls the hum and hubbub below, we come upon an ill-shapen apartment, where hushed, absorbed men are seated at desks, as at a school, each with a huge frame dotted with numbers before him. A strange contrast to the scene without. There is a heavy quiet in the place, disturbed only by an occasional cough, a shuffling of feet, and the silvery ringing of little plates of glass. A monstrous game of Lotto is this. A mere child’s play of gambling, requiring neither tact, wit, nor reasoning; a simple lottery, in fact, dependent for success upon the accidental marking (each player upon his own board or table) of the first five numbers that may be drawn. Now we hear a strange rattling of wooden pieces, shaken in a bag, and as each piece is drawn, a bustling man with an obstreperous voice, calls out the number; not in full, sonorous German, but in broad, uncouth Platt Deutsche (low German), and eager tongues respond from distant corners claiming the prize. A dull-headed game is this, fitted only for the most inveterate gamblers; but it yields money to the Stadt, and that is its recommendation.
As the day wears on, its attractions increase. The Elb Pavilion offers a rare treat; exquisite music, executed with vigour, delicacy, and precision. Moreover, its frequenters are decidedly of a respectable class. But we will not be moved; we have set our hearts upon witnessing a play of Shakespeare’s, announced for this night at the Stadt Theatre, and that no less a one than “Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.”
The Stadt Theatre in Hamburg enjoys a strange monopoly; for by the Senate’s will it is declared that no other theatre shall exist within the city walls. Yet, curiously enough, a wonderful old woman, by some unaccountable freak, has the privilege, or hereditary right, of licensing or directing a theatrical establishment within the boundaries, and thus a second theatre contends for the favours of the public; and in order to define its position and state of existence, it
is entitled simply Das Zweite Theatre (The Second Theatre). It is an especially favourite place of amusement with the Hamburgers, although they play an incomprehensible jumble of unconnected scenes, called “possen,” adapted solely to display the peculiar talents of certain actors. One odd fellow there reaps showers of applause for no other exhibition of ability than that of looking intensely stupid, for he seldom utters a word; but assumes an appearance of unfathomable vacuity that is inimitable. There are still two theatres outside the city walls: the one, the Tivoli, devoted to farces and vaudevilles; the other consecrated to the portrayal of the deeply sentimental, and the fearfully tragic—with poison, dagger-blades, convulsions and heavy-stamping ever at command.
But our play! Here we are in the gallery of a splendid edifice, equal in extent to our Covent Garden Theatre at home, having come to this part of the house in anticipation of a feeble audience in preference to the parterre or pit. Note also, that here we pay eight schillinge only, while a place below would cost us twenty. But the house is crammed, for Shakespeare draws as well in Germany as in England, perhaps for the simple reason that in no other country are his works so well translated. We find ourselves in the midst of a dense cluster of earnest Danes, who say the most impressive things in the quietest way in the world. They are strongly interested in the coming performance, for “Hamlet the Dane” has taken deep hold upon the Danish affections; and in Elsinore, so great is the consideration entertained for this all but fabulous prince, that they will point you out the garden wherein his royal father suffered murder
—most foul, strange, and unnatural,
and the grave where the “gentle prince” himself lies buried. The play begins; with the deepest earnestness the audience listen, and, crowded as they are, preserve the utmost quiet. The glorious drama scene by scene unfolds itself, and passage by passage we recognise the beauties of our great poet. Herr Carr, starring it from Vienna, is no unworthy representative of the noble-hearted Dane, although unequal, we think, to the finer traits, and more delicate emotions of the character. The dresses are admirable, sometimes gorgeous, and the groupings most effective. The scenery alone is unsatisfactory; indecisive and colourless as it is, without
depth or tone, it strikes you as the first effort in perspective of a feeble-handed amateur. As the play proceeds, the action grows upon us, and the rapt spectators resent with anger the least outcry or disturbance. The first scene with the players is omitted, but the concluding portion is a triumph; for as Hamlet, arriving at the climax of his sarcasm, and bursting for a moment into rage, flings the flute away, with the exclamation: “S’blood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe?” the whole theatre rings with the applause.
Presently, however, we are aware of a gap, a huge hiatus in the performance; a grave, and yet no grave, for the whole churchyard scene, with its quaint and exquisite philosophy, the rude wit of the gravediggers, and the pointed moralising of the prince, are all wanting—all swept away by the ruthless hand of the critic; skulls and bones, picks and mattocks, wit and drollery, diggers, waistcoats and all! Not even Yorick, with his “gibes” and “flashes of merriment”—not even he is spared. On the other hand, a portion of a scene is represented which, until lately, was always omitted on the English stage. It is that in which the guilty king, overcome by remorse, thus soliloquises:—
O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven!
Hamlet, coming upon his murderous uncle in his prayers, exclaims:—
Now might I do it, pat, while he is praying;
And now I’ll do ’t—and so he goes to heaven:
And so am I revenged?
The omission or retention of this scene might well be a matter of dispute, for while it represents the guilty Claudius miserable and contrite, even in the height of his success, it also portrays the anticipated revenge of Hamlet in so fearful a light, that he stands there, not the human instrument of divine retribution, but with all the diabolical cravings of Satan himself. I leave this question to abler critics, and, in the meantime, our play is finished, amid shouts of delight and calls before the curtain. It is but half-past nine, yet this is a late hour for a German theatre, where they rarely perform more than one piece, and that seldom exceeding two hours in duration. Descending to the street, wrapped in the recollections of the gorgeous poem whose beauties still echo in our ears, we are vulgar enough to relish hot sausages and Bavarian beer.
An hour later we pace our half-lighted Johannis Strasse, seeking the portal of our house amid the gloom. Suddenly we are startled by the tramp of a heavy foot, and the clang and rattle of a steel weapon as it strikes upon the ground. A burly voice assails us: “Whither are you going?”
Is this Bernardo, wandered from the ramparts in search of the ghost of Hamlet’s father?
Not so: it is but one of the night-watch, armed with an enormous halbert which might have done good service in the thirty years’ war. The faithful nachtwächter strikes it upon the ground with the butt-end at regular intervals, so that sinful depredators may have timely notice of his approach. As it has a large hook at the back it is said to be admirably adapted for catching thieves by the leg, if its opportune clattering does not keep them out of its reach.
We render a good account of ourselves, and are duly escorted to our home.