Charles Lever, His Life in His Letters, Vol. I

by Charles James Lever

In three days I was enrolled a student of Gottingen, which, besides conferring on me the undoubted advantages of one of the finest libraries in Europe, with admission to various lectures, collections, botanical gardens, &c., also bestowed upon me the more equivocal honour of being eligible to fight a duel, and drink bruderschaft in the beer-cellar of the University. I now thought it time to avail myself of some of the numerous introductory letters with which I had paved my trunk on leaving home; and accordingly, having accoutred myself in a suit of sables, and one hand armed with a large canister of Lundy-Foot (which I had brought with me as a propitiatory offering to the greatest nose in Europe) and my credentials in the other, I took my way through the town.

After wandering for some time my guide brought me at length to the door of a long, low, white house, with nothing remarkable about it save the silence and apparent desolation which reigned around, for it stood in the most unfrequented part of the city. On arriving I inquired for the professor, and was told by the servant that he was above-stairs in his cabinet; and having given me this piece of information she immediately returned into a little den off the hall from which she had emerged. I ascended the stairs, and found little difficulty in discovering the apartment, as all the doors were labelled with appropriate titles.

Herein! shouted in a voice of thunder, was the answer from within to my still small knock at the door. I entered, and beheld a small and venerable-looking old man, with a quantity of white hair floating in careless profusion upon his neck and shoulders. His head, which was almost preternaturally large, was surmounted by a green velvet cap placed a little on one side: he was grotesquely enveloped in a species of fur cloak with large sleeves, and altogether presented the most extraordinary figure I had ever seen.

I was again roused by the sound of his voice interrogating me in no less than six languages (ere I found my tongue) as to my name, country, &c, for he at once perceived that I was a foreigner. I presented my letter and present, with which he seemed highly pleased, and informed me that his guter freund, Lord Talbot, always brought him Irish snuff; and then welcoming me to Gottingen, he seized my hand, pressed me down on a seat, and began talking concerning my travels, plans, probable stay at the University, &c. I now felt myself relieved from the awe with which I had at first contemplated the interview, and looked around with a mingled feeling of admiration and surprise at the odd mélange of curiosities in natural history, skulls, drawings, medals, and even toys, which filled the cabinet. But indeed the worthy professor was by far the greatest lion of the collection.

I observed that many of our newest English publications lay upon his table; and on my remarking it, he looked for a few minutes among them, and then drew out a small pamphlet, which he placed in my hand, saying at the same time that he had derived much pleasure from the perusal of it. I must confess it was with no small gratification I found it to be a description of the Fossil Elk (now in the Dublin Society House) written by Mr Hart of Dublin. He made many inquiries concerning the author, and expressed his thanks for the delicate attention shown him in the presentation of the work. He then spoke of the London University, the plan of which lay before him; and on standing up to take my leave, I asked him whether the Gall and Spurzheim theories were to comprise part of my university creed and course of study. To which he answered, “No; but if you will wait till October we are to have a new system broached,” and then, chuckling at this hit at the fondness of his countrymen for speculating, he pressed me to revisit him soon and see his collection.*

* Blumenbach is sketched more fully in ‘Arthur O’Leary.’
—E. D.

On my way homeward I was met by a student with whom I had become acquainted the day before at the table d’hôte. He invited me to drink coffee with him in one of the gardens outside the town, and on our way thither he told me that I should see a specimen of the Burschen life, as a duel was to be fought at the place to which we were then fast approaching. I could not conceive from the tone of my companion whether this was merely a piece of badinage on his part or not, for he informed me with the greatest indifference that the cause of the meeting was the refusal of one of the parties to pledge the other in beer, the invitation being given at a time when the offender was busy drinking his coffee. Such a reason for mortal conflict never entered even into my Irish ideas of insult. We had by this time arrived at the garden, which, crowded with swaggering savage-looking students, most of them with their shirt-collars open and their long hair hanging upon their shoulders, was indeed deserving of a better fate than the code of the Comment had allowed to it. It was a tract of something more than an acre in extent, tastefully planted with flowering-shrubs and evergreens, and crossed by “many a path of lawn and moss”; and in a sequestered corner, shaded by one large chestnut-tree, stood the monument of Burger, the sweetest lyric poet in any language, not even excepting our own Anacreon, Moore. I was aroused from my silent admiration of the weeping figure which bends so mournfully over the simple urn of the peaceful dead by a voice near me; and on turning around I beheld a tall athletic figure, denuded of coat and waistcoat, busily engaged polishing his broadsword. At this moment my friend arrived to inform me that there was no time to be lost,—we should scarcely get places, the duel having excited a more than usual degree of interest from the fact that the combatants had a great reputation as swordsmen.

We ascended a steep narrow stair which led into a large well-lighted room, but so full of figures, flourishing swords, and meerschaums, that some minutes elapsed before I could comprehend the scene before me. A space had been left in the middle of this chaotic assemblage. At a signal given the spectators all fell back to the walls, and at this moment two young men, wearing large leathern guards upon their breasts and arms, entered and took their places opposite each other. They crossed their swords, and I could scarcely breathe, anticipating the conflict; but I soon discovered that they were only the seconds measuring the distance. This done, their places were taken by the principals, who, stretching out their arms until their swords crossed, were placed in the proper positions by their respective seconds. The umpire, or, to use the Burschen phrase, the Impartial, then came forward, and having examined the weapons, and finding all fair, gave the word “Streich ein,” which was the signal for the insulted to make the first blow. With the rapidity of lightning his arm descended, and when approaching the shoulder of his antagonist he made a feint, and, carrying his point round, cut with the full force of a flowing stroke deep into the armpit of the other, whose hand, already uplifted to avenge the blow he could not avert, was arrested by the opposite second, it being contre les règles to strike while blood is flowing. He was borne home, and some weeks afterwards I heard that he had left the University, carrying with him disease for life.

This occurrence took not more time than I have spent in relating it. In a few minutes the room was cleared, the bystanders were drinking their coffee and enjoying their meerschaums, scattered through the gardens; and I returned to my lodgings fully impressed with the necessity of leaving a relic of my features behind me in Gôttingen.

You will perhaps say that this is an extravagant picture of student life. It is not: such occurrences are of everyday, and the system which inculcates these practices is not confined to one university, but with some slight modifications is found in all The students of Halle and Heidelberg had their Comment (or Code of Honour) as well as their brethren of Jena and Gottingen, and it little matters whether the laws be called Burschenschaft or Landsmanschaft, the principle is the same.