We had a great number of passengers, amongst them a young woman of about two or three and twenty, who came on board a little below Natchez with a very young man. The young people seemed to have been only lately married, to judge by their hugging and kissing. When we arrived at Louisville, in Kentucky, the steamer had to discharge cargo, and remained the greater part of the day. I was standing on the bowsprit watching the proceedings, when an elderly gentleman very well dressed, accosted me, and, describing the couple, inquired if they were on board. I replied in the affirmative, and accompanied him to the lower cabin. The lady was sitting on a trunk and reading; her companion had gone into the town. I suspected that all was not right, and that the old gentleman had good reasons for coming; but the quiet unconcerned manner of both parties soon did away with my suspicions. In the first moment indeed her color seemed to change slightly, but she rose quietly, laid aside her book, and offering her hand to the gentleman, said, civilly, “How do you do, sir?” After a short time they retired into a corner, and spoke very earnestly together. Meantime, I took no more notice of them, but at bedtime I was not a little astonished to see the old gentleman take the husband’s place, while the young man, as pale as death, stood by the stove heedless of its burning the tails of his coat. The lady was the wife of the gentleman who came on board at Louisville, and had run away with the young man. The husband had obtained information, and followed them, but would hardly have overtaken them, if the vessel had not stopped to discharge cargo. The cool self-possession exhibited by both parties, in order to avoid observation, was really astonishing; on his part, in not giving way to his just displeasure, but remaining composed and serious; on her part, in allowing no shock or trace of alarm to be visible, which would have been so natural, when her deeply injured husband, whom she supposed to be 1,400 miles distant, stood suddenly before her. They all three left the boat next morning.
On the 20th of February I arrived again at Cincinnati, and was kindly received by all my old acquaintances after my long absence and adventures.
Cincinnati, the queen of the West, the El Dorado of the German emigrant! Ask a German, who is travelling into the interior from one of the seaports, Where are you going? and the answer will invariably be—to Cincinnati. And what will he find there? On my arrival every house was full of people looking out for work, and who would willingly have taken any wages that were offered them, though only enough to keep body and soul together. Among others, I met with a man who had written to his brother to come over to him, as this was the land where roasted pigeons flew into men’s mouths. And as a proof of it, he referred to himself: a few years ago he had emigrated without a farthing, and now kept an hotel and coffee-house. In point of fact, it was true; he had indeed, an hotel and coffee-house; but what does that mean in America? Every hovel with one room large enough for five or six double beds, where a dozen people are fed three times a day for from two-and-a-quarter to two-and-a-half dollars a week each, is called an hotel. Coffee-house is a name for any place where two or three bottles are stuck in the window, while the name of the owner is proudly painted over the door as coffee-house keeper. The poor German, deceived by these exalted titles, came over to his brother, and found him, in spite of hotel and coffee-house, in a miserable condition, and hardly able to maintain himself. Several similar cases occurred during the time of my residence.
There are a great number of Germans in Cincinnati, particularly in the upper town across the canal, which, on that account, is often called Little Germany by the Americans. Unfortunately, my beloved countrymen are not celebrated for cleanliness and good conduct, and the degree of estimation in which they are everywhere held does not at all accord with the accounts I had read in a number of works on America concerning the way in which they were treated there; and although the well-behaved are respected there as elsewhere, yet it is painful to hear the word Dutchman, as the Americans always call us, used as a term of reproach, even when you yourself are excepted. Everywhere in America, and particularly in Cincinnati, there are people who, having gained a few dollars, look down with contempt on their poorer countrymen, and even join the Americans in abusing them, showing how little they care about the esteem in which the German is held; these, however, were exceptions, and I was heartily ashamed of them.
Although the situation of Cincinnati is very healthy, yet it abounds in doctors and apothecaries. Numbers of the former are Germans; how they all manage to live is quite a mystery.
I was much amused with some of the religious absurdities which are carried on at Cincinnati, and in which my countrymen also distinguish themselves. The Methodists, under the guidance of a Pennsylvanian of the name of N——h, carry these practices to the greatest excess; on every Sunday evening they meet to howl, and jump, and beat their breasts, and then pronounce themselves perfectly happy.
This party supports a paper called the “Christian Apology.” Its bitterest opponent is the Roman Catholic “Friend of Truth,” which only discontinues its thunder against the heretical folly of the “Christian Apology” when it hurls a whole volley of abuse and execration against the “Friend of Light,” which advocates rational religion, and holds up the two others to ridicule.
During my present residence, I heard that a German girl was lying sick, and said to be possessed of a devil, in “Little Germany.” At first I would not believe that any thing of the sort could occur in the present day;—but a young Oldenburgher, with whom I had become acquainted, assured me by all that was holy, that it was so, that he had seen it, and that having expressed his opinion rather too freely, the bigoted people, Roman Catholic Alsatians, fell upon him, and drove him out of the house.
I decided on witnessing the proceedings, and, in company with a friend, set off one evening to the house in Little Germany. We had no difficulty in finding our way to the “sick maiden,” for the whole of that part of the town was full of the extraordinary circumstance, as they called it. It was dark when we entered a little room in a frame house: a lamp on the chimney-piece was nearly burnt out, the space was almost filled by about thirty people all on their knees in silent prayer; not a word was spoken: the lamp flickered, flashed up again, and went out. It remained perfectly dark, and nothing was audible but the breathing of those who were repeating their prayers; then a low murmuring, rustling sound struck the ear, and for some time I did not know what to make of it. Suddenly a door opened, light streamed into the room, and with it the murmurs of numerous voices. People came through the doorway, and those who had been praying on their knees rose up, and moved towards the light: we followed the stream. An extraordinary sight presented itself: we entered a tolerably sized room, oppressively hot, and full of people on their knees, both men and women. It was lighted by two candles on a table, at which three men were seated, with open books, reading aloud the Roman Catholic prayer, “Blessed art thou, Maria,” which all the people repeated after them; when it was ended, they began again.
Although it was only May, the heat was so great from the number of people that I felt half-boiled; but it seemed much warmer to the poor creature, who was being made a sacrifice to the demon of absurdity. She was lying in a wide bed in the corner opposite to the table, and was said to be seventeen years old; I should have guessed her nearer thirty-seven. She appeared to be very weak and ailing, and no wonder, considering that the praying went on night and day without intermission: her mother leant over her, wiping away from her brow the perspiration arising from the heat of the room.