Yet it is a fact, Magnificence is a street in Hamburg. I have lived in Magnificence.
The Herrlichkeit, like many other places of imposing title, loses considerably upon a close acquaintance. You approach it from the waterside through a rugged way, blessed with the euphonious appellation of Stuben Huck; and having climbed over two pebbly bridges—looking down as you do so at the busy scene in the docks below, where crowds of canal craft lie packed and jumbled together—you turn a little to the left hand and behold—Magnificence!
Magnificence has no footpath, but it is not singular in that respect. It is of rather less than the average width of the streets in Hamburg—and they are all narrow—and the houses are lofty. It is paved with small pebbles, and has a gutter running down the centre; and as a short flight of stone steps forms the approach to the chief entrance of each house, the available roadway is small indeed. But they are grand houses in Magnificence, at least they have been, and still bear visible signs of their former character.
Let us enter one house; it will serve as a type of many houses in Hamburg. Having mounted the stone steps, we stand before a half-glazed folding-door, and seeing a small brass lever before us,
we test its power, and find the door yield to the pressure. But we have set a clamorous bell ringing, like that of a suburban huxter, for this is the Hamburger’s substitute for a knocker. We enter a large stone-paved hall, lighted from the back, where a glazed balcony overlooks the teeming canal. You wish to wipe your shoes. Well! do you see this pattern of a small area-railing cut in wood? That is our scraper and door-mat—all in one.
To our right is a massive oaken staircase. We ascend in gloom, for the staircase being built in the middle of the house, only a few straggling rays of light can reach it, and whence they proceed is a mystery. Every few steps we mount we are upon the point of stumbling into the door of some cupboard or apartment; they are in all sorts of places. At length we reach a broad landing paved with stone. What a complication of doors and passages, which the vague light tends to make more obscure! Here are huge presses, lumbering oaken cabinets, jammed into corners. We ascend a second flight and arrive at another extensive landing. Here are two suites of apartments, besides odd little cribs in the corners which are not occupied by other presses. There are still two floors above, but as they are both contained in the huge gable roof of the house, they are more useful as store-rooms than as habitable apartments. The quantity of wood we see about us is frightful when associated with the idea of fire.
We will enter the suite on the right hand; the apartments are light and agreeable, and overlook the canal, and, when the tide is up, and the canal full, and the grassy bleaching ground on the opposite bank is dotted with white linen, it is a pleasant scene indeed; but when the tide is out—ugh! the River Thames at low water is a paradise to it. The tidal changes are carefully watched, and it is not an unusual occurrence to hear the solemn gun booming through the air as a warning to the inhabitants to block and barricade their cellars and kitchens against the rush of waters.
It is Sunday morning, and the most beautiful melody of bells I ever heard is toning through the air. They are the bells of S. Michael’s church, and I am told that the musician plays them by a set of pedal keys, and works himself into a mighty heat and flurry in the operation. But we cannot think of the wild manner and mad motions of the player in connection with those beautiful sounds, so clear and melodious; that half plaintive music so sweetly measured.
They ring thus every morning, commencing at a quarter to six, and play till the hour strikes.
We descend, and make our way through irregular streets and dingy canals till we reach the church of St. Jacobi. It stands in an open space, is neither railed in, nor has it a graveyard attached to it. It is of stone, and has an immense gable roof, slated, and studded with eaved windows. A shortish square basement is at one end, from which springs a tall octangular steeple. Within all is quiet and decorous. The church is paved with stone, and there is a double row of pews down the centre. But is this a Protestant Church? Most assuredly; Lutheran. You are astonished at the crosses, the images, the altar? True! there is something Romish in the whole arrangement, but it is Protestant for all that. You cannot help feeling vexed at the pertinacity with which the Germans whitewash everything, nor do the pale lavender-coloured curtains of the pulpit appear in keeping with the edifice. Everything is scrupulously clean.