The village doctors, however, disagree on the subject; and Dr. Stritter, a very mild, sensible man, recommends his patients to the strong Stahl brunnen, almost as positively as Dr. Fenner sentences his victims to the Pauline. Which is right, and which is wrong, is one of the mysteries of this world; but as the cunning Jews all go to the Stahl brunnen, I strongly suspect that they have some good reason for this departure from the fashion.
As I observed people of all shapes, ages, and constitutions, swallowing the waters of Langen-Schwalbach, I felt that, being absolutely on the brink of the brunnen, I might, at least as an experiment, join this awkward squad—that it would be quite time enough to desert if I should find reason to do so—in short, that by trying the waters I should have a surer proof whether they agreed with me or not, than by listening to the conflicting opinions of all the doctors in the universe. However, not knowing exactly in what quantities to take them,—having learnt that Dr. Fenner himself had the greatest number of patients, and that moreover being a one-eyed man he was much the easiest to be found, I walked towards the shady walk near the Allee Saal, resolving eventually to consult him; however, in turning a sharp corner, happening almost to run against a gentleman in black, “cui lumen ademptum,” I gravely accosted him, and finding, as I did in one moment, that I was right, in the middle of the street I began to explain that he saw before him a wheel which wanted a new tire—a shoe which required a new sole—a worn-out vessel seeking the hand of the tinker; in short, that feeling very old, I merely wanted to become young again.
Dr. Fenner is what would be called in England “a regular character,” and being a shrewd, clever fellow, he evidently finds it answer, and endeavours to maintain a singularity of manner, which with his one eye (the other being extinguished in a college duel) serves to bring him into general notice. As soon as my gloomy tale was concluded, the Doctor, who had been walking at my side, stopped dead short, and when I turned round to look for him, there I saw him, with his right arm extended, its fore-finger and thumb clenched, as if holding snuff, and its other three digits horizontally extended like the hand of a direction-post. With his heels close together, he stood as lean and as erect as a ramrod, the black patch which like a hatchment hung over the window of his departed eye being supported by a riband wound diagonally round his head. “Monsieur!” said he (for he speaks a little French), “Monsieur!” he repeated, “à six heures du matin vous prendrez à la Pauline trois verres! trois verres à la Pauline!” he repeated. “A dix heures vous prendrez un bain—en sortant du bain vous prendrez .. (he paused, and after several seconds of deep thought, he added) .. encore deux verres, et à cinq heures du soir, Monsieur, vous prendrez .. (another long pause) .. encore trois verres! Monsieur! ces eaux vous feront beaucoup de bien!!”
The arm of this sybil now fell to his side, like the limb of a telegraph which had just concluded its intelligence. The Doctor made me a low bow, spun round upon his heel, “and so he vanished.”
I had not exactly bargained for bathing in, as well as drinking, the waters; however, feeling in great good-humour with the little world I was inhabiting, I was willing to go with (i. e. into) its stream; and as I found that almost every visiter was daily soaked for an hour or two, I could not but admit that what was prescribed for such geese, might also be good sauce for the gander; and that at all events a bath would at least have the advantage of drowning for me one hour per day, in case I should find four-and-twenty of such visiters more than I wanted.
In a very few days I got quite accustomed to what a sailor would call the “fresh-water life” which had been prescribed for me; and as no clock in the universe could be more regular than my behaviour, an account of one day’s performances, multiplied by the number I remained, will give the reader, very nearly, the history or picture of an existence at Langen-Schwalbach.
[THE REVEILLE.]
At a quarter past five I arose, and as soon after as possible left the “hof.” Every house was open, the streets already swept, the inhabitants all up, the living world appeared broad awake, and there was nothing to denote the earliness of the hour, but the delicious freshness of the cool mountain air; which as yet, unenfeebled by the sun, just beaming above the hill, was in that pure state, in which it had all night long been slumbering in the valley. The face of nature seemed beaming with health, and though there were no larks at Schwalbach gently “to carol at the morn,” yet immense red German slugs were everywhere in my path, looking wetter, colder, fatter, and happier than they or I have words to express. They had evidently been gorging themselves during the night, and were now crawling into shelter to sleep away the day.
As soon as, getting from beneath the shaded walk of the Allee Saal, I reached the green valley leading to the Pauline brunnen, it was quite delightful to look at the grass, as it sparkled in the sun, every green blade being laden with dew in such heavy particles, that there seemed to be quite as much water as grass; indeed the crop was actually bending under the weight of nourishment which, during the deep silence of night, Nature had liberally imparted to it; and it was evident that the sun would have to rise high in the heavens before it could attain strength enough to rob the turf of this fertilizing and delicious treasure.