But if those who wear these honours degrade themselves—if our upper classes culpably desert their own standards—if they shall continue to insist on giving to their children an elegant, useless education, while the tradesman is filling his son with steady useful knowledge—if our aristocracy, with the Goule’s horrid taste, will obstinately feed itself on dead languages, while the lower classes are healthily digesting fresh wholesome food—if writing, arithmetic, modern geography, arts, sciences, and discoveries of all sorts are to continue (as they hitherto have been) to be most barbarously disregarded at our public schools and universities, while they are carefully attended to and studied by the poor—the moment must arrive when the dense population of our country will declare that they can no longer afford to be governed by classical statesmen; and, with an equally honest feeling, they will further declare, they begin to find it difficult to look up to people who have ceased to be morally their superiors. That the lower orders of people in England are rising not only in their own estimation, but in the honest opinion of the world, is proved by the singular fact, that the wood-cuts of our Penny Magazine (so rapidly printed by one of Clowes’s great steam-presses) are sent, in stereotype, to Germany, France, and Belgium, where they are published, as with us, for the instruction of the lower classes. The same Magazine is also sent to America (page for page) stereotyped. The common people of England are thus proudly disseminating their knowledge over the surface of the globe, while our upper classes, by an infatuation which, without any exception, is the greatest phenomenon in the civilized world, are still sentencing their children to heathen, obscene, and useless instruction; and, though it has beneficently been decreed “Let there be light!” our universities seriously maintain that the religious as well as moral welfare of this noble country depends upon its continuing in intellectual darkness.
It is now much too late in the day to argue whether the education of the lower classes be a political advantage or not. One might as well stand on the Manchester rail-road to stop its train, as to endeavour to prevent that. The people, whether we like it or not, will be enlightened; and, therefore, without bewailing the disorder, our simple and only remedy is, by resolutely breaking up the system of our public schools and universities, to show the people that we have nobly determined to become enlightened too.
The English gentleman (a name which, in the army, navy, hunting-field, or in any other strife or contention, has always shown itself able to beat men of low birth) will then hold his ground in the estimation of his tenants, and continue to inhabit his estate. The English nobleman, and the noble Englishman, will continue to be synonymous—a well-educated clergy will continue to be revered—the throne, as it hitherto has been, will be loyally supported—our mercantile honour will be saved—the hopes of the radical will be irretrievably ruined—and when the misty danger at which we now tremble has brightened into intellectual sunshine, remaining, as we must do (as long as we continue to be the most industrious), the wealthiest and first commercial nation on the globe, we shall remember, and history will transmit to our children, that old-fashioned prophecy of Faulconbridge, which so truly says,
“Nought shall make us rue,
If England to itself do rest but true.”
I had retired to rest much pleased with Schlangenbad and all that belonged to it, when about midnight I was awakened by a general slamming of doors, windows, and shutters, occasioned by a most violent gale of wind, and on opening my eyes, the bright moonlight scene, which, without even moving my head, I beheld, was mysteriously grand and imposing. Although the moon, which had just risen, was as I lay not discernible through my windows, yet its silvery light beamed so strongly that the two little white-washed mill-cottages in the valley seemed to be even brighter than I had observed them during the day. But what particularly attracted my attention was the apparent writhing of those great hills which, as if they had only just been rent asunder, hemmed me in. Every tree on them was bending and waving from the violence of the squall, and as cloud after cloud rapidly hurried across the moon, sometimes, obscuring and then suddenly restoring to my view the strange prospect, the uncertainty of this undulating movement gave a supernatural appearance to the scene, which more resembled the fiction of a dream, or of a romance, than any possible effect of wind on trees. The clean, glistening foliage seemed scarcely able to stand against the gale, which still continued to increase, until a loud peal of thunder, followed by a few heavy drops, announced a calm, which was no sooner established, than the light of the moon appeared to be converted by Nature into a heavy deluge of rain. For some few moments, I listened, I believe, to the refreshing sound, and to the rushing of the stream beneath me; but as the darkness around me increased, my eyes closed, and I again dropped off to sleep.
The little society of Schlangenbad, like that of most of the towns and villages in this part of Germany, is composed of Lutherans, Catholics, and Jews. The two former sects have each a place of worship allotted to them in the Old Bad-Haus or Nassauer-Hof, and their two chambers, standing nearly opposite to each other, remind me very strongly of those twin-roads which in England often lead from one little country town to another.
On each is the stranger invited to travel—one boasts that it is the nearest by half a quarter of a mile, the other brags that “it avoids the hill.” Such is the distinction between the two Christian sects at Schlangenbad;—both start from the same point—both strain for the same goal, and yet they querulously refuse to travel together.
After having spent two or three days in rambling up and down the valley, searching for and admiring its sequestered beauties, like Rasselas, I felt anxious to scale the mountains which surrounded me, and accordingly inquired for a path, which, I was told, would extricate me from my happy valley; however, after I had continued on it some way, fancying I could attain the summit by a shorter cut, I attempted to ascend the mountain by a straight course. For some time I appeared to succeed pretty well, feeling every moment encouraged at observing how high I had risen above the grassy valley beneath; however, the mountain grew steeper, and the trees thicker and larger, until I began to find that I had a much heavier job on my hands than I had bargained for; nevertheless, upwards I proceeded, winding my way through some magnificent oak timber, until at last I attained actually the top of the mountain: yet so surrounded was I by trees, that, very much to my disappointment, I found it impossible to see ten yards before me. For a considerable distance I walked along the ridge, hoping to find some gap or open spot which would enable me to get a glimpse of the country beneath me, but in vain,—for, go where I would, I was like a reptile crawling through a field of standing corn; in short, nothing could I see but trees, and even they appeared to be of no value, as a great number of stately oaks were in every direction rotting just as if they were beyond the reach and ken of mankind. As I was winding between these timber trees, hoping, at least, to see deer or wild game of some sort, it began to rain, and though I had no disposition, on that account, to abandon my object, yet absolutely not knowing where to seek it, I was almost in despair, when it occurred to me to climb one of the trees; and the idea had no sooner entered my head, than I felt quite angry with myself for not having thought of it before: however, I was some little time before I could find one to suit, for to swarm up the huge body of any of the great oaks would have been quite impossible. As soon as I found a tree adapted to my purpose and my age, I climbed it in spite of the rain, and I was no sooner in the position of King Charles the Second, than I witnessed one of the most splendid views that can be well conceived.
Beneath me was the Rhine, glistening and meandering in its course, while nearly opposite and beneath me lay Bingen, which appeared to be basking on the banks of a lake. Almost every one who has travelled on the Rhine speaks in raptures of this part of it, yet the view I enjoyed, seated on the limb of my tree, was altogether superior to what they could have witnessed, because at one view I beheld the beauties which they had only successively admired. The hills on which I was placed were clothed to their summits with foliage, feathering down to the very water’s edge; and instead of the little portion of the river, which, as one niggles along, is seen bit by bit from the steam-boat, its whole course seemed to be displaying itself to my view. The opposite shore was comparatively flat, and as far as I could see, a boundless fertile wine country appeared to extend there. The shower, which was still falling in heavy drops upon my tree, only belonged to the mountain on which it stood, for the whole country and river beneath were basking in sunshine. It was really delightful to enjoy at once the sight of so many beautiful objects, and I hardly knew whether to admire most the lovely little islands which seemed floating at anchor in the Rhine, or the vast expanse of continent which was prostrate before me; but without continuing the description, any one who will only look in his map for Bingen, and then imagine an old man seated in the clouds above it, will perceive what a salient angle I occupied, and what a magnificent prospect I enjoyed.