Another among the names above mentioned—that of Mitscherlich—stands in relation to the crystalline forms of matter in a nearly similar relation to that which Ehrenberg occupies in regard to microscopic life. The discoverer, at an early period of his life, of what is called the doctrine of Isomorphism, he has lived to see his discovery assume a most important place in chemico-crystallographic science, and to branch out into various kindred lines of research; and at the same time has the happy satisfaction of feeling that he has himself always led the progress, and that he is acknowledged everywhere as still the principal advancer and head authority in the department of knowledge he was the first to open up.
But among the scientific men of Berlin, we must spare a few words for one who shines among them as the acknowledged chief—the veteran and venerable Alexander Von Humboldt. Here is Professor Silliman’s description of the old gentleman, as the American Professor saw him, by appointment, in the autumn of 1851:—
“I then introduced my son, and we were at once placed at our ease. His bright countenance expresses great benevolence, and from the fountains of his immense stores of knowledge a stream almost constant flowed for nearly an hour. He was not engrossing, but yielded to our prompting, whenever we suggested an inquiry, or alluded to any particular topic; for we did not wish to occupy the time with our own remarks any further than to draw him out. He has a perfect command of the best English, and speaks the language quite agreeably. There is no stateliness or reserve about him; and he is as affable as if he had no claims to superiority. His voice is exceedingly musical, and he is so animated and amiable that you feel at once as if he were an old friend. His person is not much above the middle size; he stoops a little, but less than most men at the age of eighty-two. He has no appearance of decrepitude; his eyes are brilliant, his complexion light; his features and person are round although not fat, his hair thin and white, his mind very active, and his language brilliant, and sparkling with bright thoughts. We retired greatly gratified, and the more so, as a man in his eighty-third year might soon pass away.”—Vol. ii. p. 318.
Two years more had passed away, when we were honoured with an audience of the distinguished philosopher during our stay in Berlin. Age sits lightly upon his active head. Still full of unrecorded facts and thoughts, he labours daily in committing them to the written page,—for the grave, he tells you, waits him early now, and he must finish what he has to do before he dies. And yet he is as full at the same time of the discoveries and new thoughts of others, and as eager as the youngest student of nature in gathering up fresh threads of knowledge, and in following the advances of the various departments of natural science. And in so doing it is a characteristic of his generous mind to estimate highly the labours of others, to encourage the young and aspiring investigator to whatever department of nature he may be devoted, and to aid him with his counsel, his influence, and his sympathy. We found him congratulating himself on the possession of a power with which few really scientific men are gifted—that of making science popular—of drawing to himself, and to the knowledge he had to diffuse, the regard and attention of the masses of the people in his own and other countries, by a clear method, and an agreeable and attractive style in writing. “To make discoveries plain and popular is, perhaps, more difficult,” he said to us, “than to make the discoveries themselves.” And the feeling of the present time seems very much to run in sympathy with this sentiment. The power of diffusing is a gift perhaps as high, and often far more valuable to the community, than the power of discovering, and it should be esteemed and honoured accordingly. He expressed himself as especially pleased that no less than four original translations of one of his late books have appeared in the English tongue. In a work so honoured by publishers’ regards, there must exist some rare and remarkable element of popularity which our scientific writers would do well to study.
Professor Silliman, in his description of Humboldt, scarcely seized the most salient and characteristic points of his personal appearance. Fifty commonplace men have “benevolent countenances, lively and simple manners, and persons which are round though not fat.” But look, gentle reader, at the picture of the venerable sage as it hangs there before us. What strikes you first? Is it not that lofty, towering, massive brow, which seems all too large, as it overarches his deep-sunk eyes, for the dimensions of the body and the general size of the head itself? And then, does not the character of the eye arrest you—the thinking, reflecting, observing eye—which, while it looks at you quietly and calmly, seems to be leisurely looking into you, and reflecting at the same time upon what you have said or suggested to his richly-stored mind? There is benevolence, it is true, in the mouth, and something of the satisfied consciousness of a well-spent life, the more grateful to feel that it is almost universally acknowledged. But there is tenacity of purpose in the massive chin, and indications of that rare perseverance which for so long a life has made him continuously, and without ceasing, augment the accumulated knowledge of his wide experience, and as continuously strive to spread it abroad.
The celebrity of Berlin among German cities depends in part upon its architectural and other decorations, but chiefly upon the scientific and literary men whom, during the last half-century, it has been the pride and policy of successive governments to attach to its young university. Where so many high-schools exist, as is the case in Germany, the resort of students can only be secured by the residence of teachers of greater genius and wider distinction. Fellowships and other pecuniary temptations do not invite young talent to the universities there as with us. Place a man of high reputation in a scientific chair in a puny university like Giessen, and students will flock to his prelections. Remove him to Berlin or Heidelberg, and all Germany will send its most ardent natures to sit at his feet in his new home. The love of knowledge carries them to college, the fame of its professors decides in which college they shall enrol themselves. To the sedulous choice of the best men from the various schools of Germany, and to great care in rearing and fostering the best of its own alumni, the university of Berlin owes its rapid growth in numbers and in reputation, and the city of Berlin the agreeable circle of distinguished philosophers, among whom the intellectual stranger finds at once a ready welcome and a great enjoyment.
Though Berlin is actually south of London, yet its inland position gives it a winter climate of much greater seventy. It derives, also, a peculiar character from the cold north wind which, descending from the frozen Baltic, sweeps across the flat country by which this sea is separated from Berlin. These winds gave to the air, during a portion of our stay, the feeling as if it was loaded with minute icicles, which impinged upon and stuck in the throat as the breath descended. The public statuary, and the plants in the public walks, were mostly done up in straw to keep them from injury; scarcely an evergreen was anywhere to be seen, and, as in Russia, our common ivy was cultivated in flowerpots, and preserved as a hothouse plant.
In our walks through the city, our attention was attracted one day by a sign-board announcing a “Cichorien fabrique und eichel caffee handlung”—a chicory and acorn coffee-manufactory. As the latter beverage at least was a novelty to us, we entered the premises and explored the rude manufactory. Attending a huge revolving cylinder, something like a gas-retort, stood one unclean workman, while on the floor at his feet was a heap of dirty half-charred rubbish, which we learned was the roasted chicory. Watching another machine, from which streamed a tiny rivulet of coarse brown powder, stood a boy, who, with the master, completed the staff of the establishment. The one machine roasted and the other ground the materials, while place and people were of the untidiest kind. We saw and bought samples of both varieties of so-called coffee. The chicory, as the master told us without any reserve, was made up half of chicory and half of turnips, roasted and ground together. The latter admixture made it sweeter. The acorn coffee, made from acorns roasted and ground, was made, he said, and sold in large quantities. It was very cheap, was given especially to children, and was substituted for coffee in many public establishments for the young. This may be done with a medicinal rather than an economical view, as acorn coffee finds a place in the Prussian and other German pharmacopœias, and is considered to have a wholesome effect upon the blood, especially of scrofulous persons. It is, however, manufactured and used in many parts of Germany for the sole purpose of adulterating genuine coffee, and it has been imported into this country for the same purpose, chiefly, we believe, from Hamburg.
It is very interesting, in an economico-physiological point of view, to mark and trace the historical changes which take place in the diet and beverages of nations. The potato came from the west, and by diffusing itself over Europe has changed the daily diet, the yearly agriculture, and the social habits of whole kingdoms. Tea came from the east, and has equally changed the drinks, the tastes, the bodily habits and cravings, and we believe also very materially the intellectual character and general mental and bodily temperament, of probably a hundred millions of men, who now consume it in Europe and America. Coffee, coming in like manner from the east, has in some countries of Europe turned domestic life, we may say, literally out of doors. The coffee-house and living in public have in France and elsewhere superseded the domestic circle and the quiet amenities of the home hearth. And now, to succeed and supersede both coffee and tea, we are ourselves in the west now growing and manufacturing chicory, which in its turn is destined materially to alter the taste, and probably to change the constitution, and thus to affect the mental habits, dispositions, and tendencies of the people who consume it. In chemical composition, and consequent physiological action upon the system, this substance differs essentially from tea and coffee, and, whether for good or for evil, it must gradually produce a change of temperament which we cannot at present specially predict,—that is to say, if the consumption spread and increase as it has done in recent years. For, little comparatively as we have yet heard of this plant in England, the European consumption of chicory, mixed and unmixed, amounts already to not much less than one hundred millions of pounds.
Between Brussels and Berlin, when seen on a Sunday, much difference will strike the English traveller. He is now in a Protestant country; and though the bill-sticker announces balls and concerts, and open theatres for the evening, yet the Sunday mornings are quiet in the streets, and the bustle of business or of holiday pleasures in no offensive way obtrudes itself upon the attention. The tendency also, during the present reign, is to make the observance of the day more strict still, though there, of course, as at home, opposition shows itself, and diverse opinions prevail. Among the four hundred and sixty thousand inhabitants of Berlin, there are comparatively few Roman Catholics. Two churches and a chapel are all the places of public worship they possess; and hence the passing to and fro of priestly vestments as we walk the streets does not strike the eye here as it does in Brussels.